Page 56 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

He nodded, adding another finger under the lace, inching them closer to her center. “And your cheeks flush and your lips part. Sometimes your tongue darts out to wet them. It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.”

“Oh.”

The word was a prayer, a promise, a plea that went straight to his dick. But there would be plenty of time to take care of that on the hour-long flight. This was for her, not him.

His fingers found her core, warm and oh so wet, and he slid them inside, moving them slowly at first, teasing, then gradually increasing momentum until she was lifting her hips to press against him, her breath coming in short, moaning gasps. He lowered his mouth to hers and captured one, inhaling it as their lips met and his tongue brushed hers.

She tasted vibrant and crisp and bubbly, with hints of apple and peach from the Prosecco. The total effect was invigorating. Intoxicating. Addictive.

He worked his fingers in deeper, using his thumb to find the hard little nub at the top of her sex. She rewarded him by crying out his name, softly but no less urgently than if she’d screamed it loud enough to be heard by the people thousands of kilometers below.

“That’s it,” he urged against her lips. “Let go.”

Again she obeyed, digging her nails into his forearm as she came apart around his fingers. When the tremors subsided, he unbuckled his seat belt, then hers, and stood, scooping her up in one swift move and carrying her to the back of the plane.

She banded her arms around his shoulders and buried her face in the crook of his neck. “Where are you taking me?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” he asked, knowing full well he hadn’t. “There’s a king-sized bed in the aft cabin.”

…

“I raise.” Miguel pushed a stack of coins to the center of the table and sat back smugly, puffing on his cigar.

Dante grimaced and threw his hand down. The gods of Texas hold ’em were not with him tonight. “I fold.”

“I call.” Xander tossed a few more coins onto the pile and flipped his cards over. “Straight, eight to queen.”

“Nice.” Miguel tapped his cigar over the ashtray and turned over his hand. “But not nice enough. Full house, jacks over aces.”

Xander shook his head and reached for his Tsipouro, which he insisted on bringing with him every month from Greece. If you asked Dante, it tasted like gasoline. “Damn. I was sure you were bluffing. You were bouncing your knee. You always do that when you have a weak hand.”

“Not always, apparently.” Miguel swept the pot into his pile of cash, which was already larger than Dante’s and Xander’s combined. Then he puffed out a ring of smoke from his cigar and eyed Dante, who was shuffling the cards. “Where’s your girlfriend? I thought she was joining us.”

Dante stopped shuffling. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s just a friend who happens to be a girl.”

“Right.” Xander sipped his disgusting drink. “A friend you’ve been living with for—what, almost a month now?”

“And who you couldn’t bear to leave behind.” Miguel chuckled. “I’m surprised you could tear yourself away from your seaside love nest to join us.”

It was pointless arguing with these two. Let them think what they wanted. Never mind that what they were thinking was closer to the truth than Dante wanted to admit.

He tapped the deck of cards on the table and dealt the next hand. “She went to walk Houdini.”

The name sounded strange on Dante’s lips, and he realized that—consciously or unconsciously—he tended to think of the pig as some nameless, faceless being. Another self-defense mechanism. A way for him to distance himself, from both the woman and the pig.

“You got a dog?” Xander asked, his interest suddenly piqued. “I wondered what the crate was for but was afraid to ask.”

“Not a dog, a pig,” Dante corrected. “And he’s not mine. He’s Zoe’s.”

Miguel peeked at his cards, then tossed a couple of coins in the center of the table. “Call. Who keeps a pig as a pet?”

“George Clooney, for one.” Dante added some money to the pile. “Raise. And I’ll have you know that pigs make excellent pets. They’re smarter than dogs and easier to train.”

Christ. Now he sounded like an ad for that organization Zoe was always talking about. What was it called? Right, the AMPA. American Mini Pig Association.

The door to his penthouse apartment swung open and the mini pig in question trotted through, followed by Zoe at the other end of his fancy leash. She knelt down to unclip it from his harness.

“We’re back. Sorry it took so long. Houdini took forever to do his business, and then I got distracted by the—”