Page 86 of The Grumpy Billionaire

I turn my head, taking in the fresh scent of his sheets and the quality feel of them on my cheek as he kisses down my belly. They’re probably some of the best sheets on the market—not a luxury brand with a big name, but a quiet top-shelf brand. Hugo is the ultimate substance-over-style man.

He kisses down my thigh.

It’s nice to be in his room surrounded by things that he chose for himself. And even though I can’t see his bedroom, I’d bet that it’s both attractive yet highly practical, probably designed to reflect the latest sleep environment science. Hugo is also a practicality-and-science-over-trends man.

He trails his hand down the front of the lace…lovingly. “God, you’re hot. So, so, so hot.”

I shove my hands into his hair, enjoying the feel of him, though it’s driving me a little bit bonkers that I can’t see his décor. I’d at least like to know what he has on his walls. After entertaining a few options, I decide that it would be photographs of math things—don’t guys like him geek out on seashells for Fibonacci reasons? Or maybe a photo of a stairway or a bridge that is attractive to him on the basis of geometry.

He’s pushing the sheath up over my hips. He shoves apart my legs. I groan as warm breath heats my sex. Yezzzzzzz!

Teeth graze over my tender bits, and I nearly explode with excitement.

“Fuck!” I say.

Massive hands grip my thighs as if there’s a need to hold my legs spread. As if I might try to wiggle away, which, for the record, I would not do, but I like that he’s gripping me there like I’m his sexy blindfolded prisoner.

I gasp as rough whiskers graze my tender lady bits, and then he takes a big lick, and I nearly die from an overload of pleasure. And then he’s doing wicked tongue things.

I reach up with one hand and grope the headboard, pleased to find it’s made of squarish wooden bars, like mission furniture. Having created furniture ads at the beginning of my career, I happen to know that mission furniture is prized for its strong, straightforward pieces where even the joinery is visible—as opposed to being ornately disguised, like it would’ve been in the Victorian era that preceded it.

It pleases me to no end that Hugo goes for mission furnishings. And naturally the tie-Stella-up possibilities haven’t escaped my mind.

He hoists my thighs up on his shoulders, licking ferociously.

With my other hand I grip his hair, whimpering with pleasure from the wicked things he is doing with his tongue.

But then I’m back to the walls.

I’m now thinking that mathematically significant photos are too obvious for Hugo.

I could see him going for off-brand, like photos of old-timey piano players. Or sailboats. Or maybe he’s put up heavily textured woven things for a hushed feeling. Or would he be displaying his glass orb collection? Or nerd things? He and my brother wereStar Trekguys. I’m suddenly imagining a life-sized replica of Captain Kirk. Or maybe the USS Enterprise.

“Hey!” He settles my hips back down onto the bed and crawls up over me. “Where’d you go?”

“I’m here!” I insist, because this is a sex-only liaison where we’re not supposed to be digging into the details of each other’s lives.

I instruct my inquiring mind to think only of his sexy body. I fumble around and find his shirt buttons, open the buttons, and press my palms to the solid plane of his chest, exploring the contours of his muscles.

“Mmm.”

Down, down, down I slide my hand, down under his waistband and down under his underwear, grasping his rock-hard cock.

He rumbles his approval, but mostly he’s kissing my lace-covered self in a worshipful way like I’m the lost treasure of Camelot.

Where did primal Hugo go?

Gentle, sweet kisses. “So…fucking…beautiful. And this thing on you…”

“Just as a reminder, you said to wear something I don’t care about, and I did.”

“So hot.”

“So if you needed to rip it off…”

“It looks nice.”

“Nice to rip.”

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