Billion Dollar Beast - Olivia Hayle Page 0,57
into something much stronger entirely, something I would do anything to explore. The man between my legs, well… I’ve never felt for anyone the way he makes me feel.
He rests his head on my thigh and gives me a wide, open smile. “Well,” he says. “Look at that.”
I reach down and run my fingers over his cheek, over the dark stubble that always coats the lower half of his face. “I can’t believe that happened.”
“I can,” he says, pressing a kiss to my skin. “And I was prepared to stay here for a lot longer than that.”
“Did you mean what you said?” My question escapes before I can think it through. “While you were…”
His smile turns into something wholly masculine, pride and animalism combined. “Yes. Hell, yes.”
“Good God.”
He climbs up my body and I tug at his clothes, because how is he still clothed, and he laughs at my eagerness. It makes me even more eager—that he’s here in bed with me and laughing with eyes that are lighter than I’ve ever seen.
He’s so big, sprawled on my bed. The body of a fighter rather than a polished CEO. The animalism that always exudes from him, the one that’s given him an edge in business, is graceful here.
I run a hand over his back and he turns, pulling me close, his hands ghosting over my skin. I lift my leg but he just slides his own under.
Reaching down, I grasp his hardness in my hand. It’s still impressive, rock hard and velvety and impossibly girthy. It makes sense, I suppose. He’s a larger-than-usual man. Why wouldn’t that be reflected here?
“You’re sore.” He speaks through gritted teeth. “We don’t need to practice every time, Blair.”
“I want to,” I murmur back. “Don’t you?”
His laughter rumbles through his chest and into me, and as I stroke, he twitches in my hand. “What a question.”
“We can go slow.” My lips find his neck, and then I’m twisting, trying to get my leg over his hip so that we’re better aligned.
Nick presses me close and flattens his hands against my back. The words he murmurs against my hair are half-muffled. “Women never want me to be gentle.”
I frown, even as I pull him closer. What kind of women has he been with before? Riley, for one, who I’d seen today. The women I’d once generalized as only wanting his money. Perhaps they wanted his reputation, too. The idea of him—the vulture, the business tycoon, the man who destroyed businesses on a whim—didn’t go hand in hand with soft sex.
His hands trace my spine with a tenderness that makes me want to break. “You can be gentle with me,” I murmur.
And he is. He flips me over softly, settling between my legs, kissing my lips, my cheek, my neck. Reaching down, he guides himself in slowly, letting my body adjust to the size of him again.
Both of us release the breaths we’d been holding when he’s finally buried completely. His hands reach for my thighs, hooking them around his elbows, thrusting slowly. And when it’s too much, he comes down on his elbows, his face against my neck.
It’s deep and slow and sensual, and when he breaks apart, I wrap my legs around him as well as my arms. Not going to let you go, I think. Not ever. Not now.
I doubt I could.
If we’re still communicating with our bodies, his is saying the same thing. It comforts me more than any of his words ever could.
When he rises up on his arms and pulls out of me with a soft wince, he doesn’t disappear, either. He lies right next to me and pulls me into his side.
We don’t speak for a long time, his hands tracing lazy patterns on my back. I rest my hand on his chest and enjoying the feeling of his hair through my fingers.
“You know,” he says finally, “every woman asks about the scars on my palm. Every one. And I always tell them.”
It takes effort to make my voice light, but I manage. “You didn’t tell me when I asked earlier.”
“No, I didn’t. You’re the first woman I didn’t use them with.”
“Use them?”
He sighs. “I got them when I was seventeen, and an absolute idiot. It was the last really bad fight I got into. I’d been asking for it, too, and antagonized the wrong guy. He pushed me through a window. I landed badly and had to brace myself on broken glass. Had to get stitches in both palms.”
It’s