Page 60 of The Grumpy Billionaire

“Ohhhh,” she whimpers.

She feels like heaven, wet silky warmth. I press in, fucking her like a rutting, grunting bull and I can’t stop. I don’t want to ever stop. I don’t know if I can stop.

“More!” She’s doing herself, rubbing her pussy.

I grab her hair, lost in the heaven of her. “Relent.”

“Omigod omigod omigod,” she says.

The sound of her pleasure surges through me like lust and domination and hunger and a fever in my blood, and the only cure is thrusting into her, fucking her, owning her.

I feel as if a dam has burst, and as if I’m riding a tidal wave that’s made of years of pent-up lust and longing.

She’s coming again. I can feel it with my cock, her pussy walls clenching and releasing. I hear it in her breath. She’s coming, spinning.

My fingertips dig into her ass cheeks.

I press deep into her one last time, an orgasm ripping out of me, ripping through my body. I come, making lord knows what sounds.

I’m panting after. I pull out of her, feeling like I’ve been turned inside out. I brace myself, one hand on the wall.

What just happened?

She turns and presses a hand to my cheek, eyes full of wonder. “Wow.”

“Wow.”

Her brow furrows. She looks…perplexed. “I didn’t expect—”

“I take full responsibility,” I say. “I lost control.”

“Hugo, no. That was my favorite thing about it. I was right there with you. A thousand percent out of control with you.” She buttons her shirt. “Don’t forget, I instigated it.”

I cup her cheek. “You get to talk about pineapple without a man losing his mind with lust.”

“What’s the point of talking about pineapple if a man doesn’t lose his mind with lust?”

“You deserve better.”

She gives me a witchy look. “Umm…not interested in that option.”

Stella, so fucking contrary.

I try to collect myself. It was the hottest experience of my life. I was so full of lust, but we’re at work. In an elevator. Stella deserves better than a quickie in some elevator. She deserves better than a man who can’t uphold his code of honor.

She’s rooting through her purse—the kind of giant everything purse she’s carried since she was old enough to have purses. She’s got wipes and napkins. She holds out a bag. “Put your condom in here. Oh my god, can this elevator smell more like sex? Is that even possible?”

I put the condom in the bag and pocket it. I’ll deal with it myself.

She pulls out a small bottle and sprays the air with something that smells like lavender, and then we kneel down and start gathering the papers that are all over the floor.

I hand her a stack. She puts them in order, and I hand up some more. When we’re done, I stand up and pull her up, not that she needs it, but I can’t seem to stop touching her.

And I look into her eyes.

And that’s when it hits me. A better way to get around the obstacle I’d identified in my QuantumQuilt equation.

“What’s wrong, Hugo? Do I have something on my face? A carbuncle, perhaps? A bubo?”

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