Page 77 of Seduced by Her Billionaire Fake Fiancé

“Yeah. He would.” When Jack had cheated, Dante was the only person outside her family she’d told. And despite having employed her most matter-of-fact tone of voice, Dante had seen past it, had understood her grief. He was protective of her, and Marco was most definitely the kind of big bad wolf he’d tell her to avoid like the plague.

“So it’s our secret,” he grinned.

If anything, that only made this hotter. She nodded quickly, parting her legs; his eyes dipped to her sex, clung there, so her whole body seemed to burn up, but then his hands were holding her where she was, his fingers digging into her hips as he drove into her, and she sobbed, because it was so perfect, so utterly masterful, so completely unlike anything she’d ever known. Sex had always been kind of basic for Portia. One thing led to another and another, and it was nice, and pleasant, and she knew it was somehow, supposedly, important, so it had made her feelcloserto Jack, except it was nothing like this wild, animalistic sense of total abandon. This was overwhelming, a total grand slam of emotion and feeling all turning her brain into psychedelic mush so she couldn’t think or speak or do anything but ride the wave of sensation and feeling and admit absolute defeat in the face of its brilliance. And she didn’t even care. Portia Mason, who’d always been a bit of a control freak, was sublimely content to surrender all control to Marco, for just as long as he kept making her feel like this.

Marco didn’t stopto think. Hell, he was pretty sure he was more than half-drunk, having only gone to bed thirty minutes or so before Portia’s arrival, but nothing sobered him up quicker than the prospect of sex, and sex with his brother’s tantalizingly uptight, off-limits assistant was definitely something he’d fantasized about enough times to make the reality impossible to say no to.

Still, even in his wildest fantasies, he hadn’t conjured up anything like this.

She blew his mind.

She was so responsive, so beautiful, so loud, so passionate, so shocked by what she was feeling, so genuinely delighted in the pleasure he was giving her that Marco was addicted to just watching her face as she fell apart, studying her features as she cried out his name, wanting to hear more and more of her, wanting her to never stop.

Her muscles tightened around him almost painfully, spasming, her release sharp and swift, so he stilled, watched her, waited for her to ride the wave and come slowly back to the shoreline of normality before he moved again, this time allowing himself to be caught on the wave with her, his hands roaming her body, feeling every inch, flicking her, squeezing, committing to memory as his movements grew more frantic and her legs wrapped around his waist and pulled him deeper and he plunged as far into her as he could, stayed there, holding her hips, releasing a guttural cry of his own as her muscles tightened again; and this time, they came together, loudly, a combination of breaths, cries, the sound of skin meeting, slapping, the air heavy with their passion and release, the world spinning so fast, gravity seemed to take on a different quality.

And then it slowed down.

Right down.

Things gradually shifted back to normal.

Portia’s breathing slowed.

Marco watched her, waiting for the moment of panic. Of regret.

Because surely shewouldregret this.

Portia Mason was not someone Marco knew well. She was his brother’s sentinel, the guard to his business sanctuary, stationed outside his office, she let only those she deemed acceptable past. An appointment was absolutely necessary. She sat in on meetings to take any notes Dante needed, but never revealed a hint of feeling, a shadow of her own opinion. She was immaculate, always.

So surely she would push him away any moment, tell him this had been a mistake, remind him not to mention it. And she’d be right.

Marco had definitely let the however-many-beers he’d had the night before and into the morning call a few of the shots here. No matter how fascinating he found her untouchability, if he’d been stone cold sober, he would never have acted on it.

He braced his palms on either side of her head, watching, waiting.

Her slow, steady smile was the last thing he expected.

“That was…really good.”

As far as praise went, it was pretty average, yet his chest swelled and something like pleasure spun low in his gut. It wasn’t what she’d said, but how she’d said it, with her whole body, the words breathed out from deep in her belly.

“I’m glad you approve.” His words emerged as a rumble.

“That’s not what I said.” And there it was. The hint of worry in the depths of her eyes.

Regret?

Portia lifted a hand, pressing it to his chest. “I need to get back to the office.”

He knew better than to suggest she stay. Portia wasn’t an heiress with all the time in the world to waste in Marco’s bed. She wasn’t a model, an out of work actress or a wealthy interior designer floating around between jobs. She worked her ass off for Dante, and no doubt Marco’s imperious brother was already sweating on her return.

He pulled away from her, turning his back and striding to the kitchen to dispose of his condom. By the time he’d returned, she’d pulled on her underpants and bra. Naked, she’d been breathtaking, but seeing her like this, in only her underwear, made his stomach loop uncomfortably.

He reclined against the door frame with the appearance of lazy indolence, watching as she dressed, even when her cheeks turned bright pink and she sent him a barbed look.

“You have two pages left to sign,” she murmured, cool as a cucumber once more, flicking the papers and indicating where he needed to add his name.

“So I do.” He strolled towards, taking the pen and adding his scrawl to the first page, then flicking over a few and signing once more.

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