Page 55 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife
I rear up from the table, and he hooks his fingers inside of me again. Sensations shudder up my spine, my toes curl, and my fingers tingle. My scalp feels as if it's on fire. Oh, no, no.
I am not coming again for this jackass, not when he has no respect—like negative two hundred and fifty regard or feelings of any kind for me—and not when he’s holding a conversation with someone else on the phone. The hair on my forearms prickles; my nipples pebble. No way, and I’m turned on? My sex clenches. Jesus, I can’t be turned on. My bullshit barometer didn’t spontaneously combust just now, did it?
He yanks out his fingers, leans in close enough for his breath to raise the hair on my forehead.
"Those projections are way off. No way am I paying 50% more for a brand that is clearly on the decline."
The voice on the phone squawks back something that I can’t discern.
And he’s mouthing off figures while jerking me off? Color flushes his cheeks; his nostrils flares. The bastard’s enjoying himself immensely. It has to be the ultimate show of superiority, a fuck you to the world, that he can do whatever the hell he wants and will never be punished. I clench my fingers into fists. I will be his downfall. I swear it upon all that I hold dear, I will have my revenge for this utter compliance that he’s wrought from me today—he thrusts his fingers inside of me again and the trembling zooms up my thighs—right after this unholiest of all orgasms that threatens to overwhelm me. A moan spills from my lips.
The voice on the other side of the phone falls silent. Then, "Sinclair, are you with someone?"
"Of course not, there’s no one in the room with me."
No one?
Hey, I am more than the sum of all the people you’ve ever met, asshole.I open my mouth to tell him.
His gaze narrows, his chest heaves, he drops his head and closes his mouth over mine.
