A Billionaire for Christmas

The light was off in the foyer, and except for the moonlight that shone in from the front room, it was dark. But I didn’t need to see to be able to tell how much Dylan hoped that I wasn’t reconsidering our arrangement. His eagerness was evident from the thick ridge pressing against my lower belly.

“No second thoughts,” I assured him. “I was just pulling myself together.”

His lips hovered along the curve of my jaw. “You can still back out of this. At any time. You just say the word, and everything stops.”

The only word I wanted to say at this moment was “Don’t.” Don’t stop. Don’t back out of this. Don’t make me wait a second longer.

But I was speechless. My heart was in my throat, hammering away at my vocal cords. A shiver ran through my body, despite the heavy coat I was wearing. I licked my lips, inviting his mouth to cover mine. I willed it with all my being. Kiss me. Kiss me!

“Tell me you understand,” he insisted.

I dropped the key and my purse to the floor and swept the palms of my hands up his torso, over his shirt. “I get it. Please, don’t stop. Please—”

He cut me off with a kiss, immediately deep and frantic. Without breaking his mouth from mine, he undid the buttons of my coat and pushed it off my shoulders, letting it join my other belongings on the ground. Then he shoved closer against me, inhabiting the space the bulky coat had previously owned.

My chest rose and fell rapidly, the bullet points of my nipples brushing against him with each breath. I threw my arms around his neck and silently begged for more—more contact, more kissing, more of all of this.

It was happening. Really happening, and already it was so thrilling and charged that I was absolutely sure I wouldn’t retain anything that I learned. What’s more, I didn’t even care. Screw the lessons. I just wanted him to screw me.

Thankfully, Dylan still had his head about him. “Without speaking, tell me what you want.”

“But I...I don’t know, remember? I…”

He amended. “Show me where you need to be touched. I know you need it, you saucy girl. Show me where your body aches for my hands.”

I couldn’t think. I didn’t know. But I closed my eyes, and I could feel the heaviness of my breasts and the aching of my nipples and the buzzing from below, between my thighs. I arched my back, pushing my chest toward him.

“You need my hands on your tits, don’t you, sweet girl?”

He was already undoing the top buttons of my shirt dress, but I nodded anyway. “I do. I do!”

“Shh. I know.” He kissed me quickly, then pulled back to watch as his hands drew my dress open. He hadn’t removed my belt or undone any of the buttons below that, so the top only fell down to my elbows, trapping my arms from excessive movement and revealing my bra and the globes trapped beneath the white lace.

He stared hungrily as he brushed his knuckles across my decolletage, so close—but not close enough—to where he’d correctly identified I needed him. Such a good professor. I arched my back again, reminding him, and he chuckled. Then, with one swift movement, he tugged both bra cups down, exposing my breasts and my embarrassingly erect nipples.

And finally—finally—he touched them, scissoring my nipples with his fingers as he filled his palms with the fatty flesh. I let out a whimper, but leaned into him, asking for more. His pinch tightened, bringing me to the balls of my feet with a full moan.

Dylan kissed me and whispered praises. Praises that I couldn’t quite make out over the increasing buzz between my legs. It was loud and urgent, demanding attention. I wriggled, rubbing my thighs together, seeking relief.

“Show me.” Dylan’s harsh command cut through the haze, prompting me once again to tell him where I needed to be touched.

I stepped a foot on either side of one of his and bucked my hips forward. He bent his knee, and now I could ride him the way I wanted, rubbing my pussy against him, showing him where I ached.

“Good girl,” his voice rumbled, gathering my dress around my waist. “Good girl for showing me where you need me.”

Instead of touching me there, though, he slid his hands down inside my leggings to palm my behind. It was torture, feeling the burn of his skin against mine while elsewhere I was on fire from the absence of his caress.

But then his hands were inching lower, down into the crease between my cheeks. “No knickers,” he said in a hiss. “You are as much of a bad girl as you are a good one, aren’t you, Audrey?”

Really, it had been about panty lines. Tight leggings show everything, and I wasn’t fond of thongs.