Page 95 of Sexting the Billionaire

She pulls back slightly, giving me a curious look. "Was it traumatic? Your childhood?"

The question catches me off guard. "Not in any dramatic way. Just... empty. After my mother died, it was just my father and his expectations. Nothing I did was ever enough."

Her hands pause in unbuttoning my shirt. "That is trauma, Roman. Being made to feel like you're never enough."

I shrug, uncomfortable with her perception. "It made me driven. Successful."

"It made you believe love is conditional on achievement," she corrects gently. "That you have to earn connection through performance."

The insight is so accurate, so painfully precise, that I can't respond. Instead, I capture her mouth with mine, desperate toescape the sudden vulnerability. She allows it for a moment, then pulls back again.

"You don't have to earn me," she says softly. "I'm not here because you're successful or powerful or perfect. I'm here because you make ridiculously good omelets and you laugh at my bad jokes and you look at me like I'm the most fascinating creature you've ever encountered."

Something cracks inside me at her words—a fissure in the foundation I've built my life upon. The idea that I might be loved not for what I achieve or provide, but simply for who I am, is so foreign it's almost incomprehensible.

"I don't know how to do this," I admit, the words scraping my throat raw. "To be vulnerable. To trust that you won't?—"

"Leave?" she finishes when I can't. "I'm not going anywhere, Roman. Not unless you give me a reason to."

She climbs onto my lap, straddling me with a deliberate intimacy that makes my breath catch. Her heat presses against my growing hardness, separated only by the thin fabric of her pajama bottoms. Her hands frame my face, forcing me to meet her gaze.

"Let me show you," she whispers, the words both a plea and a promise.

She kisses me deeply, her tongue exploring my mouth with a thoroughness that leaves me breathless. I reach for her hips instinctively, but she catches my wrists, guiding them to rest at my sides.

"Let me," she murmurs against my lips. "Just feel."

I surrender, a foreign concept in every other aspect of my life. Her mouth traces a path from my lips to my jaw, then down the sensitive column of my throat. When she nips lightly at my pulse point, I can't suppress a groan.

Her fingers work at my buttons, exposing my chest inch by torturous inch. Each newly revealed patch of skin receives thedevoted attention of her lips, her tongue, occasionally her teeth. By the time she pushes my shirt from my shoulders, I'm fighting to remain passive, to let her maintain control.

"You're always so restrained," she whispers, her fingers tracing the taut muscles of my abdomen. "Always so in command. Let go for me, Roman."

Her palm presses against the hard ridge straining against my pants, and my hips buck involuntarily. She smiles, pleased by this evidence of my desire, of my slowly fracturing control.

When she slides from my lap to kneel between my legs, I nearly lose my mind. Her eyes hold mine as she unbuckles my belt with deliberate slowness. The metallic sound of my zipper being lowered seems obscenely loud in the quiet room.

"Lift," she commands softly, and I raise my hips, allowing her to slide my pants and underwear down my legs.

I'm completely exposed now, my arousal evident and insistent. The vulnerability of my position—fully naked while she remains clothed—should make me uncomfortable. Instead, I find it strangely liberating.

She studies me with unconcealed appreciation, her hands gliding up my thighs with feather-light touches that make my muscles jump beneath her fingers.

"You're beautiful," she says, and coming from her, I believe it. Not as flattery or manipulation, but simple truth.

When she takes me in her mouth, I have to grip the couch cushions to keep from thrusting upward. The wet heat of her engulfing me is exquisite torture. She works me with devastating skill, alternating between gentle suction and the flat pressure of her tongue until I'm fighting for control.

"Cassie," I warn, my voice strained beyond recognition. "I won't last if you keep?—"

She releases me, pressing a final kiss to the sensitive tip before rising to her feet. With deliberate movements thathold my complete attention, she strips away her clothing—first the oversized sweatshirt revealing perfect breasts with dusky nipples already tightened with arousal, then the loose pants sliding down slender legs.

She stands before me completely naked, a goddess in the dim light of her apartment. I reach for her, unable to remain passive any longer, but she steps back with a small shake of her head.

"Not yet," she says, her voice husky with desire. "Tonight I'm in charge."

She climbs back onto my lap, her knees bracketing my thighs, her center hovering tantalizingly above where I most want her. I can feel the heat of her, the evidence of her arousal making her slick and ready.

"Look at me," she demands softly. "Don't close your eyes. I want to see you."

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