Page 105 of Dial B for Billionaire

His laugh is low. “I did. And I'm going to do exactly that.” His fingers tighten on mine. “I'm going to make you come apart in my hands. Make you scream my name until the neighbors in the building over complain.”

Desire pools between my thighs, heady and urgent. If we weren't in such an upscale establishment, I might be tempted to drag him into the bathroom right now.

“We should probably look at the menu,” I manage, voice slightly strangled.

His smile turns knowing. “If you insist. But I already know what I want for dessert.”

The way he looks at me when he says it makes my core clench with need.

Dinner consists of course after course of delicately prepared French cuisine paired with exceptional wines. Throughout the meal, we talk about everything and nothing—work developments carefully phrased for public consumption, a book I've been reading, his thoughts on an art exhibition opening next month. Normal couple conversation.

But underneath runs a current of pure sexual tension. His foot finds mine under the table, sliding up my calf with deliberate slowness. When I reach for my wine glass,his fingers brush along my thigh with obvious intent. Every casual touch feels like foreplay.

By the time dessert arrives, my panties are soaked through. Bennett seems to know exactly what he's doing to me, his eyes dark with promise every time our gazes meet.

“Shall we?” Bennett asks finally, signing the bill without even glancing at the total.

“Please,” I breathe, practically vibrating with need.

The ride back to his penthouse—our penthouse?—is torture. In the back of the town car, his hand rests on my thigh, gradually inching higher under the hem of my dress. I bite my lip to keep from making a sound when his fingers brush against the lace edge of my underwear.

“Fuck, you're already soaked,” he murmurs against my ear, fingertips tracing the damp fabric. “I can feel how bad you want me through your panties.”

I stifle a moan, acutely aware of the driver mere feet away. “Bennett…”

“I want to taste you,” he whispers, breath hot against my neck. “Want to make you come on my tongue until you're shaking.”

“Holy hell, Bennett,” I whisper back, my body trembling with the effort of staying quiet. “You have definitely ruined me for anyone else.”

“Good. Because you're mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice sends a thrill through me, and I drag his mouth to mine.

Waiting for the elevator to the penthouse feels endless, even though it's express. The moment the doors close, Bennett has me pressed against the wall, his mouth claiming mine in a hungry kiss that has me moaning intohis mouth. His hands are everywhere—in my hair, on my waist, sliding under my dress to cup my ass and pull me against the hard length of his erection.

“I need to feel you,” he growls against my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point. “Right fucking now.”

Before I can respond, his hand is sliding up my thigh, pushing my dress higher. “Bennett. Oh my god!”

I cry out as he pushes my panties aside, stroking me directly. “Christ, you're dripping,” he breathes, sliding two fingers inside me without warning. “I can't wait to be buried inside your sweet pussy.”

“Yes,” I gasp, my hips bucking against his hand as he pumps his fingers deep. The elevator continues its smooth ascent while his thumb finds my clit, making me see stars.

“That's it,” he murmurs, watching my face as I fall apart against the wall. “Let go for me before we even get upstairs.”

The combination of his fingers inside me and the knowledge that we're suspended between floors sends me over the edge embarrassingly fast. I bite down on his shoulder to muffle my scream as the climax crashes through me.

The elevator dings softly as we reach the penthouse, and Bennett withdraws his fingers, bringing them to his mouth with a wicked smile. “Perfect timing.”

We barely make it into the foyer before clothes start coming off. My dress drops to the floor in the entryway, followed by his suit jacket and tie. His shirt buttons scatter across the marble when I tug too hard, impatient to feel his skin against mine.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes, eyes raking over my body clad only in black lace lingerie. “Always so gorgeous.”

I sink to my knees in front of him, looking up through my lashes as I finish unbuckling his belt. His eyes darken, pupils blown wide with desire as he watches me work his pants open. When I free his cock—thick, hard, already leaking—he hisses through his teeth.

“Layla,” he groans when I take him in my mouth, his fingers threading through my hair. “Christ, your mouth feels amazing.”

I lose myself in the taste of him, the weight of him on my tongue, the sounds he makes as I take him deeper. His restraint is evident in the tension in his thighs, the careful way he holds himself back, the way he lets me set the pace.

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