Page 24 of The Billionaire's Baby

Tears prick the backs of my eyes. Seriously? I can’t be crying. Not now. I’d refused to bend to him; I'd been right in that… Though diving into the water? That had been spur of the moment, and probably stupid, to say the least.

"It’s all your fault," I huff. "You are so bloody high-handed, it makes me want to defy you."

He cups my burning asscheek, massages the pain into my skin. I shiver. Only because I’m cold. It’s nothing to do with how warm his palm feels against my skin. Nothing to do with how wet I am between my legs. And no, it’s not due to the dunking I just took.

Another shudder grips my shoulders.

He pauses, then straightens to his feet and throws me over his shoulder.

"Hey," I protest, staring at his very hard, very hot backside. Jesus, why the hell does he have to be in such good shape? I reach down to pinch his ass, and he clicks his tongue.

"Don’t," he growls, "not unless you want the favor returned."

The skin on my backside twinges in reaction. Nope, no way, can I deal with any more of his attentions on my posterior. Not right now.

He hauls me into the bathroom, turns on the shower and dumps me under it. I turn into the hot water, then wince when my backside protests.

The cubicle door shuts, and he steps in behind me. "Don't hog all the water," he commands.

He pours shampoo into his hand, washes the sea water out of my hair, then turns me around and begins to soap me.

"Hey," I grab his wrist, "what the hell are you doing?"

"Taking care of my property." He glares at me, and I shiver. "Lower your hands to your sides," he orders.

Only when my fingers touch my thighs do I realize I’ve obeyed him.Jerk.

He washes every part of my body—my hips, my thighs, between my legs—with clinical precision. He squats down, then raises one foot onto his thigh. I hold onto his shoulder for support as he cleans between my toes, brushes across the underside of my feet.

A giggle bursts from my throat.

He glances up at me. "Ticklish, huh?"

I purse my lips.

He repeats the action with my other foot, as I try desperately not to laugh, then rises up and begins to wash his hair with the motions of a man who’s done so almost every day of his life.

I pour out some of the liquid soap, then rub it across his pecs, down his cut abs, across his thighs. I soap between his legs and his shaft throbs in my grasp.

I glance up to find him staring down at me.

I hold his gaze, move aside to allow the water to wash off the soap from his groin. Then I sink to my knees. Without breaking eye contact, I take him inside my mouth.

"Hell." His knees seem to buckle; he digs his fingers into my hair and tugs. Goosebumps rise on my skin. I bob my head, take him in and his cock hits the back of my throat.

His gaze intensifies. His nostrils flare. He pulls out, then hauls me to my feet, reaches behind me to shut off the shower.

"I wanted to—"

"You’ll do as I say—no more, no less. You get me?"

"Yes…" For some reason I want to say ‘master,’ but no way, am I going to give him the satisfaction of that.

He walks out of the shower cubicle, holds out a towel. I step into it and he rubs me down. Once more, he takes his time and pays special attention to my breasts, my hips, my thighs. He pats down the flesh between my legs and I shudder.

He tosses the towel aside, grabs a fresh one and dries himself off. Then he hauls me up in his arms.

"I can walk," I protest.