Page 66 of Marrying the Billionaire Single Dad
"Let me go." I strain in his hold and he plants his big palm around the nape of my neck to hold me captive. I am instantly wet.
Damn it, this shouldn’t be happening. He’s restraining me, he’s holding me back, and I am turned on? What kind of depraved stupidity is it, that I find his ability to rein me in so primitive…so…bloody hot?
No way, am I going to stand for it.
I turn my face into the skin exposed by the 'V' of the lapels of his shirt. I draw in a deep breath, fill my lungs with the musky, cinnamon-laced male essence of his. I lick at the warm skin; he freezes. I bury my teeth in his chest and he laughs. He fucking laughs. I glance up to find his eyes gleaming; color smears his cheeks.
"Shit, that turned you on, didn’t it?" I huff.
"Now you’re getting to know me better." He grins and his teeth glint against his tanned skin. My belly flutters. Why the hell does he come across as so irresistible, even as he’s preparing to take me apart bit by melting bit?
"No," I mumble.
"Yes." He nods. He applies enough pressure on my throat that I gasp.
"What…what are you doing?"
"Making sure that you understand my instructions, and PS, you’re welcome."
"For what?"
"For saving you from being bored to death in this terribly august gathering."
"It’s not August, you ass."
"You know what I mean," he pauses, "don’t you?"
"Of course, I do," I huff. "I can’t get over how archaic your prose is though, and I thought I was the only one who loved historicals."
"Hate historicals," he yawns, "but have a weakness for poetry. Comes with the territory. If it weren’t for my lyrics, I wouldn’t be here, after all, right?"
"Like I care."
"You should, for I hold your future in my hands."
"More like you need me, you bastard. It’s why you keep wrenching orgasms out of me, after all."
His features close. "What do you mean?"
"That for some reason you like to… No, youneedto, see me come. You have this strange compulsion to have me orgasm, to watch me fall apart under your ministrations. Makes me wonder if, in some strange way, it’s not fueling your writing."
He glares at me, then releases me so suddenly that I stumble.
"I was right, huh?" I blink. "You really do think that my orgasms help you what—break through your creative deadlock?"
His nostrils flare. "I am not discussing this with you here."
"Then where?"
"You did mention wanting to sculpt me." He scowls.
"I…did."
"So, let's go to your studio."
"I…uh, I don’t have one yet. I just flew in from Australia. haven’t had time to, uh, set one up…" I bite down on my lower lip. Shit, this sounds like an excuse, but it’s true. So why the hell does he narrow his gaze, look me up and down like he doesn’t believe a word that I’m saying?
He grabs my upper arm, "Come on." He stalks forward, hauling me behind him.
