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I literally scream as the final orgasm takes hold of my body. I feel my pussy clamp around his cock, and still he pushes deep inside me, deeper, deepest, sending me reeling. Stars, bright flashes, darkness. He cries out. I feel him come inside me—a volcano erupting—his muscular body clutching mine as we shudder against each other.
Chapter 10
Risk Management
Ilie in the hotel bed, speechless. It’s not an exaggeration. I’m so blissed out, so exhausted, that I have no words at all. What is there to say? What are words when there are primal feelings like I just experienced? Words were nothing. Concepts were trivial. Sensations were everything. Even right now, being spooned in this luxury bed was better than any idea I could think of.
He brings me water and tucks me in, and I think, This is when he kisses me on the forehead and leaves.
But he stays.
He makes sure I’m warm and then climbs in behind me, silently wrapping me in his arms as if we’re old lovers.
You see? No words. Except maybe to tell him that it was the very best sex I’d ever had in my life. It was so far above anything I had experienced so far that I feel he had, in a way, taken my virginity. Of course, I won’t say that out loud. He’s already a billionaire; he doesn’t need more fodder for his ego.
It was so good, I imagine myself telling Becks, that I never need to have sex again in my life. Never.
You can’t go back to losers like Jeff after having a man like this take you body and soul, even if it is only for one night.
“I’m heading to the shower,” he says gently. “Can I get you anything?”
If I weren’t so spent, I’d say, “Another round, please.” I’m still aching and throbbing. Instead, I turn to look at him. I sit up to take in his eyes, his face, his body. “That was incredible.”
“I aim to please,” he replies, eyes crinkling.
“I wish you weren’t a billionaire,” I blurt without meaning to.
He doesn’t hide his amused expression. “How do you know I’m a billionaire?”
Because I’ve worked out who you are. To be honest, it was pretty obvious all along.
Because I know my enemies.
Because you wear fucking £500 T-shirts and throw them away when you get a protestor’s blood on them.
“Because I’m psychic,” I say. “Your talent is risk management. Mine is to peer into other people’s souls.”
“Especially billionaires’ souls?” he asks.
“Yes,” I reply, standing up.
“Tell me, then,” he says, grabbing my wrist, “what do you see?”
But I decide I don’t want to play this game anymore.
It would mean ending what we have.
Instead, I remove his hand and shove him back onto the bed.
“Beat you to the shower,” I say, and make a run for it.
He’s so fast. He jumps off the bed before I’ve made it out of the room. I shriek and reach the shower just before he does. He catches me and spins me around, pinning me to the glass, a hunter’s smile on his lips.
“I won,” I say, out of breath, angling my chin up to him, hoping he’ll kiss me.
He takes my chin, thumb pressing into it, and looks into my eyes.
“You won,” he agrees in a deep voice. “Now it’s time to get your prize.”
