Page 124 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
He groans, his control seeming to fray just a little. He drops me back on the desk and grips my hips tighter, his thrusts becoming deeper, almost frantic.
“You’re mine, Lucy,” he grinds out, his voice thick with possessive need. “Mine, regardless of what happens with our companies. Our families. And I won’t let my father lay a fucking hand on you. Understand? I’m the only one allowed to touch you. The only one in charge of your pleasure… or your pain.”
His words, his touch, the sheer force of his possession… all of it pushes me over the edge.
My orgasm rips through me, violent and consuming. “Christopher,” I whisper, shuddering.
He leans forward and softly moans my name in my ear in return. “Lucy.”
He drives into me one last time as his own release shudders through his powerful frame.
Afterward, we collapse together, tangled limbs and slick skin lying on the wreckage of my organized desk.
He holds me tight against his huge chest, his breathing slowly evening out.
I feel utterly claimed. Possessed. And strangely… safe. Reassured. Despite the fact my backside currently feels like it went ten rounds with a very firm paddle.
Great. Meetings are going to require some creative seating arrangements for the rest of the day. Wonder if ‘executive discomfort’ is a valid reason to stand?
He might be fighting a war with his father, a war I feel horribly guilty about contributing to. But his message was clear. He’s not letting me go. He’s choosing this. Choosingus.
For now, anyway.
In addition to my throbbing backside, my neck stings slightly. I reach up, fingers tentatively exploring my neck where his mouth was just moments ago.
The skin feels hot, tender. Definitely marked.
Fantastic. Pretty sure I just acquired a few souvenirs that aren’t exactly board-meeting appropriate.
“Well,” I manage, my voice still breathless. “Looks like I’ll be investing in some strategically placed scarves for the foreseeable future. That, or industrial strength concealer.”
He looks down at my neck, then back at me, a flicker of something almost like surprisein his eyes.
“I couldn’t... couldn’t control myself,” he admits, his voice rough. “I don’t know what you’re doing to me. You… make me lose control.”
A slow smile spreads across my face. Despite the chaos, despite the fear, despite the very real possibility that the desk and chair now require professional sanitization… that admission feels like another victory.
“Oh really?” I murmur, tracing a finger over his kiss-swollen lips. “If this is you losing control, Mr. Blackwell…” I lean in, whispering against his mouth, “I can’t wait to make you lose control next time.”
He growls softly, pulling me impossibly closer, and for a little while, the looming threats of Mark Blackwell and corporate espionage and hidden financial disasters fade into the background, replaced by the undeniable certainty of the big man holding me in his arms.
37
Christopher
The final draft of Project Nightingale sits on my desk, a thick stack of paper bound in unassuming blue covers. Legally airtight. Strategically sound.
And generous.
Exceptionally fucking generous, by any objective market standard applied to a company teetering on the edge like Hammond & Co.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I smile, thinking of my father’s apoplectic fit when he realizes he couldn’t stop this. And I have to wonder for a moment if I’m doing this to piss him off, or for Lucy.
To be honest, I’m not actually sure anymore.
Maybe a mixture of both.
