Page 67 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

“I can do both at once,” she says.

I draw a finger up her shin bone, up to where the pack covers her knee. Her skin feels like warm silk.

A wary light appears in her eyes.

“I can’t have my show horse limping around, can I?” I lower my voice to an even deeper rumble. “It simply won’t do.”

She sucks in a breath. “You mean, yourmagnificentshow horse?”

“I can’t have my magnificent show horse in anything but peak condition.”

Her voice, when it comes, is throaty. “Because of how you like to work your assets?”

I slide my hand down her calf, taking full control of the situation. “I like to work my assets wickedly hard.”

She gasps as I slowly push a sock off her foot, then I bare the other. I’m not a foot guy, but I’m not above going with the flow. I let her feel the weight of my hand, let her feel like I’m in control here.

Even this slight touch overloads my senses, threatens to crash my control. Which tells me that I shouldn’t be doing this—I really shouldn’t, but I can’t seem to stop myself. It’s the feel of her skin. It’s her heated expression. It’s her Francine-ness.

“With your wicked ideas?” she asks with a mischievous gleam.

“That’s right,” I say.

She tries to sit up but I settle my other hand on her belly, push her back down. “Stay there,” I say. She’s threatening to steal all of my practiced control just by lying there—I don’t need her hands on me, sending me over the edge.

She watches me, belly quivering with arousal.

Carelessly, I toss the ice pack.

A grin touches her lips.

I lay an arm lazily over her calves, holding her there while I creep my other hand down, down from her belly to the tie of her pajama pants. Slowly I loosen them, watching her watch me, aroused, which is a total turn-on. I’m hard as rock under the perfect weight of her legs. I can feel my pulse clear into my cock.

Francine reaches for me. “Let me—”

“Not a word, not one word,” I say, pressing my hand down to the wetness between her legs.

She lets out a surrendering groan.

I pull her pajama pants clear off.

“Your shirt,” I rasp. “Off. Now.” I say it almost as a warning, letting her know that this is my show.

Her skin looks alive, cheeks darkened with excitement. Shaky hands move down to the hem of her shirt, then she pulls it clear off her head. Her flimsy bra that does nothing to disguise the sexy brown coins of her nipples. How many hours had I spent wondering what she’d look like?

I reach up and graze a hand over one perfect breast.

She tugs at my shirt. “I’m feeling a bit of clothes inequality here,” she says.

“And you’ll continue to feel it,” I say, kneeling on the couch between her knees, efficiently stripping her bottom half bare, exposing her perfect mound, just a strip of dark hair that I have big plans for.

“If you think you’re doing Sexorator 2000 again…” she says.

I don’t know what she’s talking about. All I can focus on is how badly I need to taste her.

Roughly I hoist her leg—the non-injured one—over my shoulder, struggling not to lose my senses in the face of her hotness, her spicy scent.

“Benny—”

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