Page 10 of Oops I Fell For The Billionaire Next Door

He lifts me. Both hands under my thighs, scooping me off the ground so fast I wrap my legs around his waist on instinct. The size difference is staggering. My feet don't touch the ground. His hands hold me up without strain. He carries me through my own front door, kicks it shut behind us, walks us to my bedroom without asking directions because my cabin has four rooms and the bedroom is obvious.

My back hits the mattress. He stands at the edge of the bed, pulling the wet shirt over his head in one motion. Broad chest, dark hair trailing down a flat stomach, muscles that come from actual use. My hands reach for his belt.

"Wait." He catches my wrists. Pins them gently above my head with one hand. One hand. Both my wrists in one of his palms. The grip is firm, not tight. "Let me."

His free hand finds the hem of my tank top. Pushes it up over my stomach, my ribs. I arch so he can pull it off. No bra underneath because I was on my own porch drinking wine. His eyes move over my breasts, my dark nipples already peaked, and his jaw flexes.

"Fuck, Desi."

Then his mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, the swell of my breast. His tongue circles one nipple before his lips close around it, sucking hard enough to make my hips buck off the mattress. His hand releases my wrists to work my jeans open, pulling them down my thighs along with my underwear. Everything off. All of it. His mouth trails down my stomach, kissing wet and open along the soft skin below my navel. My thighs fall open.

The first stroke of his tongue on my clit is slow. Deliberate. Testing pressure. The second is firmer, flat tongue dragging from my entrance to the swollen bud at the top. My hand finds his hair. Grips. He groans against me, the vibration shooting straight through my core.

Two fingers push inside. Thick, curved, finding the spot on the first try because this man apparently applies the same precision to sex as he does to everything else. His tongue works my clit in tight circles while his fingers curl, press, curl again. My thighs are shaking. One of his hands presses flat on my lower belly, holding me still while he works, and the pressure of his palm combined with his mouth is too much.

The orgasm hits hard. My whole body locks. Back bowed, hand fisted in his hair, the sound torn from my throat embarrassingly loud in the small room. He doesn't stop. Works me through it with his mouth until the aftershocks fade.

Then he stands. Strips. His cock is thick, hard, curving slightly upward. Condom from his wallet, rolled on efficiently. He pulls my hips to the edge of the mattress, hooks one leg over his shoulder, and pushes in.

Full. Stretched. My mouth opens but nothing comes out. He pauses at the bottom, buried to the hilt, giving me a second to adjust. One hand grips the thigh on his shoulder. The other braces on the mattress beside my head.

"Okay?"

"Move."

He does. Deep, measured strokes that drag against every nerve. The angle with my leg on his shoulder makes each thrust hit deeper than the last. His thumb finds my clit, pressing in slow circles that match his rhythm. My hands grab his forearms, nails biting into muscle.

He speeds up. The bed protests. My body climbs again, tighter this time, faster, building from the base of my spine. His breathing is ragged, his jaw tight with control, eyes locked on mine.

"Come for me." His voice is wrecked.

My second orgasm tears through me so hard I stop breathing. He follows three strokes later, buried deep, forehead dropping to my shoulder.

Silence except for breathing. His weight partially on me. Heavy. Warm. My fingers trace the muscles along his spine without permission from my brain.

After cleanup he comes back to bed. Pulls me against his chest. Tucks the blanket around us.

"Stay," I say. Surprise myself.

His arm tightens around my waist. His mouth presses against the back of my neck.

"Couldn't leave if I wanted to."

And lying in the dark, my body humming, this man curled around me occupying every inch of space I have, I think about roots. About things that dig into soil and hold. About how terrifying it is to want something when you've built your whole life around not needing anything from anyone.

I'm in so much trouble.

CHAPTER FOUR

BECKETT

BECKETT

Waking up in Desi's bed is becoming a habit I can't afford to examine too closely.

A week. Seven mornings of her alarm going off at five thirty because she's a psychopath who starts her day before the sun does. Seven mornings of reaching for her and finding warm skin, sleep-soft braids fanned across the pillow, her body curling back into mine for the ten minutes she allows before she's up, pulling on jeans, heading to the garden beds before coffee even finishes brewing.

Seven nights. Her kitchen table covered in her landscape plans and my laptop, both of us working in comfortable silence. Her feet in my lap on the couch while she reads soil composition reports. My hand on her ankle absentmindedly, thumb tracing circles while I answer emails from my security team.