Page 11 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

“You seem tense,” he observes, his voice low.

Oh god, he’s going to kiss me. He’s totally going to kiss me. And I’m going to let him.

Because, let’s be honest, I’m not fighting it.

His hand brushes my cheek, and it’s like an electric shock. My breath catches.

“Relax,” he murmurs. His eyes search mine. “Just be here. With me. Forget about everything. The art. The walls. The city. It’s just you and me and nothing else.”

And then he kisses me.

It’s not tentative. It’s not shy. It’s a full-on, take-no-prisoners, I-know-what-I’m-doing kind of kiss. And I’m melting. My knees actually go weak, and I grab his shoulders to keep from falling. He pulls me closer, his arms wrapping around me, and I’m pressed against him, feeling the hard lines of his body through his sweater.

My brain is still trying to process the whole ‘billionaire’ thing, but my body? My body is all in.

He deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine, and I moan. A soft, involuntary sound that makes him pull me even closer. I can feel his hard cock pressing against me, and a shiver of anticipation runs through me.

He slides away to look at me for a moment. His gaze is truly intoxicating somehow, and makes me feellike I’m the only thing that matters in this ridiculously opulent place. It might even be true, at least in this moment; while I’m not delusional enough to believe I’ll be here for longer than one night, in this moment I can’t help but feel truly wanted.

He leads me through the apartment, and when we reach the bedroom, I’m a little surprised to find it's surprisingly minimalist. Huge bed, wall of windows, not much else. Like he’s stripped away all distractions, leaving only us. Just like he promised.

The sweater catches momentarily in his tousled hair as he pulls it off. I catch a fleeting glimpse of sun-kissed shoulders, the flex of triceps that make my throat tighten. But it’s the dress shirt that undoes me. His fingers work the buttons with deliberate slowness, each pearl disc surrendering to reveal terrain I want to map with teeth and tongue.

Christ.He’s not just defined but forged.

It’s the kind of body that makes you understand why Greeks carved gods from marble, all rolling planes and shadows beneath tight skin.

My hand lifts instinctively, drawn to the valley between his pectorals, but he catches my wrist mid-air, heat radiating through his grip.

“Patience,” he murmurs, but there’s no reproach in the word, only promise. His mouth crushes against mine instead, a claiming that leaves me breathless as he walks me backward toward the bed. My calves hit the mattress, and I sink into the duvet, his weight following mine.

He hovers there above me, forearms caging my head, veins standing in relief beneath his golden skin. His gray eyes drink me in.

“You’re beautiful,” he rasps, thumb brushing the frantic pulse at my throat. For one dizzyingmoment, I believe him. The critical voice hissingtoo soft here, too sharp there, all dissolves beneath his gaze.

His jeans hit the floor with a clink of a belt buckle. My breath hitches. White briefs cling to his lethal hips, the outline beneath them straining. He runs a palm down his own torso, a slow, self-aware stroke over the ridges of his abdomen, and I can’t help but whimper. The sound embarrasses me, but his smirk tells me he’s loving my every reaction.

He reaches for the zipper at the back of my dress, and I suck in a breath.

“Nervous?” His breath ghosts across my shoulder blade.

“Terrified,” I whisper. Not of him, but of how badly I want this. Want him.

His laugh is velvet smoke. “Good.”

The zipper at my back hisses open, the cool air kissing my spine. Slowly, deliberately, he slides the dress down until it's pooling around my ankles. I’m wearing my practical underwear. The kind that are comfortable, not sexy. I suddenly wish I’d worn something lacy. Or at least matching. Oh god.

I brace for the pause, the flicker of disappointment, feeling so exposed before his hungry gaze, but his groan rattles my bones. “Fuck. Look at you.” Calloused palms skate up my thighs, worshipping the softness I’ve cursed for years. “Real.”

He traces my collarbone with his finger, sending shivers down my spine. I feel his hard cock, covered by his briefs, rub against me.

“You smell amazing,” he murmurs. “I can smell your wetness.”

“Linseed oil and desperation,” I say, trying to deflect.

He chuckles. “I smell vanilla and something else. Something wild.”

Somethingwild?Oh.

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