Page 65 of Dial B for Billionaire

I turn in his arms, reaching for his shirt buttons. “My turn.”

He lets me undress him, though my hands shake slightly when I push the shirt off his shoulders. The chest I've been imagining is better than my fantasies—lean muscle, a dusting of dark hair, a few scattered scars that speak to a life lived beyond boardrooms.

“You're staring,” he notes.

“You're worth staring at.” I trace a particularly interesting scar along his ribs. “What's this from?”

“Boxing. College.” His stomach muscles tense under my touch. “I was young and stupid and thought I was invincible.”

“And this one?” I find another on his shoulder.

“Sailing accident. Tried to impress a girl.” His hands span my waist. “Ended up with twelve stitches instead of a phone number.”

“Poor Bennett.” I press my lips to the scar. “All that effort wasted.”

His grip tightens. “Not wasted. Practice for finding the right girl.”

The words hang between us, heavier than they should be. This is supposed to be physical. A release of tension.But the way he's looking at me suggests something deeper.

“Bennett.”

He kisses me before I can finish, walking me backward until my knees hit the bed. We fall together, a tangle of limbs and desperate touches. His weight presses me into the mattress, and I arch against him, needing more contact.

“Slow down,” he murmurs, even as his own hands contradict the words. “We have all night.”

“I don't want slow.” I nip at his jaw. “I've waited long enough. Since the festival, since the rooftop—weeks of working with you. I'll combust if we go any slower.”

He cuts me off with another kiss, this one deeper, more demanding. His hand slides up my thigh, over my hip, coming to rest just below my breast.

“Please,” I breathe against his mouth.

“Tell me what you want.” His thumb brushes the underside of my breast through the lace. “Like last night. Tell me exactly what you need.”

Heat floods my cheeks, but the darkness in his eyes makes me brave. “Your mouth. Like you promised.”

His smile is wicked. “I did promise that, didn't I?”

He moves down my body with deliberate slowness, pressing kisses to my sternum, my ribs, the sensitive skin of my stomach. His hands work the clasp of my bra with practiced ease.

“Bennett,” I gasp as his mouth closes over one peaked nipple.

“Shh.” He lavishes attention on both breasts until I'm squirming beneath him. “I'm being thorough. You like thorough, remember?”

“I'm going to die from thorough.”

“No.” He continues his downward path. “You're going to come from thorough. Multiple times, if I have my way.”

His fingers hook into my underwear, sliding them down and off. The cool air makes me shiver, or maybe it's the way he's looking at me, like I'm a feast and he's been starving.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, hands parting my thighs. “Even better than I imagined.”

“You must have a pretty shitty imagination then.”

His gaze darkens. “The opposite. I’ve been imagining this for weeks. Every damn day.” He presses a kiss to my inner thigh. “During meetings. On conference calls. That video chat where you wore the cream blouse? I had to turn off my camera because all I could think about was this. But the reality... It’s better than anything I ever pictured.”

His mouth finds me with one deliberate stroke, then pulls back just as I arch toward him.

“Patience,” he murmurs against my inner thigh, pressing kisses everywhere except where I need him most.

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