Page 115 of Morally Black Betrothal

His designer shirt.

His perfect suit.

Neither of us seemed to care.

“Brendan,” I gasped as his lips immediately traveled to my neck and sucked.Oh, that felt good. The man knew what he was doing.

“Yessss,” he hissed into the sensitive skin behind my ear. “Say my name just like that, you angel, you. Fuckin’ beg for mercy from your own personal devil. I want to hear it.”

“Brendan,” I whispered again as he bit my ear. “Brendan, please.”

“Fuck.”

He shifted us until I was straddling him in the wide leather seat, causing my skirt to ride up my thighs. His hands slipped under the hem, finding bare handfuls of skin and squeezing asa guttural moan erupted from deep in his chest. He swallowed my own animalistic response, his tongue twisting around mine before his teeth caught my bottom lip and tugged.

“Jesus, Simone.” His hips moved, thrusting up enough to make me whimper. “What are youdoingto me, angel?”

“B-Brendan,” I stuttered as he took a long lick over my throbbing pulse. “W-we need to stop.”

“What? No. I don’t want to. And neither do you.”

His hips rotated again underneath my seat, making it very clear just howbadlyhe didn’t want to stop. Good God, it was like he had a couple of soda cans stacked together under that tailored wool. I couldn’t help the way my own body rolled into it, and we both groaned from the friction.

God, it had been so long.

But it had also never even come close to this.

And we still had our clothes on.

“You keep rubbing yourself on me like that,” he growled against my lips, his breath rough and ragged, “I won’t last two fuckin’ minutes.”

I ground down harder, shivering at his grunts, at how close to the edge I could push him. Unable to think any more about what would happen, what should happen. Unable to feel anything but his broad, warm body under mine, the insistent ridge, the way his hands kneaded my flesh like a Sunday pastry as he helped me rock shamelessly against him.

“You want to ride me here, you sweet thing?” He thieved another kiss. “Make yourself come on my cock, just like this?”

My body answered for me with every rock, every grind. Outside, Boston flickered and called into the night, but all I could feel was this man, the solid reality of him.

Brendan’s mouth traveled up my jaw and back to my ear, where his stubble tickled my lobe. “You’re right, angel. Nobody’s perfect. But you just might be perfect for me.”

His words unlocked some strange fury as I came. Every muscle I had tensed as my release flooded my system so intensely that I shouted his name into his chest as he held me through each and every shudder.

“Fuck, baby.” He shook under my quivering body. “That’s my girl. JesusChrist.”

My breathing slowed. My body sagged against his chest. And then, slowly, reality crept back in.

Brendan’s driver was standing on the other side of the door like some kind of sentry for his prince’s escapades. We were parked in front of a four-star hotel in the back seat of a luxury sedan with windows that were not nearly tinted enough.

And I had just had the most intense orgasm of my life on the fully dressed lap of my fake fiancé.

What had I just done?

“Oh, God, Brendan.” I slid a shaky hand over my hair, which had half come out of its arrangement. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”

“Stop.” The word cracked like a whip, his grip iron on my thighs. “If you say a word of regret right now, you can consider the contract null and void. And I’ll ask for my five million dollars back too.”

The mention of money struck harder than a slap. I scrambled off his lap, heat flooding my cheeks, shame weighing down my chest.

I tugged my skirt down, refusing to meet his eyes. Suddenly, all I could feel was how messy I must look, how cheap in my used clothes and amateur styling. The contract was supposed to protect me, keep this arrangement from becoming exactly what it had just become.