Page 14 of Tempted to the Billionaire's Bed

He removed the condom, tied it off and tossed it across the bathroom, landing it perfectly—of course—in the rubbish basket before turning back to her, his hand rubbing over his length once more before he squirted some body wash into the palm of his hand and turned his attention to her breasts.

She stood right where she was, staring at him, heart in her throat, as he lathered her body bit by bit, teasing her, tormenting her already over-sensitive nerves so it didn’t much matter that she’d just come, she was overwhelmed by needs again, shocked by his ability to stir her to fever pitch with just a simple touch.

“Turn around,” he commanded, his voice gruff.

Slowly, swallowing, she did just that, spinning to face the tiled wall, eyes chasing the lines of grout as his hands lifted to her shoulders and began to rub her there, slippery from the soap. He massaged her tired, tense muscles, muscles she hadn’t even realized were aching, his fingers digging into her flesh with just the right pressure so she felt a whole new kind of pleasure now. He pressed his body forward, his cock against her bottom, already stirring to hardness again, so she gasped, wriggled her hips, the silent invitation unmistakable.

He growled, a noise from low in his throat, continued to massage her, but his knee separated her legs, and she stepped backwards, so she was presenting her rear to him, inviting him, needing him all over again. His mouth moved to take over from his hand, kissing the back of her neck as his hands roamed lower, one coming around in front of her, twisting her nipples, while the other stroked her side then moved lower, to her seam, teasing it until her found her feminine bud and brushed it, so she whimpered low in her throat at the sensations he was evoking. His arousal was buried between her bottom cheeks now, his fingers at her sex, her breasts aching from his ministrations and yet she wanted more. She writhed against him, trapped and oh so willing to be his prisoner. He moved his length slowly, up and down, and all she could do was rock her hips, silently begging for him again.

His hand moved faster, more urgently, and her hips picked up a similar motion, rolling, rocking, needing him, but all she could feel was the pressure behind her, his strength and hardness right there, his hands playing her like a musical instrument, her insides clenching hard as she caught another wave of delight, rode it, hard, and then she was crying out, face pressed against the tiles, whole body jerking and spasming with her release, the explosion filling her eyes with stars, but he hadn’t entered her this time. He’d simply commanded her with his hands, stirred her so easily, so she was almost ashamed even as she was overcome by how much she liked this, how unusual it was to have someone look afterherneeds.

She was mortified to reflect on how infrequently she’d reach satisfaction with Jack. It did neither of them any credit—she should have spoken up and said something, but she hadn’t known how to address their inadequacies without insulting his ego, so she’d stayed quiet.

With Marco, she couldn’t have offered a single piece of criticism if she tried and tried and tried to come up with one.

She was in heaven.

She turned to face him, overawed by how beautiful he was, all the time, but especially now, his cheeks slashed dark, his hair slicked back from his brow, his lashes clumped together and so dark around his eyes.

Empowered by what they’d shared and how much he obviously desired her, she let her fingers trail across his wet skin, chasing beads of liquid across his arms at first then lower, down his ridged abdomen, swirling the thatch of hair covering his nipples, then trailing down the centre of his chest to the hair that surrounded his impressive arousal. She hovered there, sucked in a breath, uncertain suddenly, her inexperience making her shy.

“Touch me,” he commanded, eyes on her, hooded, desperate. She bit down on her lower lip, moving one hand lower, to his base, curling her fingers around his length. A harsh breath hissed from between his teeth, followed abruptly by a curse.

She quickly dropped her hand. “No good?”

He blinked his eyes open. “Very, very good,” he corrected hoarsely.

“Oh.”

She hid a smile as she lifted her hand back, curling her fingers around him, pumping her hand slowly from his base to his tip, delighting in the way he groaned and swore, then stepped backwards, as if he needed the support of the tiles at his back, his legs braced wide.

“Holy shit, Portia,” he groaned.

Power grew, swirled, fascination spiked inside of her. She couldn’t stop looking at her hand, moving over his length, his hardness, the pearl at the tip of his arousal showing how close he was, and suddenly it wasn’t enough to touch, she wanted to taste, to know what he felt like in her mouth. It was something totally new to her, but that didn’t matter. Everything with Marco was somehow new, almost as if this was happening to someone else, in another galaxy or timeline or something. This wasn’t Business As Usual Portia and what happened here was allowed to be different to her normal life.

It was their secret.

All theirs.

She dropped slowly to her knees, blinking up at him through the rain-like cascade, and his hands moved to her head, pushing the water back from her brow then lingering there, as if holding her back, unsure what she was offering or if he’d submit to it.

“I want to taste you,” she said, simply, so he swore then, the word bit out low and dark, as if the confession tortured him on some level.

“Portia…”

“I need this,” she said honestly, and as soon as she said it, she knew it was true. This was all part of her exorcism, of wiping every part of her failed engagement from her mind and psyche, part of proving to herself that she’d moved on completely.

His hands stayed on her head but he no longer held her back, and as she moved to his length and wrapped her lips around his tip, she moaned, running her tongue over his head, swallowing, moving her mouth deeper, taking as much as she could to the back of her throat, sucking, rolling her tongue across him, then pulling back, eyes lifting to his and holding there each time she took him deep. She moved one of her hands back to his base, held it there, began to move it in time with her mouth, and the hands on her head held her a moment, before he dropped his hands to his side, cursed and she smiled, moving faster, combining her lips with her tongue, sucking, tasting, her hand pumping until he began to shake and then he moved his hips, as if he couldn’t help himself, pumping forward just once, thrusting and losing himself into her mouth, so she felt his essence and tasted it and he was then very still except for subtle wracking motions of his body as he rode the wave, surrendering to his own absolute loss of control.

For Portia, it was the opposite. She felt a rush of control and knew she’d never know a pleasure quite like this one.

She was exploding with euphoria; she’d never felt better.

She was not,by any stretch, the first woman to go down on him. It wasn’t a new phenomenon, and he’d always enjoyed it. Butthathad been different.

That had been…mind blowing.

He wasn’t sure if it was Portia or the two weeks of abstinence between their last time together and this, or if it was the unique blend of innocent vulnerability and blatant curiosity, but something about Portia lit up every piece of him, making him crave more of her, even when he’d just had his fill. Her mouth had been so warm and moist, her tongue so eager to taste and explore, hell, just thinking about itnowwas getting him hard again and he’d literally come ten minutes earlier.

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