Crazy for Loving You A Bluewater Billionaires Romantic Comedy - Pippa Grant Page 0,95
to the ball pit!”
She takes off, bouncing like a madwoman, and I follow.
Fuck, this is fun. “What’s in the ball pits?”
“Your special surprise.”
“Which ball pit?”
“This one—no! That one!”
I feel like a teenager. Racing across a trampoline to catch a bright, happy, hilarious beam of sunshine in a short, tight, giraffe-hide-patterned skirt and a tan, expensive-looking tank top. Her light purple hair is hanging loose, her makeup is light, and her feet are bare.
And my heart is carefree as a birthday balloon.
“What about this one?” I ask as I snag her around the waist.
She shrieks with laughter, tries to leap away, and instead takes both of us down.
We bounce, bumping hips, and soon she’s rolled so she’s straddling me while the stretchy material beneath us makes everything unstable and crazy and perfect.
“How about this one?” she says, bending to brush her lips against mine.
“I’ve been misled, madame. I demand a ball pit.”
She laughs again.
And I take advantage of the moment to kiss her.
Holding her face to mine, inhaling that laughter, swiping my tongue over her lower lip, biting softly, exploring, tracing, just living.
Tomorrow doesn’t matter.
Yesterday doesn’t matter.
Just this—kissing Daisy. On a trampoline. While she dives headfirst into kissing me back with those plump lips and quick tongue and eager hands stroking down my chest and pushing my shirt up.
Her hips roll over mine, rubbing my aching cock, and I groan into her mouth.
I’ve been perpetually aroused since the moment I got here, and I don’t have a fucking condom.
“No frowny faces,” she informs me as she pulls out of the kiss and rises up to strip out of her shirt.
She’s wearing a teeny tiny black lace bra that makes my cock strain harder between her thighs. I trace the cups over the swell of her breasts and sit up to suck at her nipples through the thin fabric.
“Oh, god, West,” she gasps. “That feels so good. But no. Bad boy. This is for you.”
“Then you shouldn’t offer such delectable treats.”
She shimmies out of reach, sending both of us bouncing again, and I put a hand to her head to keep us from knocking noggins and giving each other concussions.
There’s a devious glint in her eyes, though. “That’s right. You just hold on right there.”
“Hold on to—”
She slides the rest of the way down my bouncing body, slips a hand into my sweatpants, and frees my erection. The cool air hits it, then the heat of her fist, and then—oh, fuck, yes.
Then her mouth.
She kisses my tip, swirls her tongue around my head, and sucks my cock all the way to the back of her throat, her wet, hot mouth fucking heaven.
“Daisy,” I gasp.
She presses on the trampoline on either side of my hips, and rides with me while I bounce.
I start to protest, but then she cups my tight balls while she pulls off my cock, swirls her tongue around my head again, and then sucks me back down, and I can’t speak.
I can just feel. The thick, heavy sensation in my cock warning me that I can’t hold out. The warning, warning buzzing in the fuzzy recesses of my brain, declaring that this is not a safe place to get a blow job, but it’s drowned out by the sight of those blue, blue eyes boring into mine.
Sit back and enjoy this, Marine.
I don’t know if that’s Daisy or my balls talking, but christ, her mouth—and her tongue suckling the underside of my dick—and her joy, her spirit, her determination to make me feel good—fuck.
Fuck.
“Daisy—I can’t—I’m gonna—”
There’s a glint in her eyes, and she sucks me harder, and suddenly I’m coming down her throat in a white-hot flash of sensation that makes my fingers and toes tingle and my legs and stomach tighten and my heart swell.
So much—so much sensation. Physical. Emotional. Spiritual.
She strokes my legs while she sucks down my climax, and my heart waves a white flag.
We’re done.
We surrender.
There have been no women before Daisy Carter-Kincaid, and there will be no women after who have or will ever completely capture me, body, heart, and soul.
My body goes limp, and she slides off my cock with a soft pop, then kisses my tip and tucks me back into my pants.
“You are so fucking hot,” she whispers as she crawls back on top of me, the world tilting and rolling as the trampoline adjusts beneath us.
“I don’t—think—you can—talk,” I pant.
She grins, squeezing her arms together to make her cleavage more pronounced, and fuck, I’m getting hard again.