Page 79 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

“Please!” I beg, arching up toward him. “Need you inside me!”

He nudges my legs apart and seats himself between them. The fat tip of his cock presses against my opening. Holding my gaze, he pushes into me.

A strangled sound escapes my throat. Pleasure courses through my veins. I’m kissing him, digging into his back, meeting his thrusts.

He adjusts his angle. “This?”

“Mmm.” I skim my hands over the hair-roughened steel of his chest and then I press my lips to the sheen of sweat on his neck. “More,” I say into his neck.

He obliges, going a little harder, a little faster. “This?”

“You taking requests or something?” I ask.

He grabs my hands so that we’re palm to palm. Slowly—ever so slowly—he presses them over my head, onto the back of the couch. “Anything,” he says.

“Now slower,” I say.

He slows, grinding against me. Bright waves of pleasure roll over me. It’s so crazy sexy…but not quite Benny-ish.

“Now…be more awkward and intense,” I say.

“What?”

“Like you’re unself-aware. Like you’re carried away. And a little unsure…”

“What the hell?” He slows. He doesn’t seem to like this request.

“You said I could request anything.”

“I think you suck at being the boss.” He lets go of my hands and puts his attention on my pussy. One ruthless and all-knowing finger massages my way-too-ticklish clit while he fucks me.

It’s everything.

I’m breaking up into bits of pleasure. Thoughts of Benny-vs-Sexorator 2000 evaporate, because Sexorator 2000 has sex tricks, and my libido is there for those sex tricks.

I’m teetering on the edge, panting and teetering and suddenly orgasming.

He loves that I’m coming—I can tell by the way he groans, by the way he begins to piston into me. Finally, here at the end, he’s somewhat losing himself.

We come very nearly together. I collapse. He collapses next to me.

I trail a finger over his muscular arm. Maybe it’s nothing for a man like Benny to stay remote, even during sex.

But I want to be close to him, not just get off, great as that is.

But maybe that’s all I get as fake wife. Random slices of him while his heart stays off-limits in a granite sarcophagus.

Nineteen

Benny

Alan and Danielle’srooftop is a 10-story-high world of festive lighting, luxury outdoor amenities, and outrageous greenery, including potted palms and massive outdoor topiaries, most notably a seven-foot-tall rabbit with twinkling lights woven all through its leaves. Guests are abuzz with speculation on how they got the massive plants onto the roof, because they certainly didn’t grow them up here. They couldn’t have brought them up the stairwell.

The sunset blazes over the river in the distance, painting glass building faces orange.

But the real wonder of the rooftop is Francine, casually elegant in a black-and-pink flowered dress. Her hair is down around her shoulders in loose waves that look unbearably sexy.

“What do you think?” she asks when I bring her a fresh bubbly water. “Are you cogitating on the topiary?”

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