The Last Eligible Billionaire(84)

“How many times have you disappeared to hide at events like this?” I whisper.

“All of the times.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I thought you wanted to sneak away and be alone with me and do something naughty but absolutely irresistible.”

He turns me against the back of a building, replies, “Bluebell, for the first time in my life, that’s exactly what I want to do,” and then he’s kissing me.

Everything that’s felt messy or awkward or off-kilter tonight fades away into the utter bliss that comes with his mouth on mine.

My own shoulders relax as my clit throbs and my breasts tighten. He grips my ass through my dress, and I curse the material for being so form-fitting.

Even if I wanted to rip the material and wrap my legs around him, I would’ve needed to be doing some kind of Amelia Shawcross workout to make it happen.

“Fuck, I needed this,” he says.

“Your crowd is hard.”

He tilts his hips against me, a rueful smile crossing his features in the dim light. “Not as hard as I am.”

I arch my belly into the thick ridge of his erection. “You can’t possibly go through the rest of the night like this. Whatever shall we do?”

“Begonia—”

I tug at his belt. “Shh. Everyone’s at the party.”

“Just when I think you can’t possibly get any more perfect.”

“There aren’t any reporters stalking in the bushes, are there?”

“Not if they want to live.”

“Security?”

“Even if we’re caught, they’re discreet.”

That’s all I need to know.

I tackle his pants with more enthusiasm.

He tries to tug my dress up.

“Won’t work,” I whisper as I plunge my hands down his pants and grip his rigid length.

He groans into my neck, bracing himself with his hands planted against the building on either side of me. “Sweet holy fuck, your hands.”

“You have the loveliest penis in the world.”

He huffs out a short laugh as his cock pulses harder in my hand. “Your compliments are beyond compare. Dear god, do that again.”

He thrusts his hips into my hand as I cradle his balls with the other. He’s hard and long, hot and silky smooth. Unintelligible sounds come from his throat as I stroke and tease him, brushing the moisture from the tip of his blunt head, and touching him isn’t enough.

I love turning him on.

I love making him feel good.

I love knowing that he’ll take care of my needs too, not out of obligation, but because he seems to genuinely enjoy making me feel good.

And I’ve never gone down on a man in public before, and the thrill of it makes pushing his pants down off his hips and fussing with my skirt so that I can drop to my knees a no-brainer.

“Jesus, Begonia,” he pants as I lick the underside of his cock, then suck his broad head into my mouth, twirling my tongue around the silky ridge and tasting his salty flavor.

He grunts like he wants to moan but is trying to be quiet, his hips and thighs quivering. He’s still bracing himself against the wall behind me, and my one regret is that he’s not gripping my hair.

And that last thought makes me smile around Hayes’s cock.

Hello, old Begonia.

I feel so alive right now.

Powerful and desirable and free and open to taking the opportunities the world offers.

No regrets.

Especially with Hayes gasping and groaning softly while I lick and suckle and tease his thick length, sucking him as deep as I can, swirling my tongue around his shaft, and taking him deep again while I play with his testicles and his thighs shake against my arm and hand.

I’m driving him wild, and it’s making my clit achy and my panties soaked and my breasts so hot and heavy that there’s not enough room in this dress for me to breathe.

It’s exquisite, to use one of Hayes’s favorite words.

I feel like a freaking goddess.

“Begonia,” he grunts, and I know he’s close.

I can hear it.

I can feel it.

I roll his balls in my hand and suck harder, and just as he grunts with his release overtaking him, lights flash.

Then more lights.

He’s coming down my throat and the sky is lit up with cameras popping, and oh my god.

“Fuck,” he grunts, pulling out mid-orgasm.

He twists, but not before I feel a hot, wet stickiness land on my chest.

And then my face is buried in his ass as he barks orders. “Cameras. Hand them over. Now.”

No, not barks.

Snarls.

“Holy shit, it’s really the weird Rutherford brother,” a guy says somewhere nearby.

I try to move, but Hayes blocks me. “I said, hand over your cameras.”

“Not a fucking chance, bro. Thanks for the shot.”

He starts to move, then freezes, like he’s torn between chasing away whoever’s dashing off with photographic evidence and exposing me to more visibility. “Robert,” he barks, and when a tinny voice answers, I realize he’s on the phone. “We have a problem.”





32





Hayes