A Billionaire for Christmas

Yes, this was what she wanted.

Just in case, he growled, “Do you want to stop?”

Her head swiveled side to side, no, even though her dark eyes were wide.

“Good.” Peyton shoved her back on the bed with the heel of his hand on her breastbone. “Lie down. Lie your sexy little body down on that bed so I can see your delicious tattoos and every inch of your skin.”

She did, watching him the whole time, her eyes wide and a tremulous smile on her parted lips.

Yeah, she liked being told what to do.

He crawled up her, opening her bare thighs with his knee even though he still wore his jeans. Her flowery perfume filled his nose, and he breathed it in, holding himself if check. He pressed his mouth to hers, sucking at her lush lips. Her mouth opened under his, and he kissed her more deeply, running his tongue over hers.

Her arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, urging him on.

When he let her breathe and she was whimpering against his lips, he grabbed a handful of her short, silky hair and wrenched her head back so he could mouth her throat, dragging his teeth over her skin.

Raji gasped, her body rising under his.

Her fingernails pricked his shoulders.

Peyton wasn’t going to come out of this unscathed, either.

Yeah, well, sacrifices must be made. He grinned.

When Peyton had been with Calista, after months of feedback in the form of symphonic compositions, he had gotten rough one time. The joy in her music afterward encouraged him, and he had escalated the rough sex for weeks until one night, he had brought a friend of his, Jason, back to Calista’s apartment. He’d had Calista undress for them, and then he had lain on the bed and settled her on his dick, fucking her from underneath.

He’d said, “Jason, fuck her ass.”

Jason packed her ass with lube and slid in, rubbing Peyton’s cock through the thin membrane between them.

Tears trembled in Calista’s dark eyes, threatening to fall to her ivory cheeks.

He asked her, “Do you want to stop?”

Calista shook her head violently like he had known she would.

Peyton said, “Jason, grab her tits.”

Hands reached around from behind her while Peyton clutched her hips.

“Stroke,” he said, and Calista’s tits hardened to taut peaks in Jason’s fingers.

Peyton said, “Pinch her.”

The fingers tightened on her nipples, and her skin turned rosy pink as she moaned.

He moved Calista’s hips, lifting her body and pressing her down like he was fucking her with two cocks and four hands. Inside her, the movement of Jason’s cock against his own felt like he was fucking Calista’s ass, too.

Exquisite.

Afterward, the light theme that represented Calista had floated through the music, so small, so submissive to the dark, bass melody from the lower end of the piano that dominated both her part and the baritone harmony notes. Her orgasm had been a bright sunburst near the end, and then the bass melody overwhelmed all the other music, drowning it.

Her interpretation had turned Peyton on so much that he’d flipped Calista onto the bed and fucked first her mouth, then her pussy with her flat on her back, then her ass from behind while Jason watched.

Calista’s musical compositions had taught him a lot about women, and he had listened carefully to every one of them.

They had lasted for ten months as a couple until Calista’s compositions became two different themes that jarred and ignored each other. It took Peyton a while to get the hint, but he eventually broke things off gracefully. They were still friends.

When Raji was panting and squirming under him, Peyton slid backward off the edge of the bed and held her legs apart to tongue her clit and folds. Her natural scent filled his nose, and her skin was smooth under his tongue with a hint of feminine salty-sweetness.

Everything about this woman was driving him out of his mind, and he had to tamp himself down or he wouldn’t last. His jeans were constricting his stiff dick. He almost stood to take his pants off, but he waited, sucking on her.

Her fingers slipped through his hair, and she massaged his scalp. Within minutes, her hands stilled on his head as she arched under his mouth, nearing a climax.

Not yet.

Peyton stood, and she cried out, reaching for him.

He grabbed her hips and flipped her over on her stomach, buying himself some time so he didn’t lose his mind. More black ink on her back curled in the form of a single snake crawling up her spine and writhing around a staff, an eerie, stylized form of the Rod of Asclepius, the symbol of the Greek God of healing.

Inked bat wings covered her shoulder blades and over her shoulders.

That gorgeous art on her delectable skin made his hands itch, wanting to stroke her, and his dick swelled harder.