Page 35 of Caught Between Two Billionaires
God, what power a woman can wield.
One hand holds my skirts while the other runs up the outside of my calf. The inside of my thigh. His knuckles brush my sex, and I let my legs fall open. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need.” His voice is like the rush of wind between two mountains, something that my body recognizes as eternal, that he was here before me.
That he’ll be here when I’m gone.
His fingers touch me with agonizing lightness, exploring, teasing. Letting me remain open for discovery. Is that part of what makes this hotter, knowing anyone might walk in on us? He has unending patience, even though I can see his arousal in the line of his suit pants where he kneels. I can see the arousal in the haze in his blue eyes, in the hard set of his jaw.
He’s like Atlas, cursed to carry the weight of the world. Strong enough to actually succeed in such an impossible task. Of course that makes me the world—and that’s how it feels, when he leans forward to place a chaste kiss on my thigh.
Higher, higher. He likes to tease me. There’s something playful about him that’s at odds with the burden he carries. Even the gods know how to make light of themselves.
And then he kisses my clit, and I lose the ability to think. My shoulders press into the wall. My hips push out toward his mouth. There’s nothing but his mouth and the magical things he can do with it. I cry out, and the sound of it echoes back to me in the empty hallway.
Even in this he has that terrible patience. That terrible playfulness that lets him nip at my skin, lets him tug and tease me until I’m shameless—pressing myself against his mouth, his nose, his chin, desperate for that friction my body demands.
His laugh surrounds me, piercing the madness that consumes me. “I should leave you like this,” he says, murmuring almost to himself. “You’d fuck yourself against the bedpost all night long, but it wouldn’t be the same. Wouldn’t be enough.”
“You wouldn’t,” I say on an aching gasp. “I’m dying here.”
He looks up at me, and it’s strange that he does have sympathy for me. It’s there in his blue eyes even while his lips shine with my arousal. “Are you?” he asks, his voice not shaking one little bit. Not like mine. “Or I could lay you down on the bed and tie you there, so you couldn’t get off. You’d keep trying all night, this gorgeous body fucking the air, desperate for relief. I could watch you all night.”
“Nooo,” I say, pushing my hips toward him as if that might convince him.
I’m beyond logic right now. Beyond anything but pure undiluted begging. I’ve never been more desperate than in this moment; this is what he’s reduced me to. This is what he holds in his hands.
“Whatever you want.”
And the bastard, he sits back on his heels. His hands fall to his side, somehow more powerful that way, his head looking up at me. He commands this hallway. This hotel. He commands the whole world from his goddamn knees. “Now you’re ready to make a deal.”
“Ruthless.” The word spills from my lips before I’ve thought it through. I’ve known so many men who were ruthless, including Christopher, but never one who’s managed to disarm me as much as Sutton Mayfair. That makes him infinitely more dangerous.
Casually he trails two fingers up my calf and back down. “Yes.”
“Because you’ve been poor longer than you’ve been rich.” It’s made him hungry, and I can’t really blame him for that. I’ve known what it was like to be poor, painfully poor, in small, infinitesimal drips. In the space between my mother’s husbands.
“That,” he says, with a faint dip of his head. “And because I don’t underestimate you, Harper.”
I swallow hard, because I’ve been underestimated all my life. Is that why he told me the story about the little boy who everyone underestimated? Suddenly that strikes me as totally unfair. “You didn’t tell a secret about you. You told me a secret about a wild horse.”
A faint smile. “The secret is that I wasn’t the boy with a family and a ranch. I was the one who showed up with bruises. I was the one who tamed Cinnamon.”
“No,” I whisper.
“I told you, Harper. The story had a happy ending.”
Touching him is as natural as breathing, as inevitable as the ache in my chest. Bristles on his jaw brush my palm. “I wish that hadn’t happened to you.”
“Maybe the moral of the story is that I can tame wild animals.” He’s a little mocking, making fun of himself. I’m the one worried that it might be true.
I snatch my hand away. It would be a lie to say I’m not a wild animal, since I’m considering scratching him in response to the ownership in his blue eyes. “I’m not tame.”
