Page 100 of Faking it with the Billionaire

My inner walls clench, spasming as I tremble in his arms. My back arches off the mattress, pulling him deeper, tighter, and farther within me. My toes are curling, and I’m unable to hold out any longer.

He grunts and thrusts, trying to keep up my pace, and it’s only a matter of seconds before I’m letting go, and he’s following close behind with a groan.

“Holy fuck,” I mutter, panting for air.

Kyler rolls off me and climbs off the bed to discard the condom. He cleans up before flopping back down beside me, draping an arm across my stomach.

“Good?” he asks with a smirk as if he couldn’t tell by the sounds I made and the feeling of my pussy walls squeezing his cock.

I smack his arm. “Do you really have to ask?” I laugh, and he leans in, kissing me.

“We should have been doing this a whole lot sooner.” He drops soft kisses from my lips across my jaw. “You’ve been living under my roof all this time…” he trails off.

“I wanted to,” I confess, refusing to look away. “But I’m glad we waited as long as we did. It was worth it.”

He pulls me closer. “I’m not. All this time wasted when I could have been doing this,” he whispers, brushing his lips over my neck and trailing a path down to my breast. “Or this.” His tongue flicks across my nipple, and I shudder.

“Kyler,” I moan, unable to suppress the desire burning through me when his mouth teases me.

The smile on his face never wavers. “I love it when I make you do that.”

“Make me moan?” I laugh, and my cheeks redden.

“Yes, when you moan my name.”

TWENTY-FIVE

KYLER

“I can’t believethey agreed to have dinner with us,” I grumble. I honestly thought that the Morettis would cancel, tell us they were sick, or make up some other last-minute excuse to prevent them from showing up at my house.

Em refused to accept us going over to their house for dinner and was concerned that if we went out, it could be an ambush.

“This was the better option,” Em whispers, the two of us keeping our voices down while we grab dinner from the kitchen.

Aleksandra and her husband, Antonio, are seated at the dining table with their son Liam and his twin sister, Sophia.

“What are we whispering about?” Bristol asks.

“Grab the bottle of lemonade from the fridge,” Em says.

“Can I have wine?” my daughter chirps.

Seriously? The kid is going to send me to an early grave. “No,” we both say in unison.

Em and I carry the platters out to the table for dinner, and we finally sit. We haven’t spoken too much, excusing ourselves to finish prepping dinner. Lia helped with the recipe, but I let her leave early because there was no sense in getting her mixed up with the Morettis.

And Mitchell is watching the property from the security office, making sure that the Morettis don’t bring company.

The night is quiet, almost too quiet, when it’s the mafia at your dinner table.

“Please, help yourself,” Em says and gestures toward the food, letting the guests serve themselves.

Aleksandra glances at her husband and serves the children and then herself. The kids wait patiently before digging in. I don’t think Bristol has the same amount of patience. She’s sitting on her knees and reaches for the tongs for the salad the moment Aleksandra relinquishes it to the bowl.

Bristol piles food onto her plate and then starts eating.

Antonio and Aleksandra watch Bristol gobble up her food before they tell their children to eat.