Page 57 of Sexting the Billionaire

I trace lazy circles, teasing, watching her face as her breathing quickens and her hips rise to meet my touch. "Please what, Cassie? Tell me what you want."

Her eyes flash—annoyance mixing with desire. "You know what I want."

"I want to hear you say it." I increase the pressure slightly, pushing one finger inside, drawing a moan from her that sends blood rushing south. "Be specific."

"Your mouth," she finally says, her voice husky with need. "I want your mouth on me."

I smile against her skin, pressing kisses down her body, taking my time despite her increasingly urgent movements. "Here?" I ask, lips brushing her inner thigh.

"Higher," she demands, fingers threading through my hair.

"Here?" I move incrementally closer to where she wants me most, enjoying her frustration.

"Roman, I swear to god?—"

The rest of her sentence breaks on a gasp the second my tongue slides over her—slow, wet, unrelenting. I part her with both thumbs, exposing her completely, and flatten my tongue to her swollen center until she cries out.

She tastes like heat and hunger, slick and already pulsing for me. I groan as I drag my tongue up through her folds, again and again, until she’s shaking.

When I close my lips around her clit and suck, her hips lift hard off the bed.

“Roman—oh my god?—”

I grip her tighter, anchoring her to the mattress, my mouth claiming her with slow, filthy devotion.

Every flick of my tongue draws a sharper moan.

Every stroke builds that tension I can feel vibrating through her thighs.

She tries to twist away, too much, too fast—but I growl and hold her down, licking deeper.

She whimpers, then gasps again when I slide one finger inside her—tight, hot, clenching around me like she’s already close.

I curl it, find that perfect spot, and suck her clit again.

Harder. Deeper.

Her body arches.

Her fingers claw at my hair.

There is a rare kind of power in this—in reducing composed, articulate Cassie to incoherent pleas and breathless demands.

I've negotiated billion-dollar deals that didn't feel half as satisfying as making her come apart beneath my mouth.

"Don't stop," she gasps, her body tensing as she approaches the edge. "Right there, just like that, please don’t?—"

I don’t stop.

I increase the pressure, the pace, knowing exactly what she needs now after weeks of learning her body.

I lick her until she’s gasping broken things, until she’s grinding shamelessly against my face, until she comes with a cry so raw it hits me in the gut. Her back bows, her thighs clamp around my head as she cries out my name.

I hold her there, trembling, panting, unraveling around my mouth.

And when she finally goes still, I press one last kiss against her—slow and reverent.

Before she can fully recover, I rise up over her, dragging my mouth along the inside of her thigh—slow and possessive—then up the curve of her waist. I shed the rest of my clothes with a sharp breath, my skin flushed and tight with need.

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