Dirty Rogue: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance(45)
I didn’t need words to know what to do next.
I crossed the room, pulled him toward me, and kissed him hard enough to shake the pain loose from where it was stabbing through his heart.
He responded instantly, wrapping his powerful arms around my waist and pulling me in tight, so close to his body that my feet almost left the ground.
It wasn’t far from the den to the bed and once he’d carried me there, we attacked each other’s clothes until they were all piled in a rumpled heap on the floor.
He pushed me down onto my back on the bed and I arched up to meet him, locking my arms around his neck, kissing him even deeper, and then I shoved my weight upward and sideways, turning us over by sheer force of will.
I straddled him, bucking against his hardness, already slick, the wetness coating his skin.
“Jesus,” he said on an exhale, the heat of the word catching in the hollow of my shoulder.
I took that as a sign to press into him more forcefully, striking a rhythm, drawing my wetness over his shaft again and again until I felt his muscles clenching underneath me, his hips rising to meet mine with more intensity. Then, in one smooth movement, I lined myself up over his cock and drove my hips down toward his, taking him all in.
When our bodies slammed together, he heaved a guttural sound from behind clenched teeth that was half relief, half desperation. It unlocked something in me, pushing me over the edge to wildness, and I worked against him with a fury I had never before experienced in my life.
It took him by surprise. I could tell by the sharp breath he drew in, but it only took him seconds to parallel my pace and intensity, taking in everything I had to give him, hands pressed tightly on my hips to pull me down onto him even harder than I could manage by myself.
Next thing I know, he’s lifting me away from him, turning me, so that I’m on hands and knees, my palms pressed into the million-thread-count comforter beneath me. Christian positions himself behind me, lines the head of his cock up with my opening, and stops. I’m panting breathlessly.
It’s a cruel tease.
I buck my hips backward against him, trying to get him to sink inside me, but he resists. His hands are clenched on my hips, gripping tightly and steadily, like he wants to be in control.
I can give him that.
I press my breasts down against the comforter and arch my back, head down, ass up, hands clenching the comforter. “Fuck me.” I know he wants to hear it as much as I want to say it.
“Beg.”
His voice is hard, uncompromising, and the tone sends a new gush of wetness between my legs.
“Please!” I urge. “Please.”
He remains still for three more heartbeats and I clutch the comforter in my fists, willing myself to stay down, to stay still, because I can feel through his touch that he is loving this. Something about that man’s mistake at the fundraiser made him feel out of control—that much is clear—and though I can’t read his mind, I’d bet my life savings that this is exactly the remedy he needs.
Is that all this is? says the little voice in my head, but it’s struck down by the rest of my body, which is dying to have him inside me again.
This is who he is, the one behind all the barriers put up in public, behind all the social constrictions, behind closed doors.
With me and me alone.
It’s a great f*cking deal, if he would just—
At that moment he crashes into me with such a powerful thrust that it takes my breath away, crushes my chest into the bed, makes my * clench around Christian’s steely hardness. I’m moments away from climax, and I squeeze my eyes shut, gasp in a breath, and feel my body respond to him, going higher, higher, higher until I’m careening over, crying out into the mattress. Moments later I hear Christian’s answering roar as he pins me back against him and comes hard, his hips spasming even as he stays buried deep inside me.
We’re frozen in that position for a heartbeat, then two, and then he pulls out and falls forward onto the bed, maneuvering up to the pillows while he turns me over onto my side with one hand, his arm wrapped around my waist.
He doesn’t say anything.
It’s not long before his breathing steadies and slows.
I lay there next to him, feeling his chest rise and fall. The room darkens as the sun sets behind the buildings. My mind is too hyped up to sleep, too caught up in the electrifying encounter we just had.
When I can’t stand it any longer, I gently disengage his arm from my waist and slip out of bed. I don’t want to put on my outfit from the office—a sleeveless dress and a short-sleeved blazer—but I don’t have any other clothes with me, so my first stop is Christian’s walk-in closet. In one of the lower drawers, I find a pair of lounge pants and a plain t-shirt that smell like him. I throw it on, luxuriating in the softness of the cloth.
I don’t want to look at my phone in the dark room and risk waking him up, so I pad down the hall to his den, with its bookshelves and leather furniture. There’s a certain armchair I’m dying to sink into.
There’s a small table lamp in the corner that gives the room a really pleasing glow. I shut the door closed behind me. The armchair, tucked in the corner and surrounded by shelves full of first editions and other of Christian’s favorites, is both plushly soft and supportive. I curl up in it, tucking my legs underneath me in a comfortable and relaxing position, and sigh. Pure satisfaction.