Page 23 of How to Bang a Billionaire

Um.

Wow.

It looked like marble in the moonlight and it was beautiful, sculpted almost, a cock that Rodin would have dreamed up. I’d seen my fair share of knob in my life—I’m sure some would say more than my fair share—but this was cream of the crop. Platonic ideal. Sizeable and proportional and tantalizing with a graceful curve to it. It made my stomach knot with yearning, empty places waking up inside me, aching for him to fill them and take possession of me.

I leaned forward and licked all the way up the underside of the shaft.

He tasted good. Heat and salt and skin. And, at the top like a prize, a glistening drop of pure desire. It zinged on my tongue. For me.

Caspian gasped. Such a rough sound, a little bit grudging, as though he’d tried to keep it trapped in his throat.

I pressed in closer, wanting more—more of his sounds, more of his pleasure, more of everything—and slid my hands up his thighs. The muscles drew tight under my palms. He was so unexpectedly responsive, this cold man, so very full of hidden fires.

But then he seized my wrists again—one in each hand, this time—and pulled me away. At first I thought he intended to stop me (and, of course, I would have stopped) but he just trapped me there, kneeling at his feet with my arms outstretched in this pose of peculiar surrender—a little bit crucified, a little bit “don’t shoot me.”

I’d been pretty much making a beeline for his cock, but I felt odd without my hands. Exposed. Also—as much as I hated to admit it—I was a trifle lazy in the gamahuching department. Well, maybe not lazy, because I was certainly enthusiastic about it, but I usually cheated a bit. The ol’ hand round the base technique.

And I know it made me something of a failgay but I was scared of deep throating. Scared in a good way in principle, but in practice…well, it didn’t tend to quite work out. There’d be moments of rough hands and breathlessness that would flush me with hectic heat—leaving me feeling helpless, feeling thrillingly used. But then all that promise of something dark and sweet and dirty would be lost in worrying I was about to throw up on some guy’s dick. And, just like when I was a teenager, going on fairground rides that scared me to stop my mates calling me a sissy, I’d be left feeling sick and hurt, asking myself, Why are you doing this? What are you getting out of it? What are you supposed to get out of it?

But then I’d never wanted anyone the way I wanted Caspian Hart.

And I trusted him. As he had trusted me.

I let him keep my hands, fingers curling as I yielded to his grip. And, with less finesse than I might have hoped, I opened my mouth over the head of his cock, pulling it clumsily inside like a stick of Blackpool rock.

Only, y’know, thicker and harder and hotter and oh God. Oh God.

Caspian Hart’s cock. In me. Well, about half in me. Enough to flood me with the taste of him: salty, masculine, and clean. So exciting, the intimacy of that, along with the heat of palms, pressing into me like shackles. I angled myself, trying to take more of him, feeling him stretch my lips and rub against the interior spaces of my mouth. He wasn’t pushing, but it wasn’t hard—um, difficult—to imagine what it would be like if…when…he did. How powerless I would be. At his feet, with my hands in his, my body given over to his will and the violence of his passion.

Surrendering to it. And inciting it.

The thought made me fluttery. Sensation and expectation and anticipation knotting into a quiver-inducing tangle. Making me moan in this needy, greedy, cock-muffled way.

His fingers tightened in response. It hurt, but I’d never minded a little pain, if it was done right. And, just now, it was so right, melding with the aches in my knees and my jaw and—frankly—my dick until I was music. Everything I felt, pain and pleasure and lust and submission, conducted by him.

I was starting to wish I’d been less wussy with my other partners. Because I wanted to make him feel right back. Come apart because of me and for me. Safe with me.

Maybe if I did a lot of tongue and lip work it would be enough.

I got to it. With gusto.

Whatever my concerns about letting relative strangers block off my airway, I’d always enjoyed giving head. But with him, with Caspian Hart, it was…God. I felt like a Cosmo guide to oral sex: worshipping my (well…a) man.

With a cock like that, it would have been impossible not to worship. It was practically fashioned for it. And worship I did. In long, deep pulls, my lips locked as tight around him as his hands on me, dragging up and down that spit-slick, velvety flesh. I lapped up the fluid that gathered at the head and tongued at the underside, where I could taste the heat and the pulsing of the veins.

I pulled out every trick I knew to please him. His every bitten-back sound made my heart jump, my pulse fly, my cock drip. And, when I dared, I squinted up through the hazy moonlight so I could watch him. Caspian Hart, head thrown back, every muscle taut, eyes closed, mouth open, sweat gleaming on his brow, a little bit unraveled, a little bit mine.

More gorgeous than ever.

I was starting to hurt for real now—my knees especially—but I would have sucked him until my jaw fell off if he’d wanted. It was just unbelievably good to be able to do this to him. To feel the shudders running through him, hear his ragged breath, his soft groans. To feel exposed and controlled and strong at the same time.

But then he released my wrists and I’d grown so accustomed to him holding them, and to the pull in my shoulders, that it felt like loss. Left me more unbalanced than when he’d first taken them and unexpectedly vulnerable, when surely it should have been the other way around. I nearly reached for him again, but then I remembered how he’d reacted when I’d touched him before. Instead, I pressed my palms to my thighs and kept them there.

It probably looked a bit odd—a supplicant engaged at profane prayer—but he muttered something. I was too dazed, really, to make sense of the words, but I remembered them later. Remembered them, obsessed over them, didn’t quite believe them.

What he said, or what I thought he said was, God you’re stunning.

His fingers curled into my hair, sending a delicious shiver through my skull, into the nape of my neck and down my spine.

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