Page 53 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
His cock pulses in my grasp. It’s hot, heavy, velvety steel. I squeeze tentatively, amazed by the sheer size and hardness. A low groan escapes him.
After a moment, he removes my hand and positions himself at my entrance, the blunt head nudging against my still sensitive, wet folds.
His grip tightens on my hips, fingertips branding my skin like a claim. The faint scent of his cologne mixes with the musk of sweat and arousal.
“Look into my eyes,” he demands, voice low.
My gaze snaps to his. Those icy blue eyes blaze, possessive and unyielding, as he sheathes himself fully inside me with a groan that rumbles through both our bodies.
Too much.
Not enough.
My nails bite into his biceps, muscles flexing beneath sweat-slick skin as he holds himself still, letting the unbearable, molten fullness unravel my insides.
“You take me so well,” he murmurs, thumb brushing my lower lip, and the praise coils heat low in my belly.
When he finally withdraws, it’s a sweet relief. Until he thrusts back in, deeper, hitting a spot that makes my vision blur.
“Christopher!” I cry out, but he swallows the sound with a kiss, teeth grazing my lip as his pace quickens.
The sofa creaks beneath us, leather sticking to my skin with every relentless push. His control fractures in the hitch of his breath, the way his hips stutter when I clench around him.
“Lucy,” he growls, my name a command and a plea. His hand tangles in my hair, tuggingjust enough to expose my throat, and his lips follow. Sucking, biting, marking.
I’m unraveling, every nerve alive, my legs trembling where they’re hooked around him.
“Please—” I don’t know what I’m begging for, but he does.
The shift is imperceptible at first. A tilt of his hips, a subtle recalibration, and then his next thrust sunders me. My head falls back as he drives upward, striking something that sends electric stars bursting behind my eyelids.
“There—God, there—” I rasp, voice fracturing.
He pins my wrists above my head, using the leverage to plunge even deeper. Every slam of his pelvis ignites liquid fire inside me, the rhythm relentless, incessant.
I try to speak, to beg, but my tongue feels molten. The world narrows to the slap of damp skin, the creak of overburdened leather, the raw scrape of his stubble against my collarbone as he growls, “Take it. Take all of me.”
His command unravels the last thread of my control.
I’m falling—
The room fractures.
My back arches violently as pleasure detonates, white-hot and incredible, wave after wave, as he pounds into me with a feral groan.
“Mine,” he snarls, the word reverberating in my bones as he buries himself to the hilt. His release triggers aftershocks that leave us both shuddering.
When he finally stills, forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged against my lips, I can still feel him everywhere. The ache between my thighs, the sting ofhis grip on my hips, the imprint of his teeth on my neck.
The city hums beyond the window, indifferent, but here, in this ruined office, the world feels remade.
After a long moment, long enough for the edges of the world to start creeping back in, he stirs. He pushes himself up, bracing his hands on either side of me. For a fraction of a second, looking down at me, his eyes hold something raw, something unguarded. Stripped bare by the intensity of his release.
Then it vanishes. Like a shutter slamming down. The impenetrable mask of Christopher Blackwell clicks back into place. His eyes turn cool, distant. Analytical, almost, as if assessing a completed task. The abrupt shift is jarring, like a splash of icy water.
The Executioner has returned.
Without a word, he rolls off me, the sudden absence of his heat leaving my skin feeling cold despite the lingering flush of sex.
