Page 38 of The Grumpy Billionaire

Desire shivers through me. My knees wobble.

This is wrong—I hate Hugo with every fiber of my being.

But I can’t look away. I can’t move. Also, every fiber of my being wants to wrap around him like a horny and slightly depraved gymnast.

“What…” I whisper raggedly.

His fingers continue on their wicked way, down the center of my chest, and all the while he’s watching my eyes in that gravely serious way that makes me feel like a shy, naked deer in the headlights of a predator.

This man, ruiner of my love life, destroyer of my career, blower-upper of my serenity, has my body humming with need for him.

I should stop this, but I don’t. I’m in his thrall and I don’t even care. He clamps the nape of my neck.

“Somebody’s eager to show off his robot hand upgrade,” I mumble nonsensically.

“God, Stella.” He yanks me in for a kiss—a punishing kiss. He’s raw and forceful and everything the opposite of smooth.

God, this man can kiss.

I tunnel my fingers into his hair, grabbing it like a handle for his head.

I’m kissing him back—feverishly, ferociously—like if I kiss him deeply enough, my hunger for him will be sated, but the more we kiss, the more I need.

I’m mauling him, because the pleasure is melting my mind and I am a lips-and-hands monster for him, hungry for him and his hard shell with the soft, secret insides.

His breath comes coarse and fast. Large Hugo hands close around my shoulders and he hauls my body up against his, deepening our kiss, aggressively invading my mouth with what feels like a stunningly muscular tongue. My tongue comes out to tangle, sliding across his.

It’s mind-bendingly sexy—just these tongues of ours, tangling hotly.

Confident hands slide over my ass. He lifts me onto his desk. His lips come back over mine, and my mind is completely lost.

He fists my hair and turns my head in a new way, like he needs a new angle of kissing. “The scent of you. The way you feel. You are the most distracting woman alive…can’t think…”

He kisses me with terrifying but delicious intensity.

My legs clamp incorrigibly around his waist. I’m a human-sized chip clip that’s clipping my sex right to his steely erection, panting. Reeling.

As if of their own volition, my traitorous and very nonrobotic hands are at his stomach, grabbing on to his muscle-outlining shirt, little wads of fabric in my fingers, freeing the shirt from his belt.

The hard jut of his erection rubs between my legs.

My horney lizard brain likes that. Presses in. Frees more shirt from his waistband, and now my hands are on his abs, hard and warm. My greedy palms eat him up.

“Relent to me, Stella.”

Is that even the right way to use the wordrelent? I don’t know, and I don’t care, because my hands are skimming over the taut contours of his stomach, the smattering of hair there, and the soft line of it trailing downwards. I feel the movement of his breath, the hard slash of his hip bones.

“Is relent a nerd way of saying submit?” I ask.

He kisses down my neck, hot, lusty kisses punctuated by the zing of teeth grazing over sensitive skin.

“I think that’s what it is,” I whisper. “I think it’s a nerd way to say submit.”

He growls, frustrated and turned on. Does he have a problem with that? Maybe he does, and he’s disciplining me with some very intense kisses, and I am way into it.

His body feels strong and warm, and touching him is everything I dreamed about and longed for all those years. It’s everything I imagined.

Maybe his secret reasons are some way of helping me—that’s the thought my libido is having now.And surely he doesn’t think I’m unruly and reckless and all that!

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