Page 74 of Protection (Mobsters + Billionaires 2)
“I was so irresponsible in Vienna,” he says, kissing my temple, my forehead, my nose, my chin. “If you want to use condoms, we can.”
I shake my head. “I loved it. And I was being irresponsible right there with you. I don't want anything between us. Ever.”
He's holding me, swaying side to side to a tempo only he knows. “Then let’s take off the rest of these clothes,” he purrs, his stern voice turning to velvet for me.
We step back from each other, and instead of a frantic scramble to rip off our clothes, we take our time. Slowly unbuttoning things, letting them slide from our bodies before starting on the next article of clothing. The precision of his movement is an undeniable turn-on and speaks to his control in all things.
Before I can even hope to feel insecure, the heat and interest in his eyes as they scan my body make me realize he genuinely likes what he sees. The nothing chest, the skinny arms and legs, the entire lack of a six-pack. The way my lower back bows a little bit and my legs have a funny splay to them.
He takes my hand, kissing the palm. “I like your skin.”
“Yeah, that’s not creepy.”
He ignores me, caressing more skin with his lips. “And your hands are always so soft.”
I smile, embarrassed.
“What's this look?” he asks, kissing each of my knuckles. “I only said that your skin was soft.”
Rolling my eyes, I confess, “My skin is soft because I use a bespoke oil. I buy it special from one of those high-end apothecary-type places.”
Enjoying my discomfort a little too much, he teases, “Oh, so are you saying that Mr. Jeans and a T-shirt Eat the Rich Billionaire uses stupidly expensive oil to keep his skin pretty?” He cups my face, inhaling me. “Is that why you always smell so good?”
I lower my head and rest it on his chest, hiding my smile against his strong muscles. “Yes. The scent is proprietary too,” I admit, my cheeks heating.
“Mads.” He taps under my chin, making me look up at him. “You're allowed to have luxuries. You're not allowed to enslave people in order to obtain those luxuries.”
I make a big show of wiping off my forehead. “Who knew that being an ethical socio-capitalist would get me laid?”
Anthony, always so intense, somehow becomes even more so. “This is more than just getting laid.”
“Yeah, I’m picking up on that fact,” I say, stroking the divot at the base of his throat with my fingertips. “No one’s ever made love to me like you do.”
Growling, he pulls me into another fierce kiss, pushing me back toward the bed until my ass hits the mattress. Crawling back from him, desire spreads out along my cock and thighs as he keeps pace with me, lying on top of me when my body is fully on the bed. We kiss and writhe against one another like it’s the last thing we’ll do.
I briefly think about the times I've been in bed with a man trying to impress me. It's a sweet notion, of course…as long as they had good intentions. Often, they didn't, and either way, it all started to feel like a performance I was obligated to compliment and enjoy.
Whether or not I actually did, in fact, enjoy it was immaterial.
The memory is brief because Anthony is unscripted in every way imaginable. His loyalty to his friends is unparalleled, his moral compass unassailable, but it feels like all of this self-control, all of these rules he follows, create a pressured environment. I suppose some people reduce that pressure by shrinking to fit their environments, but not Anthony.
He embodies his intensity, embodies the pressure, and for me to be one of the few people to slip beneath that armor, I'm in awe.
It’s easy to simply let him overwhelm me with his presence and forget that I exist, but I don't think that's what he wants of me. And while I've been enjoying his deep kisses, loving the way he’s taking charge, I want in on the action.
Fervently kissing him back, I let my hands roam wherever they can reach, mapping out his body.
We pause for a second to breathe, and I touch my forehead to his. “Hey,” I pant.
He opens his eyes. So pretty. “Hey.”
“Wanted to say that I like you. A lot.”
“Me too,” he answers, letting me see his dimple. “Question: is it safe to use your oil everywhere?”
I grin. “It is.”
“Good. Let’s remember that for next time,” he says, grabbing a bottle of lube from his nightstand drawer.
