Page 59 of Sexting the Billionaire

"There," she pants, her hands gripping the sheets now.

"God, right there, don't stop."

I couldn't stop if I wanted to.

The sight of her beneath me, her body flushed and responsive, her eyes never leaving mine—it's more intoxicating than any power I've ever wielded in the boardroom. I can feel my own release building, the pressure mounting at the base of my spine, but I'm determined to hold off, to watch her come undone one more time.

I slide a hand between us, finding her clit and adding the pressure I know makes her back arch. "Come for me again," I command, my voice rougher than I intended. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

Her body responds instantly, clenching around me as she tips over the edge. The sight of her in the throes of pleasure—my name on her lips, her eyes locked with mine in a moment of startling intimacy—is enough to send me following her over. My release hits with an intensity that leaves me gasping, my vision briefly going dark at the edges as pleasure crashes through me in waves.

Afterward, I collapse beside her, both of us breathing hard, sweat cooling on our skin. She curls against me, her head on mychest, fingers tracing idle patterns across my skin. The weight of her feels right somehow, like a missing piece slotting into place.

Dangerous thought.

"You've gone quiet," she observes, propping herself up to study my face. "Post-sex brooding? Or is there something on your mind?"

I brush a strand of hair from her face, buying time. The truth—that I'm contemplating how thoroughly she's demolished every boundary I thought I'd established—isn't something either of us is ready to hear.

"Just thinking about tomorrow's board meeting," I lie. "Maxwell Grant's surprise attendance has complicated things."

"Ah." She settles back against me. "The mysterious rival makes his appearance."

"There's nothing mysterious about Grant. He's a shark who smells blood in the water." I try to keep the edge from my voice but fail spectacularly.

She tilts her head to look at me again. "Sounds like there's history there."

"You could say that." I stare at the ceiling, debating how much to reveal. "He has a particular talent for identifying what I value and trying to take it."

"Sounds exhausting." Her tone is light, but her eyes are shrewd. "For both of you."

"It is." I run a hand down her spine, enjoying the slight shiver it produces. "Which is why you should steer clear of him tomorrow."

She frowns. "Because he might try to... what? Poach me?"

"Because he'll use you to get to me if he can." The words come out harsher than intended. "It's what he does."

"I'm not easily used, Roman." She sits up fully now, the sheet pooling around her waist. "And I'm not a pawn in whatever chess game you two are playing."

"I didn't say you were." I prop myself up on my elbows, admiring the fierce intelligence in her expression even as I recognize the warning signs of her temper. "I'm trying to protect you."

"From what, exactly?" She raises an eyebrow. "A business meeting? A job offer? My own judgment?"

"From getting caught in the crossfire of a rivalry that has nothing to do with you."

"Then maybe you should stop making me feel like ammunition." She slides from the bed, scooping my discarded shirt from the floor and slipping it on. "I'm going to shower."

I watch her disappear into the bathroom, wondering how a perfectly good evening devolved so quickly. The sound of the water turning on carries through the closed door, along with the unwelcome realization that I've handled that spectacularly badly.

I should let it go. Let her cool off. Address it professionally tomorrow.

Instead, I find myself knocking on the bathroom door, then entering without waiting for a response. The steam has already fogged the glass shower enclosure, but I can see her silhouette through it—head tilted back under the spray, shoulders tense.

"I'm sorry." The words feel foreign on my tongue. CEOs rarely apologize, and Roman Kade does so even less frequently. "That came out wrong."

The shower door slides open a few inches, revealing her face, wary but receptive. "Which part?"

"The part where I implied you couldn't handle yourself." I lean against the sink, hands in my pajama pockets to resist reaching for her. "You're right—you're not a pawn or ammunition or whatever the hell else I made you feel like."

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