Page 7 of The Billionaire's Second Chance
“I am,” he murmured. “Thank you for noticing.”
I closed my eyes tight, gritting my teeth. “I’m not going to beg.”
His chuckle was hoarse. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Samantha,” he said. “But you told me that last time, you were…” The shallow movement was distracting, and the way he pulled away when I tried to work myself further onto him even more so. “You told me you weredisappointed.” His hand found my hip, pinning me down easily, and distantly, I regretted my jab at the wedding reception. No, Charlie hadn’t been disappointing. He’d been incredible, just as he was now, if only he’d give mewhat I fucking wanted…
“I wouldn’t want to disappoint you twice,” he whispered.
And then, in one fluid motion, he sheathed himself deep inside, and his mouth met mine, and I–I teetered on the precipice for a moment longer, just long enough to hear him whisper,“yes,Sami, come for me,” before my teeth bit into his bottom lip, my body arching under him and stars bursting behind my tightly-closed eyelids as I fell, and fell, and fell.
CHAPTER4
Samantha
My phone alarm went off,as it always did, at six in the morning, startling me from thebestsleep I’d had in months–
“Jesusfuck, turn thatoff.”
–and depositing me into theworstmorning. A muscular arm shoved past my shoulder, groping around on the hotel’s bedside table for my phone before I snatched it away, silencing the beep. I opened my email app on autopilot only to stare into my inbox blankly as the arm settled around my waist, and a gruff voice mumbled, “thanks,” into my hair.
Charlie Martin’sarm.
Charlie Martin’svoice.
What thehellhad I been thinking?
I squeezed my eyes shut tight, wondering if, maybe, it was all a dream.
That would explain how impossibly perfect last night had been–the way he’d felt inside me, the way he’d moved, the way he’d brought me to the edge again and again before finally, finally, tipping me over.
And then done it a second time.
And a third.
I pressed my lips together, too.
Yes. That parthadto be a dream.
It was the only explanation.
It did not, however, explain the soreness between my legs, the heat of his body against my bare back…
The insistent prodding of his–ahem–against my ass.
My legs clamped closed last of all, and I squirmed away, dragging the sheet with me, sitting up on the edge of the bed.
Oh my god.
I slept with Charlie Martin.
Again.
“Hey,” he groaned. His voice was rough with sleep. “‘S cold.”
“Then put your clothes on,” I said. I glanced over my shoulder, and immediately wished I hadn’t as my eyes caught on his tan chest. Just my luck that Charlie was the only man in Manhattan who didn’t have a beer belly evenfifteenyears out from his college lacrosse career. Worse, I knew those muscles weren’t just for show: the way he picked me up last night, had held me against the wall as if I weighed no more than a dry leaf, the way he’d… My eyes trailed lower, remembering.
“I wouldn’t dare deprive you of the view,” he said.
I whipped my head around, focussing instead on the tasteful art on the wall. How did he soundso annoyingeven half-asleep?
