Page 78 of The Grumpy Billionaire

I pick her up and carry her to the chair. “Loop your legs over the arms.”

She does as I say, watching me, amazed. “Bossy.”

I take her hands and place them on the arms. “I am going to lick your pussy and fuck you with my fingers and you are going to keep your hands right there until I’m good and done with you.”

Her eyes flare wide. I don’t wait for her to answer. I can’t wait. I kneel, and swipe my fingers down her sex, wet and perfect.

l swipe my tongue clear up her slit.

She shudders.

“Relent to me.” I do it again and again, pushing my finger deep into her and hooking it just so until her orgasm shatters over her, and then I’m inside her, deep inside her, weird chair angle be damned.

ChapterThirty-Three

Stella

We endup in the shower where I’m about to give him the world’s best blow job, or that’s my goal, anyway.

I grip his cock at the root and kiss the side of it.

He groans. He likes his cock gripped during blow jobs—that much I’ve noticed.

I look up. “I’m gonna suck the bejesus out of you. But first…” I kiss the other side. “Do you prefer the gripping thing I did yesterday? Or a gripping-plus-sliding thing…”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me.” I put my lips over the tip. “Telllll me.”

He groans. “If it’s in your mouth, I’m good.”

“Come on! This is no time to stop being precise.”

He groans.

I want it to be good. I want him to love it.

“I’m gonna torture it out of you otherwise.” I lick up the side. “I’ll horribly torture you.”

“Grip it.”

“There we go.” I grip it and make him rate the hardness of my grip. When I get the data I need, I give him a good hard suck.

He groans again and grabs my hair, twisting it pleasingly.

Yesterday I told him I like him extra growly when I give a blow job, like as caveman as possible, and he’s really going for it, mercilessly fisting my hair and a little bit pushing my head like a barbarian warlord. Those were my specific instructions.

He makes this very Hugo sound when he comes. The bear sound.

Lying in bed afterwards, I slide my finger down the outer edge of his arm, tracing a line over the contours of his arm muscles, glistening with sweat. I want to say something about the bear sound and how much I love it, but I’m afraid he won’t do it ever again, so I stay quiet about it.

“What?” he says.

“This,” I whisper.

“Yes,” he says.

Back in my most intense Hugo-crush era, I would imagine what it was like to be with him, and those ideas I had were nothing compared to the reality of him.

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