Page 35 of Falling for Mr. Billionaire

I slide my other hand up her spine, under her shirt and I grab hold of her nipple, pressing down, twisting it until she moans. Her skin is hot, slick, begging to be touched.

“Tell me to stop,” I whisper, my mouth brushing her ear. “Or I’m going to ruin you tonight.”

For a second, she doesn’t breathe.

She presses a palm to my chest, not pushing hard, just enough to put space between us.

“I’m sorry…” Her voice is husky. Shaky. Not no. But not yes.

And that pause? That tiny moment of hesitation? It’s the only thing that keeps me from dragging her to the bed, the couch, the kitchen counter and showing her exactly what I meant.

I take a step back, chest rising and falling with restraint. Barely.

She bites her lip, like she’s trying to steady herself, too.

I smile slowly, darkly. “You’re soaked,” I murmur, dragging my gaze down her body. “You should change before you catch a chill.”

Her eyes flick to mine—wide, restless, turned on as hell. She doesn’t say a word as she turns and disappears into the bedroom.

But I catch the way her hips sway just a little harder as she walks away.

Like a challenge.

Like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

When she emerges from the bedroom, clad in fresh clothes that still cling in all the right places, I swear my brain short-circuits.

She’s wearing a soft, slate-gray tank top—thin, braless, and clinging to her like a second skin. The cotton hugs her curves, the fabric dipping low enough to tease the swell of her cleavage and stretch tight across her full, high breasts. Her nipples press through slightly from the cool air, and it takes everything in me not to groan.

She’s pulled on a pair of fitted black lounge shorts that sit high on her waist and ride just a little too high on her thighs, revealing smooth, toned legs that go on for days. The waistband cinches just enough to show off her hourglass shape—thick in the hips, soft in the right places, strong everywhere else. Unapologetically stunning. The kind of woman who fills a room without even trying. The kind of woman who makes you forget your own damn name.

Her hair is still damp from the storm, wavy strands falling over one shoulder. There’s a tiny droplet sliding down the side of her neck, and my eyes track it like it owes me something.

She meets my gaze—and freezes. Like she can feel the heat radiating off me from across the room.

“I didn’t have much else to change into,” she mutters, tugging at the edge of her shorts like it might suddenly make them less illegal.

I step forward slowly, jaw tight. “Don’t apologize.”

She lifts her chin, trying to be defiant. But her breath catches when I stop in front of her, close enough to touch, to taste.

“Damn,” I murmur, eyes dragging over every inch of her. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

Her lips twitch—somewhere between a smirk and a challenge. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d use something faster than a tank top.”

I lean in, my voice low and wicked. “That’s the problem. You don’t need anything else.”

She walks past me without another word, hips swaying just enough to keep me tortured, and drops onto the couch.

The storm rages outside. Sheesh, so the weather certainly escalated quickly. I was walking to the lobby and everything was closed due to bad weather, but it wasn’t even raining until I was walking back.

“If you told me you were going, I’d tell you. They shut everything down today and most likely tomorrow as well.”

Her brows knit. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. It’s supposed to hit hard later today and roll through the weekend.” I nod toward the door. “They dropped off extra sandbags, towels, food, water—basically everything to bunker down.”

Her eyes widen. “So… we’re officially stuck.”

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