Page 63 of Adonis: The Cost of a Billionaire's Heart
I spun her gently before bringing her back into my arms. “I was thinking we should frame it. The original contract. Hang it somewhere to remind us.”
“Remind us of what? How desperate, stubborn, and scared we both were?”
“No,” I corrected her. “How sometimes the best things start for all the wrong reasons.”
Across the dance floor, her son—our son—danced wildly with Mrs. Wilson, showing off his moves that would probably mortify him when he looked back on this as a teenager.
“He’s excited to call you Dad,” she informed me suddenly. “He asked me if it was okay.”
Something caught in my throat. “What did you tell him?”
She smiled up at me. “That he should ask you himself. He’s saving it. Says it’s going to be your wedding present.”
I blinked back unexpected tears, unsure of where all the extra emotion had come from. It seemed like I’d become moresentimental after deciding to take on the role of a full-time father. “Pretty sure that tops the G-Wagon I got you.”
I’d never been into love songs. So, to show her how I felt about her, I flooded her out with new diamonds and a ride. As my wife, Simora could have whatever she wanted in addition to my heart and my loyalty. I wanted to spoil her with carats until she wanted to change her name to Lola Bunny.
She giggled. It was the sound I’d grown to need like air. “Only slightly.”
The music changed to a line dance, and our handful of guests all headed to the dance floor. Mason found his way through the crowd and ran toward us.
“Dance with us, Dad!” he called out to me, reaching for my hand.
The word rang in my ears like the most beautiful music I’d ever heard. I scooped him up with one arm, keeping my other arm around my wife, and held my family close. For the first time in my life, there was no contract needed, no terms to negotiate, and no exit strategy in place.
Just love. Real, messy, magnificent love. And I wouldn’t have traded it for all the billions in the world.
We barely madeit through the front door before Adonis’s familiar hands were on me—firm, claiming, worshipping. The sound of the lock clicked behind us, and the world disappeared. It was just the two of us. No cameras. No guests watching. Just raw hunger and hours of pent-up need.
“You’ve been driving me fucking crazy all night,” Adonis growled into my ear as he pressed my back against the door. “Do you know what it did to me, seeing you walk toward me in that dress? Knowing I was going to be the one to rip it off you?”
My breath caught as his fingers trailed down my side, gripping the curve of my hips through the delicate fabric of my simple gown.
“Ruin it,” I whispered.
His pool of brown orbs darkened as a devilish smirk crept up one side of his lip. “You don’t get to ask me twice.”
He dropped to his knees on the marble floor of his bedroom as his large hands lifted the hem of my gown, inch by inch, revealing the silk garter, the lace-topped stockings, the damp white thong between my thighs.
He growled. “Fuck. You’re already dripping, and I haven’t even touched you.”
He leaned in, pressing his face into me, inhaling like he’d memorized the scent of me. Then he slid the lace aside and licked—slow and greedy—tongue dragging over my hairless folds, circling my clit in tight, devastating strokes.
I cried out, my hands flying to the back of his head, gripping his scalp as he devoured me.
“You like it when I eat my wife on her wedding night?” he murmured between strokes, his voice rough and smug. “Because I’m not stopping until you cream on my tongue.”
I gasped his name. “Adonis—p-please don’t fucking stop, baby,” I begged, hips rolling against his mouth.
He groaned into me like my begging was his favorite sound. He gripped my thighs tighter, opening me wider, flattening his tongue and lapping at me in long, wet strokes, then alternating with sharp flicks of his tongue right on my clit. His tongue was slippery against my sweet spot, like gliding against water. When he slid two fingers inside me, curling just right, siphoning command from my knees, he had me ready to tattoo his name all over my body.
I shattered with a scream, grinding against his beard as the orgasm sliced through me—hot, wild, and uncontrollable. But he didn’t let up.
“Again,” he commanded, sucking hard on my clit, his fingers still thrusting deep. “You can cum for me again.”
I did. Helpless and shaking, I cried out as wave after wave tore through me. By the time he stood, my legs were jelly, my dress was wrinkled and bunched, and I was panting like I’d just run a marathon.
He kissed me deeply, letting me taste myself on his lips. My pussy tasted like bubble gum.
