Page 39 of The Kiss that Captured a Billionaire
The elevator ride to the penthouse was done in silence. He flexed his fingers, anticipation thrumming inside him. He didn’t touch her—he couldn’t—but he felt her presence like heat against his skin: the faint scent of her hair, the subtle rise and fall of her breath, the awareness coiled in the air between them like static before a storm.
When the doors slid open to reveal the skyline, she released a soft gasp. The Manhattan lights stretched endlessly in every direction, glittering like a thousand tiny stars.
The penthouse was sleek and masculine—steel, charcoal, glass—but softened by art and warm lighting. A castle built by a man who could have anything money could buy.
“My chef has prepared dinner,” he told her, gesturing toward the table set for two near the terrace doors. “We can eat inside, or outside if it’s not too cold.”
“You have a personal chef?” she asked with a faint smile, her gaze roaming the room.
“Yes,” he said, but her attention wasn’t on the table anymore—it was on him.
He was about to offer to take her wrap when she moved. Her hands slid over his chest, up to his shoulders, before looping behind his neck. Her lips were on his in the next breath—hot, urgent, unguarded.
“Rose…” he murmured into her mouth. “Oh, my sweet Rose.”
Desire roared through him, drowning every rational thought. He kissed her back, deepening the kiss until his head spun.
“What about—” he tried, breathless, “—dinner?”
“Later,” she whispered against his lips.
Her fingers tugged at his jacket until it slid from his shoulders and fell to the floor. He groaned, reaching for the soft shawl around her. It slipped away like mist, revealing the curve of her shoulders and the way the dress hugged her every line.
“Is anyone else here?” she asked, her voice husky.
He shook his head. “No. Just us.”
“Good.”
She kicked off her heels, barefoot in his penthouse—like she’d always belonged there.
God, she’s killing me.
Her kiss slowed, becoming exploratory, her fingertips tracing the bare skin of his chest where she’d already undone most ofthe buttons of his shirt. She was touching him as if she wanted to memorize him.
He let her, his hands moving over her hips, then lower to the small of her back, anchoring her against him. She arched into him, her body molding to his until every inch of him ached.
“Is it… always like this?” she asked softly.
The question cut through the haze. He stilled, drawing back enough to meet her eyes.
“What do you mean?”
Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t look away. “I mean… I’ve never…”
Understanding hit hard. “You’ve never been with anyone?”
She leaned in and kissed him, her lips brushing his as she murmured, “If I had, I wouldn’t be asking.”
The words lit something deep inside him—not just desire, but an overwhelming need to honor the trust she was giving him.
He groaned and kissed her again, fiercer this time, then swept her into his arms. She gasped and clung to him, her cheek against his shoulder.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured.
“I know,” she whispered.
He carried her down the hall to his bedroom, the city lights spilling across the floor-to-ceiling windows. The soft amber glow of the recessed lights bathed her in gold.
