Beauty and the Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club #2)(65)

“Oh! Just like that!”

She was bossy in bed, his Gretchen. He loved that. Harder and harder, he pounded into her, enjoying her little cries with every thrust. Her eyes were closed tight and she clung to him so hard that her nails dug into his shoulders. And she was making deep, quivering motions with every rough thrust he made.

And he loved it.

A painting fell off the nearby wall. He didn’t give a shit. He thrust harder, each movement rocking her up the delicate floral wallpaper and bouncing her back down on his cock.

“Hunter,” she cried.

“I’m here,” he told her, his mouth swooping in to capture hers in a rough kiss. “I’ve got you.” Her cries were loud and wild, and it drove him f**king mad with pleasure. He ground his h*ps into her, his c*ck buried inside that perfect warmth.

She screamed against his mouth, and he felt her go over the edge, felt that flutter of muscle deep inside her, and then she clenched all around him, milking him with her body.

He bit out a curse, so close to the edge himself, his thrusts becoming rougher. She continued to whimper his name, the body shivers continuing on and on. And then he was coming, too, his own orgasm unleashing with a wild groan. He thrust into her again and then stiffened, remaining there as he went over the edge with her.

Gradually, awareness returned and he realized he still had her pinned against the wall, her legs around his hips, her heavy panting in his ear. Hunter shifted, pulling out of her and letting her slide to the ground.

She clung to him, her knees wobbly. He thought she would say something clever, something bold. Something uniquely Gretchen.

But she only wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his skin, as if she needed to be held.

And he was all too happy to comply.

***

They spent the rest of the day in bed, leisurely exploring each other’s bodies. They chatted for hours about the house, her projects, and about his work. She’d been under the impression that he didn’t leave the house to work but it turned out that he did, just not often. He had several real estate companies where he owned and leased enormous amounts of land and buildings. He might not oversee every sale, but he was involved in multiple projects at once.

Her own confessions about her job had surprised him. He’d had no idea that she’d had such an intense dislike for writing. He thought she did it because she loved it. But whenever Gretchen mentioned writing, there was a cagey, unhappy look in her eyes, as if she felt . . . trapped.

And here he’d thought he’d make her happy by making her a bestseller. But she hadn’t even brought it up. Perhaps it meant nothing to her. He’d have to think of another way to make her melt.

It seemed he existed solely for Gretchen’s teasing smiles.

***

A few days later

“We could have had this catered,” Hunter said, reaching to steal a piece of bruschetta from the hors d’oeuvres table.

She smacked his hand and arranged the remaining appetizers to hide the fact that he’d stolen one. “How many times do I have to tell you? I like cooking. Besides, this is only ten additional people. I can handle that.”

Tonight was the night of the small dinner party that she’d wheedled out of Hunter. It was a mixer of close friends and her editor and agent. At first, she’d wanted to do it to show the house off a little and get her editor excited about the project.

Now she was hoping that with a few bottles of wine in her editor, she’d be able to get an extension.

She’d made a feast for their guests—delicate pastries, savory appetizers, and a light salad. For the main course, she’d gone with an easy favorite—pasta—and had made a few different things for dessert to show off her skills. The entire day had been spent in kitchen-bliss, as she’d worked on one dish after another.

Why she couldn’t transfer some of that happy peace to her writing, she didn’t know. She hadn’t worked on her manuscript notes ever since she’d lost her file. Part of her kept hoping that she’d hear that they were able to recover the data.

Part of her was just really, really mentally done with the entire thing.

So she’d taken a few days off. She’d baked delicious treats for the cleaning staff, who were delighted at her efforts. She’d reorganized the kitchen and tested out new recipes. She’d made scrumptious dinners for Hunter and even baked cookies for Eldon. She didn’t write a lick. When she wasn’t puttering in the kitchen, she spent her time with Hunter, watching movies in his personal screening room, working out together, or learning the basics of how to cultivate roses.

This week, she was happier than she’d been in a long time. She should have been miserable, but being around Hunter soothed that part of her. He made it okay.

And he didn’t mind that she might have to spend a few more weeks at his house.

It didn’t fix the issue with her apartment, of course. Audrey had called her and had forwarded the rent money to her account so her check would clear, but next month’s rent was coming up fast and she still had no plans. Nor had the check for the new project arrived.

She was f**ked. And she didn’t care. Which was weird.

Tonight’s party would either make things worse or better she thought as she surveyed the dining room. Buchanan Manor had a formal dining room with dual crystal chandeliers, wood paneling, and pastoral paintings that she was pretty sure cost a small fortune. It boasted a long, narrow table that could seat twenty and looked like something out of an old-fashioned movie. Soft classical music was piped in through the house’s speaker system. Fresh roses from Hunter’s greenhouse adorned the table.