Page 45 of Sexting the Billionaire

What follows is everything the text promised and more.

I back her toward the bed, our lips never breaking contact as we move together in a dance that feels both improvised and inevitable. When the back of her legs hit the mattress, I lower her down with a deliberate slowness that makes her breath catch.

"You're still wearing too much," she whispers, her fingers hooking into the waistband of my pants.

I can't help but smile at her impatience. "And you accused me of being demanding."

Her bra disappears under my practiced fingers, revealing breasts that make my mouth go dry. I take my time exploring her, learning the geography of her body—what makes her gasp, what makes her arch, what makes her dig her nails into my shoulders and beg for more.

"Roman," she breathes as my mouth trails down her stomach. "I need?—"

"I know exactly what you need," I murmur against her skin, hooking my fingers into her lace underwear and sliding it down her legs with excruciating deliberation. "I've been thinking about this since that first text."

Her laugh turns into a gasp as my mouth finds her center. I run my tongue up her slit, circling her opening before teasing her clit, licking and sucking. I lose myself in the taste of her, the sound of her pleasure, the way her hands tangle in my hair—sometimes guiding, sometimes simply holding on as if she might fly apart without an anchor.

There's something intoxicating about reducing Cassandra Monroe—brilliant, composed, professional Cassandra—to incoherent pleas and breathless demands. Each tremor, each sharp intake of breath, each whispered curse is a victory I savor more than any business conquest.

"Please," she manages, tugging at my shoulders. "I want to feel you inside me."

I rise up her body, pausing to pay homage to her perfect breasts with my tongue and teeth, enjoying the way she writhes beneath me. When we're finally face to face, the naked desire in her eyes nearly undoes my control.

"Protection?" she asks, practical even in this moment.

I reach for the bedside drawer, only to have her take the condom from my fingers with a challenging smile. "Let me," she insists, pushing me onto my back with surprising strength.

The sight of her above me, gloriously naked and completely unselfconscious, sends a surge of desire through me so intense it borders on pain. Her hands make quick work of my remaining clothing, and I hiss through my teeth when she takes my cock in her hand, stroking with a confidence that makes it clear she knows exactly what she's doing.

"Cassie," I warn, my voice strained. "If you keep that up?—"

"Patience," she teases, echoing my earlier words as she rolls the condom on with deliberate, torturous slowness. "Good things come to those who wait."

Before I can respond, she's sinking down onto me, taking me inside her with a sigh that might be the most erotic sound I've ever heard. For a moment, neither of us moves, adjusting to the sensation of being joined in the most intimate way possible.

"God, you’re soaked, sweetheart. You feel..." I begin, but words fail me.

Her body responds to my touch like we've been lovers for years rather than hours, and I find myself uncharacteristically attuned to her every reaction, every half-breathed instruction, every sigh of pleasure. When I grip her hips and guide her movements, she follows my lead without hesitation, then takes control again with a roll of her hips that makes me groan.

There's an honesty in the way she moves with me, against me, that mirrors the directness I first noticed in her texts. No performative sounds, no careful calculation—just raw, authentic response that tells me exactly what she wants, what she needs. When I flip our positions, pressing her into the mattress and hooking her leg over my shoulder to change the angle, her surprised gasp of pleasure is the most genuine sound I've ever heard.

"There," she breathes, her nails digging into my back. "Right there. Don't stop."

I've had my share of sexual partners, but none who made me feel like this—like I'm discovering something new and essential with each touch, each kiss, each shared breath. Her pussy tightens around me as her pleasure builds, and I can feel my own control slipping.

"Look at me," I command softly, needing to see her eyes when she comes apart.

She does, her gaze locking with mine in a moment of startling intimacy—no barriers, no pretense, just Cassie and Roman stripped of all the labels we wear in the outside world. The vulnerability in her expression pushes me to the edge of my own restraint.

"Let go," I whisper, and it's both permission and plea.

When she finally comes apart beneath me, her body arching and tightening around mine, her eyes never leaving my face, I follow her over the edge with a completeness that leaves me shaken. The intensity of it—not just physical but something deeper, more essential—catches me completely off guard.

For several minutes afterward, we lie tangled together, heartbeats slowing in tandem, sweat cooling on our skin.

She curls against me, her head resting on my chest, her fingers tracing lazy patterns across my skin. I find myself running my hand along the curve of her spine, memorizing the feel of her, unwilling to break the spell with words.

We should talk—about boundaries, about tomorrow, about what this means for our professional relationship. Instead, I find myself telling her about the constellation tattooed on her.

"Cassiopeia," I say, stroking my fingers over the small cluster of stars inked on her skin. "The queen who boasted of her beauty."

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