Page 63 of How to Bang a Billionaire

“I wasn’t trying to…that is, I’m perfectly willing to—”

“No, no. We have an agreement. I didn’t know you were in a rush.” Fuck, I was a sexual drive-through. Did he want fries with me?

“Arden, I…”

Double, triple, quadruple fuck with a cherry on top. I was a sexual drive-through and he was reluctant. I shoved my laptop out of the way, bounced off the sofa, and made a run for the bedroom, ripping my T-shirt over my head as I went.

My trousers were a pimpin’ puddle on the floor by the time he caught up with me. I shivered, suddenly realizing that while being naked, goose-pimply, and semi-flaccid in front of a man in a three-piece suit was rife with kinky potential, in reality it was just embarrassing.

But we got to it anyway. Him still pretty much dressed, me bent over the bed, staring down at Hyde Park, the green trees, and the silver-gray river.

“Nice view.” Fuck, that was me.

And absolutely not the right thing to say when somebody was putting a cock in you.

I’d been resting on my forearms but now I dropped my shoulders to the bed, mainly to muffle my stupid mouth before it offered up any further observations. Something about the soft furnishings maybe.

At any rate, the movement changed the angle, forcing him deeper, the pressure and the pleasure pulling each other along like lovers on a summer’s day.

And, in spite of everything, that felt good.

Wow, what was wrong with me? I was nervous and awkward and feeling desperately unsexy but apparently all my body needed was a dick in a hole and a man on my back and it was ready to rumble.

I tried not to be a total whore about it but…nope. I was moaning helplessly as he fucked me into the mattress, his fingers digging into my hips, pinning me in place. The strokes of his cock inside me were unerring: stretching me open and shoving me inevitably toward orgasm.

Close, and closer, but…not…quite…close enough.

I worked a hand under my body, except then he landed a crisp slap right on my arse. It hurt but not really. More this hot sting that sent a sudden sizzle of increased awareness rippling through me and made me arch my spine hopefully in case he felt like doing it again.

Apparently, he didn’t.

No matter how enthusiastically I wiggled.

I’d always assumed that pain and pleasure were opposites. Opposites that could get interestingly muddled in the proper context. But the way the bright flash of his palm had cut through the dull, sweet ache of being about to come…it was more like two tastes that went great together. Like cream cheese and marmite. Salt and caramel.

Oh God. I really wanted him to hit me again.

And the thought felt outlandish even inside my own head.

Maybe if we’d been on the phone—that tantalizing mixture of closeness and distance and trust and hope—I’d have dared to ask. But things felt different now. Even more uncertain somehow. And the stakes were a lot higher. I honestly wasn’t entirely sure that he wouldn’t just call me a painted Jezebel and leave me there, unspanked and unfucked.

To say nothing of seriously embarrassed.

And that was when I formed the closest thing to a cunning plan I was capable of with another man’s dick pounding against my happy place and turning my brain to pre-orgasmic mush. It came down to a second, and even more theatrical, attempt to get at my cock.

This time he seized my hands and pulled them round to the small of my back, holding them there with my wrists forced together and trapped beneath his palm.

“Oh no you don’t,” he growled. “You come when I let you.”

If I’d had breath or focus, I’d have told him that getting all mean and bossy probably wasn’t going to be much of a hindrance to me coming. But, instead, I just gasped out, “Now would be nice.”

Of course, that made him stop. And I guess I’d known that it would.

He kept my hands where they were, sliding an arm around me from behind and tugging me back against his chest. It felt like falling except there was nowhere to fall and then he drove his cock so deep into me that all I could manage was a hitchy little whimper, caught on the tender edge of pain.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re suffering.” Caspian’s breath was hot and unsteady against the side of my neck. “So responsive.”

“And you’re s-so…”

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