Page 115 of How to Bang a Billionaire

“Arden,” he whispered. “My Arden.”

He brushed the back of my neck. I didn’t even know I was sensitive there but I half thought I could feel the whorls in his fingertips. Sensation spilled over my skin like a river breaking its banks, pretty much dissolving me into squirms and whimpers.

“Please, oh please.”

I hardly knew what I was begging for. But Caspian did, sitting up and gathering me into his lap, before covering my mouth with his.

Such a good kiss: hot and velvety and very thorough. The need was an inferno inside me but—for once—I didn’t snatch at pleasure. I let him give it to me. Let it slip inside me with the press and slide of his tongue. A slick, subtle invasion that I welcomed.

I tried to keep my eyes open. A slightly creepy habit, for sure, but I wanted to see him and all his wolfish intensity dissolving into mutual bliss. It didn’t work out. His tongue curled against mine and my eyes closed of their own accord, sweeping me into a warm, dark intimacy.

He didn’t take control from me. I gave it to him. Abandoning myself to his tongue deep inside me and his lips against mine. This gentle dominion. Flayed with the softest of caresses. It was so frightening and wonderful and perfect that I moaned. A muffled, undignified, needy sound.

He drew back, breathing harshly, his mouth still shining from my kisses. “God, Arden. The way you yield.”

In the haziness of his eyes I caught the echo of my own unraveling. And…yeah…I was dazedly proud of it. Whatever Caspian Hart did to me, I could do to him right back, and he wasn’t hiding from it anymore.

He ran the pad of his thumb over my lips and I parted for him instinctively. I was definitely game for some sexy digit-sucking action, impatient for the taste of skin, but he didn’t press inside. Just stroked me gently for a second or two, riding the crest of my gasp.

I stared at him, aroused and trembling and suddenly full of unquiet questions I wasn’t sure how to articulate. And then I just blurted them out anyway. Because that was how I rolled. “Why do you never let me touch you?”

His body tensed against mine. But he did answer me. And so simply it was kind of devastating. “I don’t like being touched.”

“You…what. Not ever?” A thousand horrible possibilities flashed through my head. “Did someone…did they hurt you?”

A small, unreadable pause.

“No,” he said. “Nobody hurt me.”

“But how can you not like being touched?” It was probably my favorite thing in the universe. And not just the sexy side of it: being stroked and snuggled and petted and fussed. All of that good stuff.

“I prefer to be in control of what I feel.”

“I wouldn’t make you feel anything bad.”

“That’s not what matters to me.” He settled us back against the pillows, but he kept an arm around me, which I was glad about. “Besides, you know my tastes run exclusively to dominant.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t have to be about who does what. It’s about how it’s done.”

He let out a faint sigh. “I need to know what my body experiences is mine, which is easier to manage when I take my pleasure. And I realize this probably sounds a little strange to you.”

“Actually, it sounds horrible.”

“It’s just the way I am.”

I lay there for a moment or two, feeling both cuddled and twitchy, which was weird. “Does this mean you’re never going to let me…do anything?”

“Define anything.”

“Hold you. Kiss you. Stroke you. Fuck you.”

“If, by the latter, you mean penetrate me, then no. I don’t enjoy it.” While he didn’t recoil in horror, fling me aside, and vanish into the night, never to darken Kinlochbervie again…he did look out the window in a manner that suggested he really wanted to. “As for the rest, didn’t you spend at least an hour this afternoon assuring me of the compatibilities of our natures?”

“We are compatible. But just because I’m largely indifferent on the matter of who puts what where and well up for submitting to you doesn’t mean I don’t want to participate.”

“I love the way you respond. Isn’t that participating?”

“Yes, but”—I could feel my mouth doing sulky, pouty things—“being with you and not being able to touch you is like working in a sweetshop and not being allowed to eat any sweets.”

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