Page 62 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
His hands grip my hips, controlling the rhythm. He starts slowly, each thrust a deep, measured glide, pushing himself fully inside me, then withdrawing almost completely before thrusting again.
It’s good. Like, agonizingly good. It’s all I can do to curl my fingers into the comforter and hold on for dear life.
“Look at yourself, Lucy,” he commands again, his voice a low growl against my ear. “Look at us.”
I force my gaze to the mirror. The image is raw. Primal. Me on my knees, utterly possessed by him. His powerful body behind mine, his cock hidden from view, but I feel it plunging deep inside my pussy with each thrust. His hands locked onto my hips, anchoring me, controlling me. The sight is incredibly erotic, intensifying the sensations rocking through me.
He increases the tempo slightly, his breaths becoming ragged against my neck.
“Tell me what you feel,” he whispers, his fingers digging into my hips.
“I feel...” I moan, squirming beneath him. “I feel... so fucking... so good. I want you so bad. All of you. Fuck me fuck me fuck me.”
“Arch that pretty back,” he grits, fingers digging into my hips as he slams deeper, deeper, the slap of skin echoing off the glass walls. “Christ. Look at you. So fucking wet, taking every inch like you weremade for it.”
I whimper, the stretch bordering on pain, but his voice wraps around me, dark and demanding. “Hands on the headboard. Now.” I scramble to obey, gripping the carved teak as he fists a hand in my hair, yanking me upright.
“Watch yourself,” he rasps against my ear, forcing my gaze to the mirror again. “Watch how you milk my cock when you cum.”
The sight undoes me. His bronzed muscles bracketing my trembling body, my breasts bouncing with every brutal thrust.
“Deeper,” I beg, shameless, and he chuckles, low and wicked.
“Greedy girl.” He pins my hips harder, angling up until I scream, the sudden friction sparking white behind my eyelids. “There it is. That beautiful cunt’s gripping me like a vise. Fuck, gonna make you cum ’til you forget your own name…”
He doesn’t lie. The first orgasm rips through me like a live wire, my unintelligible cries bouncing off the vaulted ceilings.
“Again,” he snarls, slowing torturously, his palm smacking my ass. “You don’t stop ’til I let you.”
“I can’t—!”
“You can.” He slams back in, hitting a spot that steals my breath. “Squeeze me just like that… yes. Take it, Lucy. Take what’s yours.”
He slows the pace, letting the aftershocks subside, then builds the rhythm again, harder, faster, driving me towards another peak.
“Gonna make you feel me for days…” he grunts.
By the third orgasm, I’m sobbing, nails splintering the wood. He fucks me through it, relentless, until his rhythm fractures.
“Lucy.”
His roar drowns out the ocean as his hips stutter. When he collapses over me, sweat-slick and heaving, and the aftershocks ebb, only then do I realize how thoroughly he’s ruined me.
He pulls me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me. We stay like that for a long time, tangled together, listening to the ocean waves, his chin resting on the top of my head.
He’s still physically dominant, holding me firmly, but the emotional wall is gone. He’s here. Present. Vulnerable, yet still undeniably in control.
It’s a heady, intoxicating combination.
Maybe this complicated connection is worth the risk after all.
Even if the path forward, both personally and professionally, still feels like navigating a minefield in the dark.
21
Christopher
Sunlight slices through a gap in the curtains, hitting my eyelids.
