Page 16 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)

ELLIOT

F or the briefest second, I think that I’ve read this situation wrong.

That Sophie might pull back, fix me with those angry eyes, and ask me what the hell I think I’m doing. That she might storm out of this room, never get this close to me again.

In fact, I thought she might lash out at me when I admitted to buying the soccer team in the way I did. Maybe she already knew I hadn’t bought it due to my love of the sport, or maybe she doesn’t care either way.

Based on everything I’ve seen from her, Sophie should be angry with me right now. But she’s not.

The second passes, and in the next, she’s lifting up, her mouth opening as she melts to me, her arms coming around my neck. My hands are on her hips, and I pull her into my lap, where she drapes herself over me.

Without meaning to, I whisper, “Sophie,” against her lips, which makes a noise let loose at the bottom of her throat, her hips moving against mine.

The scent of her perfume hangs in the air around us. My hands move of their own volition, wanting to touch her everywhere I can — up over her bare shoulders, down to her wrists, back over her hips and to her bare thighs.

Gently, I graze my fingers along her chest, touch the space just between her breasts, like I’d thought about doing during dinner.

After a second, I press my palm flat to the spot, feel her heart beating quickly beneath it. Skin so hot, body so alive.

“Elliot?” Sophie pulls back, breathless. Her blue eyes sparkle in the low light. She tastes like strawberries and champagne, and smells even better. Her honey blond hair falls loose from her clip now, the tendrils wavy and wild around her shoulders.

“Sophie,” I rasp, hands tightening on her hips.

The material of her dress is smooth under my hands, but I want to get rid of it, get my fingers directly against her skin.

When I find her gaze, it latches to mine, and I’m staring at her, unable to look away.

“If you don’t want to do this, I need you to tell me right now. ”

Her gaze darkens, her eyes darting to my lips. “I want to do this,” she whispers, and it’s all I need to hear.

Wrapping my arms around her, I get my feet under me and stand. When I’m upright, she wraps her legs around my waist and gasps. I catch her bottom lip between my teeth.

“You’re deceptively strong,” she whispers, bouncing gently as I carry her over to the bed.

“I can’t tell if that’s an insult or not.”

“It’s not,” she grins, as I lay her back on the duvet. “I’m just… surprised.”

“You’re not the only athlete here, Sophie Kendall.”

I love the shape of her name on my lips, but even more so I love the shape of her, period .

My heart hammers in my chest as I crawl over her, eyes catching on the way her hair splays on the pillow, the pink on her cheeks, the eager look in her eyes.

And, for the first time in a long, long time, I feel something I haven’t in the bedroom. Not with any woman — not since I was in college. It’s been so long that it takes me a second to place it, to figure out what’s going on.

I’m nervous .

It matters to me what Sophie thinks. It matters to me that I make this good for her.

Swallowing that feeling down, I focus on Sophie, on stripping that dress from her body, finally getting to run my fingers over her bare skin. She stretches out like a cat in sunlight, reacting to my touch like it’s the one thing she’s been waiting for.

I’m obsessed with her, and realize I’m showing it — cupping her calves, running my hands up her sides, trying to remember the exact shape of her hips, the way her knees bend, how her ankles hook around me, her strong legs pulling me in closer.

“Elliot,” she gasps, when I press my palm to the core of her, just over her panties. She’s so warm, the silky fabric damp to the touch.

When she touches me, she’s all limbs, her fingers tangling in my hair, tugging gently. Then, she tugs harder when I slip my hand under the lace band of her underwear, a groan rising from somewhere deep inside me when I touch her, feel how wet she is for me.

For a while, I just explore, touching her lazily, watching how she reacts to each movement, cataloging what she likes, and what makes her gasp. Then I find a rhythm and hold it, using tight, quick circles.

Her head falls back against the pillow, her eyes fluttering shut, and my mind goes fuzzy, lost in the allure of making her feel good, touching her in a way that makes her arch her back, part her lips, whisper my name again and again as she reaches a dizzying height, body tensing and relaxing, one of her hands gripping the sheets.

“I love that,” I murmur, not realizing I’ve said the words out loud until Sophie lifts her head languidly, staring up at me. Her chest rises and falls rapidly, but she’s lost somewhere in the aftermath of her pleasure.

“What?” she asks, and when her eyes fix on mine, I see how blown out her pupils are. “What do you love?”

I swallow, repositioning myself over her, running my hands along the insides of her thighs. Sophie is just miles and miles of smooth, warm skin, and I can’t keep my hands from working over it, finding new areas to touch and grab.

I’ve been with enough women to know that this is already different — that I’ve never felt so transfixed by a woman in my bed. That before, with others, it’s all been about mutual satisfaction. I get you off, you get me off, and we enjoy a meal before getting on with our lives.

But this? It feels all-consuming. Like worship, the steady beat of rain against your skin, a body giving way to the riptide, drifting without struggle. A welcome crash of waves over your head.

“Elliot?”

I pause, finding her eyes. If I’m a smart man — which I believe myself to be — I’ll keep my mouth shut. I won’t say it, won’t take this to a place more intimate than it already is.

But I have Sophie Kendall here in this bed, naked in front of me, her golden skin glowing in the low light of the city outside our window.

And I can’t stop myself from admitting, voice low, “I love when you say my name like that.”

Sophie smiles, hooking her ankles around my back and drawing me in close, so I press against her, all my longing and wanting apparent in the stiff pressure between our bodies.

“Elliot,” she says, voice breathy with need. There’s an expression on her face caught between vulnerability and amusement. “Do you have a condom?”

The tender moment slips away easily, like a cobweb in the wind, and I grin at her, cocking my head. Becoming the man I’m used to being in this situation.

“Of course I do, Sophie.”