Page 330 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Penny

"That’s my choice, isn’t it?" I hold his gaze, even though everything in me wants to punch him and tell him to wake up and recognize what we have here. I may not have been with any other man, but I’m worldly wise enough to know that if the sex is this explosive, and if the chemistry between us is such a tangible force that I can sense him anytime he’s in the vicinity, and that, despite the fact that he comes across as such an asshole, I can look past his persona to the man he really is inside, then—whatever is between us is worth fighting for.

It’s worth trying to convince him that he loves me, too, even if he doesn’t want to admit it.

He pulls out of me, then stays poised at my entrance in a way that builds anticipation and makes every part of me tingle and my nerves scream with expectation.

Gah, why does he have to tease me like this?

I push up my pelvis and try to take him in me, but he clicks his tongue.

"You can’t top from the bottom, Little Dove. "

"What?"

He glares at me, and my insides clench in anticipation. He looks a little mad and frustrated and as if he’s reaching the end of his tether, which means he’s going to do something I don’t like—but also like. A lot.

"You know what I mean," he growls.

"I have no idea what you’re talking about." I widen my gaze, trying to portray a picture of innocence.

His eyebrows draw down. "Do you know what happens to bratty girls who don’t know their place?"

"No, Sir," I say in a coy voice.

Instantly, his dick pulses, and this time, when I push up, the crown breaches me. I groan; so does he.

"It feels so good, I want more. Please, Sir. Please."

"You beg so beautifully. This time, I’m going to take you against my better judgement, but you’re going to pay for this, you feel me?" He lowers his head until his lips are, once more, so close I can feel his breath on my mouth. I lick my lips, and his shaft pulses.

"I feel you, I—" I cry out as he kicks his hips forward and slams into me. My entire body moves up the mattress. He cups the top of my head, so I don’t slam into the headboard, then he begins to pound me.

"Such a tight cunt you have, Little Dove."

Thrust.

"You take my cock so beautifully."

Thrust.

"Such a perfect little receptacle for my cum."

T-h-r-u-s-t.

"Such a willing, obedient hole for me to take whenever I want."

He begins to slow down, and I pant. No, he’s not slowing down. He’s merely changed his rhythm to long, deep strokes, so each time he enters me, it’s like he’s sliding all the way up to my throat.

"Sir," I moan. "Sir."

"You look so good when you plead. You’ll look better wearing my cum." With that, he pulls out, grips the base of his dick, then straddles my chest and plants his massive thighs on each side of my face.

"Open your mouth."

I do.

"I’m going to come down your throat, and you’re going to take every single drop."

Before I can nod, he pushes his dick into my mouth. He hits the back of my throat, and I gag. A groan rips out of him. Beads of sweat stand out on his forehead.

"Fuck." His nostrils flare, his cock pulses, and on instinct, I reach up and squeeze his balls. With a low growl, he shoots his cum. Some of it spills over the corners of my lips. There’s an expression of pain—or maybe, ecstasy— on his features as he squeezes his big hand around his shaft and drains every last drop. Then he pulls out.

"Show me," he orders.

I open my mouth. He scoops up the overflow and slides it onto my tongue.

"Swallow," he growls, then, wraps his fingers around my throat, feeling the liquid slip down my gullet.

He shifts down my body until, once more, he’s planked over me, and as if he can't stop himself, he presses his lips into mine. Without breaking stride, he rolls on his back, pulling me onto him as he continues to ravage my mouth. My eyelids shut, and I fall asleep with his tongue sliding over mine.

I wake up briefly to find he’s carrying me into the ensuite bathroom. "What are you doing?" I yawn.

"Shh, go back to sleep," he whispers.

I do. I float in and out of consciousness, barely aware he’s holding me up in the bath as he slides the washcloth down my body and between my legs.

When I moan, he hushes me. His touch is so gentle, the thud-thud-thud of his heart at my back so comforting, the sound of his breathing is a lullaby. Once again, I fall asleep.

This time, when I wake up, I’m alone in my bed.

Light pours in through the window, and I feel light, myself.

I sit up and stretch. I’m a little sore, but I feel refreshed.

When I throw off the covers, I find I’m dressed in a sweat-shirt—which is not mine.

I raise the cloth to my nose and sniff. Sea-breeze and pepper overlaid with the scent of fabric conditioner.

It’s his sweatshirt. He rolled up the sleeves, and when I stand, it falls to mid-thigh.

I take a step forward and wince—okay, strike that, I’m very sore, but only in between my legs.

I walk over to the ensuite, pee, and the water sliding past my abraded labia sends a not-unpleasant shiver up my spine.

Good god, now I’m aroused by peeing? Is it because he suggested I would feel the imprint of his cock while I did or is it because I actually do?

A-n-d I’m not going to dwell on it. I jump up from the toilet, flush, wash my hands, brush my teeth, then head into the bedroom and come to a stop when I see him.

He’s standing in front of the bed, dressed in a fitted suit that makes him look like he’s walked out of the pages of GQ.

He lifts his wrist, glances pointedly at his watch, then at me. "You have ten minutes to get dressed."

"You could have stopped me from oversleeping," I huff as I race after him to the car. I managed to stretch the ten minutes to twenty, okay twelve… But I wrangled two minutes more from the bosshole. That has to count for something.

"I went running. Adam was waiting for me, so I didn’t have the time to wake you up before I left.

" He picks up his speed, and by the time I reach the car door he’s held open for me, I’m panting.

I scowl at him, but he merely nods toward the back seat.

I slide in, he follows me, slams the door shut, and we’re off.

Of course, he buries his nose in his phone.

The early morning sun slants through the window and bounces off the emerald set in my wedding ring.

I raise my hand, take in both the engagement and the wedding rings.

Whoa, I’m married. Not for real—he’d like to claim—but last night sure felt real.

Also, he waited for me, and we’re driving to work together—like a married couple.

Another point in my favor, I think. We travel in silence for another twenty minutes until my stomach rumbles loudly.

I freeze and pretend I didn’t hear it. Only Sir Grumphole, aka my new husband, of course, hears it.

Without looking up from his phone he says, "Rudy, take a right up ahead."

"Where are we going?" I turn to him, but he’s, once more, lost in whatever he’s reading on his phone.

Rudy brings the car to a halt in front of a bakery, but it's not just any bakery. It’s the one near the office. The one where I buy the coffee and the croissants and my cupcakes.

I shoot him a suspicious glance, but he’s getting out of the car. I trail him inside and slide into the seat opposite him at a table by one of the windows.

"You’re going to be late," I murmur.

"No, we’re not."

I roll my eyes. "The food and coffee here are excellent, but the service is slow and—"

"Here you go Mr. Warren." A waitress places a croissant, another plate with two cupcakes—one with sprinkles and the other with chocolate chips on the frosting—a third plate with a cinnamon roll, followed by a fourth which is heaped with eggs and toast, along with fresh orange juice and a cup of frothy coffee, in front of me.

She slides a plate of eggs and toast, then a cup of coffee—black, of course—in front of him, followed by a copy of the Wall Street Journal. Oh, she also slips a piece of paper with her number scrawled on it under his plate.

"Anything else you’d like, Mr. Warren?" she asks sweetly.

A burning sensation cuts a hole through my stomach.

I grip the edge of the table with my fingers.

Don’t say it, don’t say it. "Darling, we forgot the condom again last night. At this rate, I’ll be pregnant before the month is out.

Your father is going to be over the moon, don’t you think?

Have you thought about a name for the little one?

I have some thoughts, if you’d care to hear. "

The waitress flinches and shoots me a venomous look. I wave my hand—my left hand with the wedding ring—in the air. "Shoo now."

She turns and walks off. I reach for the paper with her number on it, but he picks it up first. He holds it in between us. My breath catches in my chest. Then he crumples it and tosses it on the table, and I cough.

"Your coffee’s getting cold, Darling," he murmurs.

The last word is heavy with sarcasm, but I ignore it. I reach for the coffee, take a sip, then freeze. "This has cinnamon flavoring and a dollop of cream," I say slowly.

"Indeed." He reaches for his fork and scoops up some of the eggs. He brings it to his mouth, and I can’t take my gaze off of how he wraps his lips around the morsel and licks the tines clean.

My pussy clenches, and my panties are wet—again.

Jesus, I might as well start wearing diapers, at this rate.

He places his fork on the table and glances at me.

I flush, knowing I’ve been caught staring. "What?" I scowl.

"You’re not eating."

"Eh?" I take another sip of the coffee and the bitter-sweet taste of cinnamon fills my senses. "How did you know how I take my coffee?"

"I told the coffeeshop to get you your regular drink."

"And how did you get such quick service?"

"I messaged them ahead to let them know our order."

"Ah." I blink.