Page 19 of Forbidden Billionaire (Titans #7)

“Look at me.” His voice is sensually soft. “I want to see your eyes when you come for me like my good little girl.”

I try. God, I try. But the pleasure is too much. He thrusts in again, hips grinding at the end, and my back arches off the cushions.

He leans down, mouth brushing my jaw, my cheek, my lips. Not kissing—merely touching . Like he wants to feel the tremble in my breath.

“You feel so fucking good.” He groans. “You were made for this. For me.”

And I shouldn’t love that. I shouldn’t love that possessive note in his voice—like he’s staking a claim he has no right to. But I do. I do. Because he’s not just inside me—he’s inside everything. My skin, my thoughts, my stupid, traitorous heart.

He begins to move faster now. Deeper. Each stroke lands harder, sending jolts through my core. The slap of skin on skin grows louder, filthier, but I don’t care. I want to hear it. I want to feel him use my body and worship it at the same time.

I tighten around him again, another orgasm already building. Greedily, desperately, I slide my hands down his back to clutch his hips to pull him in harder.

He growls. “Fuck, Seraphina. You gonna come for me again? Milk my cock like that?”

“Yes…yes…” I whimper, nodding, grinding my hips up against him. “I’m so close.”

He reaches between us, and his thumb finds my clit.

“Come for me. Do it now.”

A single tight circle, pressed against me hard, is all it takes. Choking, sobbing, my body jerks beneath his.

And he doesn’t stop. He fucks me through it—deeper, harder—the sound of his breath rough in my ear.

“God, that’s it. That’s my girl.” His breaths are ragged. “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

He’s so sleek and strong, and with the way his weight is on top of me, I have a hard time moving, but he grabs one of my legs to help me.

Suddenly he’s seated even deeper, against my womb, stealing my breath.

“Fuck yes.” He clenches his jaw. “So wet. So perfect. Let me fill you up. Let me come inside this tight little cunt.”

The words break something open in me. I lock my legs more tightly, wanting everything he’ll give me.

With a roar, he slams into me one last time and holds, cock buried deep. His body jerks, his face pressed into my neck, and I feel it—every shudder, every pulse of release.

He stays there for a long, breathless moment, still connected, his weight solid over me, braced on trembling arms.

Then, finally, he lifts his head. His eyes are gentler now. Intense but no longer guarded. He’s looking at me like he sees me—not the maid, not the intern he thought was trying to bring him down. Just me.

He brushes a sweat-damp strand of hair from my face. “You okay?”

I nod. I want to say something clever, something cutting—keep my armor intact. But there’s nothing left of me.

And for the first time in my entire life, I feel worshipped.

“Seraphina?” He angles his head to one side. “I asked if you’re okay.”

“Yes.”

He continues to look deep into my eyes.

“Really. I promise.”

With a small nod, he eases from inside me. And I hate the sudden absence.

“Let me get you a washcloth.”

Since I’m not sure I can move, I settle for nodding.

But the moment he’s gone, I feel chilled and vulnerable, and I hate that.

Needing to be alone, pull myself back together, I slip away to my private bathroom.

I scoop up my clothes, and my legs feel like melted wax. The first few steps are a gamble—my muscles trembling from overuse, from pleasure. From him.

I catch the wall for balance, wincing at how ridiculous I must look, and then I laugh. Quietly. Because I don’t regret a damn thing.

The bathroom light is soft, golden, and I pause in front of the mirror.

Holy wow.

My hair is a mess. My lips are swollen. My skin still flushed, glowing in a way I don’t ever remember it. My thighs are blotched from his stubble. My eyes are heavy lidded, dazed, still not all the way back from wherever he took me.

I’m a mess.

And, maybe, a little adored.

I pull a long T-shirt over my head—one of those soft, oversized ones that makes me feel cozy and small. It skims the tops of my thighs and smells faintly of lavender. Definitely not sexy, but right now, comfort wins. My body is too tender for anything else.

When I finally venture out, I expect to find him brooding by the window or sprawled shirtless across my couch.

Instead, he’s in my kitchen.

And my heart damn near stops.

Xavier Blackwell—six-foot-something of pure, devastating masculinity—is barefoot on my hardwood floors, wearing nothing but a low-slung towel around his waist, and his hair is damp.

His back is to me, and I watch the way the muscles shift under his skin as he grabs a glass from the cabinet.

I should look away. I should not stare at the long lines of his spine, the trim waist, the V that disappears into terrycloth and sin.

I really should not be picturing what I know is beneath that towel.

He turns slightly, catching me mid-gawk. “I brought a washcloth, but you’d vanished.”

“Yeah. I…”

“Hope you don’t mind; I took a shower.”

“Of course.”

“I figured you could use something to drink.” His voice is smooth, casual, like he isn’t half naked in my home, like he didn’t just worship my body into oblivion. “You were…vocal.”

“I was not ,” I protest, scandalized.

He cocks an eyebrow and passes me the glass. His knuckles brush mine. “You really were.”

I sip to avoid replying. The water is cool and clean and grounding. I need grounding, because my brain is playing tricks on me. Like how this could feel normal . Easy. As if we’ve done this a dozen times. As if I could get used to this.

Dangerous territory.

He leans against the counter, crossing his arms. The movement draws attention to his chest—hard planes, a dusting of hair, a small scar just below his collarbone that makes my fingers itch to trace it.

The man is obscene .

And then he does the worst possible thing.

He smiles. Slow and unguarded. Not cocky or manipulative. Just…real.

It breaks something open in my chest.

I set the glass down carefully and step back. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like this is something it’s not.”

He straightens, and for a beat, we just look at each other. No armor. No roleplay. No games.

Just Seraphina and Xavier.

And that’s what terrifies me most.

“It’s whatever we want it to be.” He steps forward, closing the space between us with deliberate ease. The towel clings low, gravity threatening to bring it down.

He dips his head and places a kiss on the curve of my shoulder.

“Ask me to stay.” His voice is hardly a whisper.

The air leaves my lungs.

Not I’m staying . Not I want more .

Ask.

He’s giving me the choice.

He’s giving me all the power.

I feel as if I’m waving a red flag in front of a bull. “And if you do?”

“I have a few ideas how we can spend the time.”

“Oh?”