Page 143 of The Billionaire's Fake Wife

44

“I didn’t know how to love him. I only knew how to fuck,”

— Lie With Me, Director: Clement Virgo

Summer

I come awake to find that I am curled up in the center of the massive bed—his bed, in his house on Primrose Hill.

I sit up and the sheet slides down to pool at my waist. When I swing my legs over, I wince. My thighs ache; there is a soreness in my center. I straighten, glance down, and the breath leaves me. The skin on my thighs is chafed and abraded. I take a step forward and my arse hurts… Yeah, also that part of me where he had proceeded to butter me up, before driving into me from behind. A slow burn starts somewhere below. No. I didn’t enjoy it, I didn’t. Who am I kidding? He’d… surprised me again.

He’d brought to life one of the most notorious scenes from film history and ah! Liquid heat pools between my legs. It had been the singular most degrading experience of my life… and the most turned on I’ve ever been.

I squeeze my fingers at my sides.

Then he’d turned me around… and… kissed me. He’d made love to me.

"I’m more than halfway in love with you."

Did he mean it? Sinclair Sterling does not say anything lightly and definitely not the emotions associated with that particular sentiment. Perhaps my imagination is leading me down a path of wishful thinking?

What do I have to do to clear my head? Rid my body of the imprints of his palm that I can feel on my butt, on the curve of my waist, the thickness of his fingers… inside me, bringing me to orgasm, the cold slick of the butter as he’d lubricated me before he’d taken me, with absolute confidence.

He’d known that I wouldn’t refuse him. I’d wanted to. No… I’d wanted him. When I am in his vicinity, I can’t think of anything else but him… Liar. Even when I am not in the same room, I see him in my mind and yeah, my pussy has a way of homing in on how it will be to have him buried balls deep inside of me.

Jesus, get a grip, here.Stop with the pornographic scenes playing on repeat. Not that I’ve seen porn… If you don’t count 9 1/2 weeks, which had explored BDSM long before Fifty Shades of Grey, or 9 Songs. Wait… What is it with the 9 anyway? I shake my head. Or any of the myriad other arthouse flicks that I’d snuck in to watch, whenever they came to play at the Prince Charles Theatre—one of the few existing arthouse cinemas near Leicester Square.

My entire life is beginning to resemble a badly-produced indie flick, for that matter… For he hadn’t stopped there. After I’d fallen asleep on his chest… Yeah, it’s large, hard, and surprisingly comfortable, and despite all of the ways he’s fucked me over—literally—seems something in me innately trusts Mr. Big Bad.

I’d woken up to find he was carrying me up to the roof top. He’d ordered a helicopter because… Well yeah, he could.

He’d said he wanted to get inside me again and didn’t want to wait. Of course, not.

I swallow, lurch toward the bathroom.

He’d carried me inside the house to the kitchen. Fed me strawberries and cream. He’d insisted I eat it and drink every drop of the glass of orange juice he’d poured for me.

Then he’d shagged me.

Over the kitchen table, on the steps, against the wall of his bedroom, on the bed… He’d broken off to bring me some cheese and biscuits at dinner time. No alcohol because… he wanted all of my faculties about me.

I’d lost count somewhere after orgasm number thirteen, or was that twenty? I bite the inside of my cheek. I’d fallen asleep with him inside of me again. My pussy clenches. How can I miss him already?

I shove open the bathroom door and cross the floor to the sink on the left; the one with an array of feminine cosmetics, none of which I’d brought. The brand is absolutely top of the range. Individually, they’d account for what I’d probably get paid in a week working at FOK. Fuck.

I drag my fingers through my hair. I’d never gotten a chance to mention the reason I’d barged in on him. Because I’d had an idea for the marketing strategy. Something I need to bring up to him right away.

I glance at the mirror and notice the note tucked into a corner of the glass frame. Reach for it, pull it out. The gold SS on the cream paper confirms who it was from.

"The cosmetics are for you—don’t refuse them."

Asshole. His cursive is as dominating as his presence.

"Breakfast is waiting for you in the kitchen."

Huh? You don’t say.

"Because I’m feeling charitable, you may work from home today. You’re welcome."