Page 17 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole (The Billionaire’s Bidding #2)
SOPHIE
E lliot draws back from me, reaches into the pocket of his pants on the floor, and pulls out a small, square, silvery package. For some reason, it’s endlessly attractive to me that he has one on him, just like that.
Was he thinking about me when he put it in his pocket? Like I was thinking about him when I slid these black lace panties up my body earlier?
“Well prepared,” I joke as he rises up. When he tears the wrapper with his teeth, it sends a jolt through me. I didn’t know people actually did that.
The sight of him is almost obscenely beautiful, his ass back on his heels, his torso on full display for me. He has the look of a man who exercises frequently but isn’t focused on looks, a light spattering of hair running up his stomach and spanning over his chest.
Over his left peck is a little tattoo — and this is my first time seeing it. When I push up onto my elbows and look at it, I realize it’s a sprawling signature that reads Charlie Altman .
“My Gramps,” Elliot says, following my gaze to his chest. “I got it after he passed. It’s his signature.”
It cuts straight to my heart. This is dangerous territory for me — sleeping with a man like this. Who gets a tattoo dedicated to his grandfather, who touches me and looks at me like I’m something impossible and delicate at once.
“Oh,” I breathe, letting my eyes wander down, looking away from the tattoo so it doesn’t make me tear up, doesn’t mute the desire barreling through my body.
Instead, I watch the muscles in his abdomen ripples, his biceps flexing as he pulls the condom from the package.
I know from experience that the only way to get abs like a superhero is to cut — to diet specifically to show them off. Elliot doesn’t look like Wolverine, but rather a strong, capable man kneeling between my legs, his dark eyes meeting mine, hunger clear in them as he reaches down.
My eyes are locked on him as he rolls the condom on, my entire body pulsing with need, my head fuzzy with the pleasure of the orgasm I’ve just had, and yet giddy for the one that I know is coming.
Elliot sets the wrapper on the end table, lowers himself back down, and braces over me, his eyes holding mine. The expression on his face is hungry, slightly pained, like it’s taking a lot for him to hold himself back, and it takes the breath out of me.
Gently, he runs a hand over my hip, up my side, watching the progress of his touch as it draws goosebumps out on my skin. It’s like I can feel the weight of his eyes right beside his finger, a physical, real, tangible thing.
“Are you ready?” he asks, voice rough. His hand finishes its trek up my body, finding my chest, my neck, my jaw, which he cups so gently it sends another shiver through me.
I nod, practically trembling with anticipation. He notches himself in my entrance and I arch into the feeling, nothing more than the whisper of a touch, the promise of contact, and yet still making hard for me to catch my breath.
Lowering his mouth so it’s just near my ear, he says, “I want to hear you say it, Sophie. Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to… fuck me.”
I whisper the last two words, blushing ridiculously at the sound of it. I’ve never said something like that during sex before, but then again, no other man has asked me to.
Elliot lets out a low noise, his hands finding mine and pinning them above my head on the pillows, and my heart picks up into double time. The anticipation is killing me.
Then, slowly, inch by inch, he takes me.
I move my hips against him, whimpering and begging for him to go faster, but he just shakes his head, smiling against my skin as he takes his time, draws it out.
It feels like a continuation of everything between us.
The way I stuffed my attraction to him down when I first met him.
The constant back and forth, that hunger and frustration in my body that I tried to tell myself was all anti-Elliot, rather than the debilitating knowledge that I wanted something I believed I couldn’t have.
As he presses in, he kisses me, planting his lips on my forehead, my cheeks, the line of my jaw. Then we’re both gasping at the feeling of him — all of him — fully seated inside me.
“Good?” he asks, his voice so quiet, so raw around the edges that it takes me a moment to realize he’s said a word and not just made another rough noise. I nod, wrap my legs around his waist, rock my hips against him, asking for more.
Elliot, to my relief, obliges.
He’s attentive, careful, groaning through his pleasure and still checking in with me, asking if it feels good, what I want.
After a second, I realize he likes it when I tell him that it feels good, so I do so without prompting, running my fingers through his hair, whispering about what I like, what he does that brings me closer to the edge.
“Just like that,” I murmur, and Elliot lets out a quick breath, holding the rhythm, one of his hands drifting down to my hip. He touches me with duality, firmly yet gently, like he knows I can take it, but won’t make me.
Time doesn’t exist, and there’s nothing but the sounds of us — breathing, touching, rough, unfiltered noises that come from the back of the throat — the soft scratch of the sheets, the loud, steady beat of my heart.
There’s nothing but the feeling of him against me. All of his skin, all of my skin.
Normally, no matter what I’m doing, I feel the tug to turn back to soccer. Even at my parents’ house, having dinner on Sundays, I’m thinking about my strategy for the next game. Talks I need to have with the players.
I’ve tried yoga, mindfulness, walks through nature. And yet, this is the first thing I’ve ever done that actually managed to get soccer off my mind. To move that thing to the back, to give me a moment of rest.
This is the first time in years that my mind has completely left my body, blankness surging in.
There’s nothing but the full, rolling sense of pleasure moving up and down my body.
Nothing but Elliot. Nothing but the smell of him, the warm, smooth feeling of his skin beneath my lips as I kiss him, touch him, breathe in the scent of his cologne.
When we finish, my body feels boneless, wrung out, limp. Elliot disappears to the bathroom, returns a moment later with a warm cloth. It makes my chest squeeze.
Then he’s climbing back into the bed wordlessly, and I realize that, for a moment, I thought he might ask me to go back to my own hotel room. But he’s curling his body around mine, tucking my head onto his bicep, taking a deep breath.
His chest shifts against me, the muscles tensing and relaxing. Wordlessly, without discussing it, we cuddle together until we fall asleep.