Page 67 of Dial B for Billionaire

I can barely form words. “Ask me... when I can... feel my legs again.”

His laugh is low, pleased. “That's one.”

Through my post-orgasm haze, I blink at him. “One?”

“Orgasm. I'm keeping count.” He shifts his weight, and I become aware of how hard he is against my thigh, how much his control has cost him. “That phone call was quite specific about multiples.”

My body clenches at the promise in his voice, aftershocks still rippling through me.Oh god. He's going to destroy me completely.

And right now, I’m OK with that.

LAYLA

“You're trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

“No.” He settles between my thighs, the heat of him making me gasp despite my sensitivity. “I'm trying to ruin you for anyone else.”

The arrogance should annoy me. Instead, after what he just did, after how patiently he took me apart, it just sends fresh heat spiraling through my body.

I slide my hands down his back, fingers trailing over the tension in his spine. “Then ruin me some more,” I whisper, voice husky.

“He catches my hip, holding me still, his restraint paper-thin. “Layla,” he murmurs, voice breaking slightly, “protection?”

“Birth control,” I breathe. “And I'm clean. You?”

“Same.” His forehead drops to mine, and I can feel him trembling. “But if you want?—”

“I want you.” I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “Just you. Nothing between us.”

He groans, the sound torn from deep in his chest. “Youcan't say things like that and expect me to maintain any control.”

“Maybe I don't want your control anymore.” I nip at his jaw. “Maybe I want to see you as desperate as you just made me.”

“Careful what you wish for.”

He lines himself up with my entrance and drive in with one smooth thrust, and we both go still. The fullness is overwhelming, perfect, like finding a piece I didn't know was missing.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel?—”

“Oh god. I know.” I dig my nails into his shoulders. “Move. Please.”

The next thrust is slow, measured. He sets a rhythm that's barely enough, each stroke deliberate, unhurried, designed to drive me insane.

“Bennett,” I plead, trying to arch against him, but his hands on my hips keep me still.

“Let me enjoy you.” He maintains that maddening pace, even as sweat beads on his forehead. “I want to feel every second of this. Want you to feel it.”

And I do. Every nerve ending is alive, aware of each controlled movement. He angles his hips slightly, finding a spot that makes me gasp, then keeps hitting it with mathematical precision.

“You're shaking,” I manage to say, running my hands over his trembling arms.

“Because I want—” He has to pause, take a breath. “I want to let go. Want to fuck you the way I've been fantasizing about. Hard. Deep. Until you scream.”

“Then do it.”

“Not yet.” Another slow thrust that has my nailsdigging into his shoulders. “Not yet.”

“Please.”

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