Page 68 of Dial B for Billionaire

He leans down to kiss me, never breaking that torturous rhythm. “Soon.”

He keeps the pace steady even as I writhe beneath him, even as I beg and plead and curse his name. Only when I'm nearly sobbing with frustration, when every muscle in my body is coiled tight, does he finally—finally—increase the tempo.

“Yes,” he breathes as I cry out.

The change is gradual at first. Slightly faster. Slightly deeper. Testing what I can take. But when I meet him thrust for thrust, when I whisper his name and beg for more, something shifts in his expression.

“Harder,” I demand, and feel his control crack.

“Layla.”

“I want to feel you tomorrow.” I bite his shoulder, marking him. “Want to sit in that boardroom meeting and remember exactly how you feel inside me.”

His hips snap forward involuntarily, earning a sharp gasp from me. “Fuck. You can't say things like?—”

“I want everyone to wonder why I'm shifting in my chair. Why I can't quite meet your eyes.” I dig my nails in harder. “Want to be sore in the best way.”

That does it. His control doesn't just snap, it shatters. He hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, and the first hard thrust has me seeing stars.

“Is this what you wanted?” His voice is rough, almost unrecognizable. “To see me lose control?”

“Yes.” The word comes out as a moan. “Always so composed. So perfect. I want to see you undone.”

“Congratulations.” He slides a hand between us,finding that sensitive bundle of nerves. “You've succeeded.”

The combination of his fingers and the perfect angle pushes me over the edge again. “Bennett!” This orgasm is deeper, more intense, pulling him with me as my body clenches around him.

“Fuck! Layla!” My name is a broken sound as he follows me over, his release pulsing hot and deep inside me.

We collapse together, breathing hard, bodies still joined. His weight should be crushing, but instead it's comforting, grounding me to this moment.

“Two,” he murmurs against my neck after our breathing slows.

I laugh, the sound slightly hysterical. “You're really keeping count?”

“I'm a numbers guy.” He lifts his head to look at me, and the tenderness in his expression steals my breath. “It's what I do.”

“Nerd.” I giggle.

“Absolutely. Would you prefer a spreadsheet? I could track frequency, duration, intensity?—”

I cut him off with a kiss. “You're ridiculous.”

“Mmm.” He rolls us so I'm sprawled on top of him. “Thoroughly ridiculous?”

“The most thoroughly ridiculous.” I trace patterns on his chest. “So... about that wine and conversation?”

“Still available.” His hands stroke up and down my spine. “Though I'd need to move to get the wine, and that seems impossible right now.”

We lie in comfortable silence, the city lights painting patterns on the ceiling. Reality hovers at the edges, but I push it away. Tomorrow will bring even more complications—my father, more meetings, the impossible task of pretending this didn't happen.

“I should probably go home.”

“Stay,” he says quietly, his arm tightening around me. “I want to wake up with you.”

“I didn't bring anything?—”

“I have everything you need.” His arms tighten around me. “Just stay.”

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