A Billionaire for Christmas

“They can’t just adopt any old baby, of course. Her family and his are all Brahmins. Brahmins are more concerned about bloodlines than race horse breeders.”

Andy ducked her head, but she was laughing behind her hand. “Tell me about it. I just married a white boy.”

Raji flapped her hand, dismissing Andy’s overly strict family. “Oh, you know that as soon as you have a baby, they’re all going to come running back. Indian babies are the cutest babies ever, and even being half-white couldn’t ruin a baby of yours. Your genes are strong.”

“Oh, my God, Raji. You are so bad. First of all, we are not having kids for a few years. I have to finish my residency.”

“Oh, yes. God forbid that you should deviate any more from the plan your parents laid out for you when you were three years old.”Chapter FourThe Music of SexPeyton glanced inside the spare bedroom at the back of Cadell’s house, making sure the coast was clear.

The bed took up most of the room, lit only by the small lamp glowing on a table over by the window when he’d flicked the light switch. The hot scent of burning dust wafted in the air, which probably meant that this room hadn’t been aired out much since Cadell had started the furnace for the winter.

Quick account: the room was unoccupied, a bed was present, nothing weird, the door had a lock on it.

All good.

He reached behind himself, found Raji’s hand, and yanked.

She squealed as he spun her into the room and shoved her up against the wall.

He slapped the door closed, locked it, and blocked her in with his body.

Raji grabbed him around the neck and jumped.

He caught her. Her legs snapped around his waist. “Nice toast.”

“Thanks.” Her alto voice was breathless.

“You wasted?” he asked because he always checked on that.

She said, “I hereby certify that I am not impaired and consent to sexual intercourse with you. Now fuck me like a rock star.”

Peyton dipped his head, grabbing her lips with his, and kissed her hard. He pressed her lithe body between his chest and the wall. She squirmed against him, driving him fucking crazy. Her soft ass filled his hands, and he ground his jeans against her thin cotton scrubs. She stretched her neck as he mouthed down from her ear, and he nipped her neck, scraping her soft skin with his teeth.

This hard urgency wasn’t Peyton’s preferred way to bed a woman, but when a woman asked him for something, he listened.

Raji wanted him to expend a rock star’s raging energy on her body.

Yeah, he was fine with that.

His piano-strengthened fingers dug into her thighs.

She gasped and pressed her slim, sexy body against him.

Peyton had had an unfair advantage over most men when it came to sex. No matter how much a woman tries to tell a guy what she likes, or if she tries to respond with gasps or wiggling, mere language or signals can’t cross the chasm of experience.

But music can.

At Juilliard, Peyton had dated a music composition major, Calista, for almost a year. After each lovemaking session, she composed a short tone poem about her experience, most of them pretty short at first. He had been nineteen. That sort of thing happens.

Music was their common language that allowed him to experience what she had felt in translation but far more directly than if she had tried to describe it to him with words. She communicated the emotion, the sensations, to him.

Soon, Peyton could play women’s bodies as well as any musical instrument.

Raji moaned, her slim throat vibrating under his lips.

He backed away from the wall and carried her to the bed, dropping her on it. She bounced, laughing.

Peyton yanked her to standing and stripped the clothes off her while he stepped out of his shoes. When she was naked and her eyes were wide with shock at the roughness of his hands, he reached behind her to grab a handful of the bedspread and sheets and tossed them backward off the bed.

Her dark eyes shone in the dim light from the lamp, and the glow drew bright lines on her caramel skin. Tattoos like the one on her hand drew darker lines on her lean sides, stomach, and legs. He recognized the Sanskrit symbol Aum on her ribs that looked to his Western eyes like a 3 and some swooshes. The Eye of Mordor ringed with Elvish script marked her navel. A dark black raven flew on her thigh.

Ah, Raji liked the darker things in life.

Interesting.

He dragged his shirt off over his head, baring his chest, and crowded her backward, staring down at her. It was an imposing, dominating move, he knew, and Raji’s eyes were wide and a little scared. She reached behind herself, almost shrinking away from him, but she licked her lips.