Page 57 of Forbidden Billionaire
He continues to look deep into my eyes.
“Really. I promise.”
With a small nod, he eases from inside me. And I hate the sudden absence.
“Let me get you a washcloth.”
Since I’m not sure I can move, I settle for nodding.
But the moment he’s gone, I feel chilled and vulnerable, and I hate that.
Needing to be alone, pull myself back together, I slip away to my private bathroom.
I scoop up my clothes, and my legs feel like melted wax. The first few steps are a gamble—my muscles trembling from overuse, from pleasure. From him.
I catch the wall for balance, wincing at how ridiculous I must look, and then I laugh. Quietly. Because I don’t regret a damn thing.
The bathroom light is soft, golden, and I pause in front of the mirror.
Holy wow.
My hair is a mess. My lips are swollen. My skin still flushed, glowing in a way I don’t ever remember it. My thighs are blotched from his stubble. My eyes are heavy lidded, dazed, still not all the way back from wherever he took me.
I’m a mess.
And, maybe, a little adored.
I pull a long T-shirt over my head—one of those soft, oversized ones that makes me feel cozy and small. It skims the tops of my thighs and smells faintly of lavender. Definitely not sexy, but right now, comfort wins. My body is too tender for anything else.
When I finally venture out, I expect to find him brooding by the window or sprawled shirtless across my couch.
Instead, he’s in my kitchen.
And my heart damn near stops.
Xavier Blackwell—six-foot-something of pure, devastating masculinity—is barefoot on my hardwood floors, wearing nothing but a low-slung towel around his waist, and his hair is damp.
His back is to me, and I watch the way the muscles shift under his skin as he grabs a glass from the cabinet.
I should look away. I should not stare at the long lines of his spine, the trim waist, the V that disappears into terrycloth and sin.
I really should not be picturing what I know is beneath that towel.
He turns slightly, catching me mid-gawk. “I brought a washcloth, but you’d vanished.”
“Yeah. I…”
“Hope you don’t mind; I took a shower.”
“Of course.”
“I figured you could use something to drink.” His voice is smooth, casual, like he isn’t half naked in my home, like he didn’t just worship my body into oblivion. “You were…vocal.”
“I was not,” I protest, scandalized.
He cocks an eyebrow and passes me the glass. His knuckles brush mine. “You really were.”
I sip to avoid replying. The water is cool and clean and grounding. I need grounding, because my brain is playing tricks on me. Like how this could feel normal. Easy. As if we’ve done this a dozen times. As if I could get used to this.
