Page 13 of My Big, Fat, Fake Billionaire Wedding

Building...yes.

Please... please. Don’t stop...

“Yes... yes... YES!”

My body arches, a wave of pleasure crashing over me. I cry out.

He keeps going, even as I’m coming, making it last, drawing it out. And then, slowly, he eases back, kissing his way up my body.

“I need to be inside you,” he growls.“Now.”

He grabs a condom from the nightstand and sheaths his huge cock. It’s thick and long, and I gulp, wondering if I can take him. He positions himself between my legs, his eyes locked on mine.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod, my heart pounding. I want this. I want him.

He enters me slowly and carefully, and I gasp. He’s big. Like, really big.

“Too much?” he asks, his voice tight with control.

“No,” I whisper. “More.”

He plunges in completely, and I gasp again. I’m stretched, filled, completely.

He starts to move, slow and deep at first, then faster, harder. Each thrust is a jolt of pleasure, driving me higher, closer.

His gaze pins me to the moment, dark and hungry, stripping me bare—not just my body but every guarded corner of my mind. Iwanthim to see me like this: unraveled, trembling, a live wire sparking under his touch.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he rasps, and I shiver, my pulse thrumming where his thumb brushes my jaw.

My hands grip his shoulders, my nails involuntarily digging in, leaving crescent moons I hope linger tomorrow. My hips meet his thrusts, my body moving instinctively. Our rhythm is frenetic, primal. A collision of hips and hitchedbreaths.

Every thrust drags a moan from my throat, the stretch of him inside me a sweet, relentless burn.

He captures my lips, devouring me like I’m his oxygen and he’s mine. Cinnamon and whiskey mingle with the salt of his sweat, intoxicating.

“God, you taste so fucking incredible,” he growls against my mouth, but I’m beyond words, lost in the coil of pleasure tightening low in my belly.

“Yes.”The plea spills out, raw and ragged. “Harder.”

I arch, gasping as he obeys, his cock hitting that secret place that blurs my vision white. Deeper. Filling me until I’m split open, raw and radiant, every nerve singing.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop—”

My muscles clench around him as I cry out. He follows with a shattering groan of his own, forehead pressed to mine, his climax pulsing into me like a vow.

And then we collapse, limbs tangled, covered in sweat and spent desire.

City lights bleed through the windows, painting silver streaks on his skin. I trace the constellation of moles on his shoulder, committing them to memory.

One night, I tell myself, even as my throat tightens.

But the truth hums beneath my ribs: his touch has rewritten me. Ruined me.

How do you walk away from a man who’s turned your bones to liquid fire? Who’s made youfeelmore in three hours than three lifetimes?

The answer flickers, dangerous and inevitable:You don’t.

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