Dirty Sweet Wild (Bad Billionaires 2)

I went slow, savoring not only the taste of him, but the power. He was already close. I had done that. I had this big, perfect man under my control, and for once it wasn’t a game—it was a gift. One he gave me, and one I gave him. He was trusting me, letting me feel his raw reaction, letting me lead. And it was, without a doubt, the sexiest, most erotic thing I’d ever done, even after all the times I’d taken my clothes off.

I took him deeper, pressing down more boldly, inhaling him, feeling his cock in the back of my throat. His big body flinched again in the intensity of the pleasure, and I felt him flex in my mouth, close to coming. The pulse between my legs beat heavy and hard. I wanted that, to taste his come, but I wanted everything else, too.

As if he’d read my mind, I felt his hand on the side of my head, the gentle pressure of his fingers. I let him go and looked up at him. His eyes were impossibly dark in the half light of the apartment, and in the shadows his lashes looked long, his face harsh and beautiful. He was breathing hard.

“Get in my bed,” he said.

Yes, sir. I licked my lips and stood, walking through the doorway that had to be his bedroom. I was right. It was like the rest of his apartment, tidy but masculine, the bed made but the pillows rumpled, a pair of jeans crumpled on the floor, laundry flowing out of a basket, a dog-eared book next to the dark bedside lamp. A window held light from an electric light in the corridor, covered by a simple blind.

I lay on my back on the bed, feeling the cool blanket beneath me. Max followed me into the room, pulling his shirt and sweater off in one motion.

I was reaching for the button on my jeans, but I paused. I hadn’t seen him shirtless yet—another first, another thing we hadn’t done yet. He was powerful, his chest and stomach lightly dusted with dark hair, his hips lithe, with indents disappearing into his undone jeans. I saw the tattoo I’d glimpsed the first day we met, something that criss-crossed his left shoulder and down onto his glorious bicep. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further, and looked down at me.

It was the same look he’d given me that first time on his sofa, the one that said he wanted to fuck me but was keeping himself in check. Holding his gaze, I undid my jeans button and zipper, lifting my hips off the bed and hooking my fingers in the waistband. When I slid the jeans down I did a sinuous little wiggle with my hips—just a small one, and then another, a quick stripper shimmy.

No man I dated, ever, got a strip show from me. Any man who thought that dating a stripper meant he would get free dances all the time didn’t get past my initial test. I said it was because I did the shows for money, not for free, but the real reason was that I didn’t want a man who only wanted a performer, not a woman. A man who wanted a performer instead of me.

But Max… Max already wanted me. And I gave him the shimmy, the hip twist, without thinking. He liked it, but it wasn’t the only thing he wanted from me. He didn’t want a show.

He approached the bed as I kicked my jeans off. Without ceremony he pulled off my panties—thin, white, plain cotton—and tossed them away. Then he parted my legs and got on the bed between them.

I relaxed, letting him look, wondering what was next. My blood was going haywire, my skin oversensitive to the touch. I unhooked my bra and tossed it away. I felt the warmth of his breath, because I was waxed bare—an occupational requirement. He’d seen it before, but this time he took it in, his head between my legs, looking at my pussy, and I wished I could see his expression better, gage his reaction.

He lifted a hand and ran a thumb over my wet seam. “I can see how wet you are for me,” he growled.

“I am,” I said, my voice a breath. “Fuck, I am.”

He slid the thumb deeper into me, sliding it through my wetness, and then he parted me. There was no hiding how swollen and soaked I was, how easily his fingers slid over me. He explored me softly with his fingertips, making me squirm, and then he made soft circles around my clit, tighter and tighter. “Max,” I said. Pleading, maybe.

He stopped the circling and lowered his hand. “I’m gonna taste,” he said, and then he lowered his mouth to me.

I cried out and pulsed my hips up, practically grinding into his mouth, his beard. It was so wildly hot, his mouth on me. He slid his tongue over me, and I could have come, but he cut it short. He lifted his mouth off me and replaced it with his fingers again, sliding over me, edging inside me.

He crawled up my body, his hand still between my legs. His chest brushed my nipples, sending electric shocks through me. His jeans were still halfway down his legs where I’d shoved them down, not all the way off. But he pressed down on top of me, his fingers still between us, and he kissed me, open and dirty, letting me taste myself, taste me and him mixed together.

When he broke the kiss, he removed his hand, bracing it on the mattress. “You want it?” he said, his breath feathering my mouth. “You want my cock?”

“Yes,” I said. I was nearly begging now, I wanted it so bad. “Yes.”

His big hand gripped my knee and he slid his cock over me, letting it feel my wetness. “You like it,” he said. “My cock.”

Damn, I guess he’d observed that. Well, I hadn’t been subtle. “I do,” I said, and I leaned up and licked his bottom lip, my tongue running over the rough edge of his beard. “You have a sweet cock, Max Reilly.”

His arms flexed, and in a twist of his hips he thrust inside me, filling me.

I groaned. He pumped me, slow and rhythmic, seeming to know exactly what I needed. You’re a woman who wanted to get fucked, he’d said before. I was. I pressed my legs as wide as I could, took him as deep as I could. I wanted to feel him so deep it hurt.

He kept his pace, but he dropped his face to my neck and reached one big arm up, gripping the headboard. “Fuck me,” he said in my ear. “Take me deep and fuck me.”

Then he slammed into me harder, picking up his pace. I could feel it in my whole body, my breasts shaking, my stomach slick against his. I cried out, reaching my hands around to grip his ass, which was hard and solid and perfect. He fucked me harder, finding that rhythm with my body that we’d found the first time, both of us in perfect sync.

The headboard was banging against the wall, and I was making all kinds of sounds. After a minute the neighbor next door banged on the wall, shouting for us to stop. But I didn’t care. I wanted all of Shady Oaks to hear us. I wanted all of them to know that Max Reilly was fucking me, that he was giving it to me hard. That Max Reilly was going to make me come.

And he did. With just his cock, with his hips pounding into me and his hand braced on the headboard, his body pleasuring mine, he made me come. I shouted as I felt the orgasm blast through me, screamed his name, didn’t hold back. “That’s it,” he said against my skin as he pounded me even harder, racing to come. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s right.”

I bit his shoulder, gripped his ass, tilted my hips up to take him deeper. “Do it,” I said, my own orgasm still rippling with aftershocks. “Oh, God, yes, come inside me, come inside me—“

He cried out, a sexy sound in his throat, and flexed inside me, hard. We stayed frozen for a long moment, connected, neither wanting to let go.