Page 91 of My Big, Fat, Hot Billionaire Enemy
And again.
Each time is different.
Sometimes, it’s slow and teasing, others, fast and demanding.
He uses his mouth, his fingers, exploring every inch of me, learning my responses, anticipating my needs before I even know them myself. He positions my legs, tilts my hips, controlling my body with an expertise that is both thrilling and terrifying. He is completely in command, the master of my pleasure, orchestrating my responses with unerring precision.
And through it all, he watches me. Like in backseat of the limo, his intense gaze never wavers, tracking every flicker of emotion, every gasp, every shudder. He seems to draw satisfaction not just from my pleasure, but from his absolute control over it.
He’s compromised in the boardroom, given ground where I never thought he would.
But here? In this bed?
He reigns supreme.
But god help me, as I shatter yet again under his masterful touch, my body held captive, completely his to command…
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
29
Christopher
The morning light slanting through the penthouse windows feels different today. Less harsh. Warmer, maybe.
Or maybe that’s just the residual heat from the woman still asleep in my bed.
Lucy.
Curled on her side, honey-blonde hair fanned out across the obscenely high thread-count pillowcase, lips slightly parted. She looks peaceful. Innocent. And so beautiful.
The memory of last night floods back. The feel of her skin under my hands. The taste of her mouth. The sounds she made when I finally lost control and took her properly against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights painting patterns on her bare skin.
Her complete surrender.
Her quiet strength.
The way she looked at me afterwards, like she actually saw something worth seeing beneath the Blackwell bullshit.
Contentment. It’s a foreign sensation. Unsettling.
I don’t do contentment.
I do conquest. Acquisition. Control.
Yet, waking up beside her… it doesn’t feel like a victory march.
It feels… quiet.
Stable, almost.
Fuck that.
Stability is stagnation. Quiet is vulnerability.
My thoughts? Or my father’s?
I slide out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake her. I need coffee. Need distance.
