Page 58 of Sexting the Billionaire

Her eyes are still glazed, pupils blown wide, chest rising in short, shallow bursts. But even dazed, she reaches for me—both hands in my hair, pulling me down with surprising force.

The second our mouths meet, she groans—deep and needy—tasting herself on my tongue.

Her lips part wider. She doesn’t pull back. She kisses me harder.

I feel her shudder when my slick jaw brushes her cheek, when my still-wet chin drags along the corner of her mouth. She kisses me like she’s starving—like she’s claiming every part of what I just took from her and giving it back in the dirtiest way possible.

When I finally pull back, her lips are glossy, flushed, and parted.

“You like that?” I murmur, voice thick.

She nods once. Breathless.

“Yeah,” she whispers.

Inside," she commands against my mouth. "Now."

"So demanding," I tease, though I'm just as desperate, positioning myself between her legs. "What happened to negotiations?"

"Fuck negotiations," she says, wrapping her legs around my waist. "I need you inside me."

I position myself between her thighs, thick and aching and desperate. She lifts her hips to meet me, and I push in with one slow, relentless thrust.

Her slick heat wraps around me inch by inch, tight and pulsing—drawing a guttural groan from my chest.

She gasps—head tipping back, fingers digging into my shoulders—as I bottom out inside her, fully seated, her body gripping me like it never wants to let go.

We both freeze, breathless.

The stretch.

The pressure.

The way she trembles beneath me like her body’s trying to memorize mine from the inside out.

“God,” I bite out, forehead dropping to hers. “You feel like a fucking dream.”

She doesn’t answer with words—just a desperate roll of her hips, trying to pull me deeper. I hiss through my teeth and give her what she’s asking for.

I draw back and thrust again, harder this time, her gasp breaking against my mouth.

She clings to me—legs wrapped tight around my waist, nails dragging down my back—as I begin to move in a rhythm that turns reverent fast.

Every stroke is wet, deep, and slow at first—meant to make her feel every inch.

Every thrust is punctuated by her moans, her curses, the way she arches like she wants to take even more.

And I want to give it to her.

All of it.

This is what addiction must feel like—this constant, insatiable need for more. More of her gasps, her moans, the wayher nails dig into my back when I hit just the right spot. More of the way she looks at me, eyes heavy-lidded but intense, seeing straight through every defense I've ever built.

"Harder," she urges, meeting each thrust with equal force. "I won't break, Roman."

Something snaps inside me at her words—some final thread of restraint.

I hook one of her legs over my shoulder, changing the angle, driving deeper. Her eyes widen, a new sound escaping her throat—somewhere between a gasp and a scream.

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