Page 46 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

I squeeze my eyes closed and collapse down onto my elbows so I can press my fists into my eye sockets as I ride out this orgasm he’s building inside my body.

He rewards me with harder finger fucks and a more merciless onslaught against my clit, and I writhe with pleasure in his expert hands, because no one can handle me like my husband.

I won’t last, but I can tell by the ravenous noises he’s making that Aide needs inside me, and quick, so that shouldn’t be a problem. I let my body take over as the heat he’s stoked courses through my body in waves so powerful they suck me under. I’m lost to sensation, but I need more.

‘Fuck me,’ I cry, and immediately he’s on his knees behind me, pushing all the way in with a single, powerful stroke. The feeling of fullness is so right . It’s everything. It’s life-affirming. I stretch my arms out in front of me and claw at the sheets so I can hold steady for him.

I love my husband in every moment, in every way, but nothing else compares to having him inside my body.

Nothing compares to him ramming that thick cock home over and over, his huge form hulking over me.

I may not be able to see him like this, but I couldn’t feel closer to him.

His hairy thighs are between my spread ones, his huge hands are gripping my hips, moving them to meet him every time he bottoms out in me, and, despite my arousal and all the relaxin in my body, his dick is such a tight fit that it feels like the best kind of invasion.

And the friction—the friction, the drag, of his cock in and out of my still-shuddering, still sensitive inner walls is pure perfection. It’s always carnal with Aide. With my caveman. When we’re connected like this, our appetite for each other never seems to wane.

‘Fuck, you’re so beautiful,’ he moans as he thrusts into me.

His drives are measured, but he’s not holding back.

Every one is perfect. Every one hits the way I need it to.

‘I love you.’ Thrust. ‘So fucking much.’ Thrust. ‘My beautiful, amazing wife, who needs it hard.’ Thrust .

‘I can’t get enough of you.’ Thrust. ‘Feel that, sweetheart. Feel your husband’s dick deep inside you. ’

My hot builder kink isn’t my favourite anymore.

My favourite is my husband kink. Therefore, whenever Aide says the words wife or husband when he’s fucking me, it unlocks something primitive. Because being fucked by Aide is amazing. I mean, come on. The guy’s a god.

But being fucked by Aide, my husband , has me spiralling to another plane. I need him on every primitive, elemental level. I need him to claim me with his body just like he did with his heart and his words and his ring and his vows and this baby he’s put in me.

So when he says things like that, it makes everything wind even tighter inside me, and not only because my favourite caveman’s graduated to multi-word sentences when he’s fucking me.

‘Oh my God,’ I gasp, which is far less hot than what he’s saying, but it’s all I’m capable of right now, because the friction is so fucking amazing, and his drives are so powerful they’re obliterating my basic executive function, and all my greedy inner walls can think of is more, more, more.

‘Harder!’ I scream, and fuck does he really let me have it.

He digs his fingers in so hard I’ll have bruises on my hips tomorrow, and he rams into me, over and over, invading my body till I’m a senseless mess, conscious only of the bright white glow that’s built and built somewhere deep inside and which my husband’s dick is stoking.

When I let go this time, it’s more profound, more elemental, and I’m only vaguely conscious beyond the roaring in my ears of Aide shouting my name as the contractions my body’s producing trigger his own obliteration. His own epiphany.

After he’s eased out of me and cleaned us both up with a wad of tissues, we lie down on the bed together, two happy, spent commas curled up into each other, nose to nose.

‘Fuck, Lotts,’ he whispers as he brushes a damp tendril of hair off my forehead. His face is soft. Open. Those extraordinary eyes, which I will never get over as long as I live, see only me. And they’re wet, his eyelashes starry with unshed tears.

‘Hey,’ I whisper, winding a leg around him and tugging myself closer. ‘It’s okay.’

‘I know.’ He winds his top arm around me like a vice while stroking my bump with the knuckles of his other hand. ‘It’s just… I love you so much. And I love our daughter. You two are my whole world.’

‘You’re my world, too,’ I tell him. ‘Remember that independent woman you fell for, who you thought didn’t need you? Gone. ’

That gets me a laugh.

‘I need you every second of the day, in every way,’ I tell him, ‘and our daughter does, too. We’re nothing without you. So buckle up, mister.’

‘Our daughter will be like her mother,’ he tells me. ‘Strong, and beautiful, and amazing. She won’t need me, but she’ll have me kneeling at her feet, worshipping her, even so.’ He shudders. ‘Shit, I really need to get more pointers from your dad.’

‘He’s useless,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve got him wrapped around my little finger.’

He sighs. ‘Yeah.’

I gaze at him. I may have noticed his incredible beauty first, but the heart inside Aidan Duffy’s sculpted torso is by far his most precious feature. He is what I suspected from early on—a good, good man. He’ll make such a wonderful dad that just thinking about it makes me well up.

‘I’m glad you took a chance on me,’ I whisper.

He smiles, and that smile speaks of infinite love. Then it turns to a wolfish grin. ‘You basically stuck your tits in my mouth. I didn’t really have a choice. No one could say no to those tits, Carlotta Duffy.’

‘True,’ I muse, trailing a finger over his soft beard. ‘But you thought I was a spoilt brat. I had to pull out all the stops.’

‘You didn’t, actually,’ he tells me. ‘I would have caved. I wouldn’t have let you walk away from me. You had me entranced from the start.’ He kisses me gently. ‘I never stood a chance against you.’

I let my eyelids flutter closed as his kisses turn less gentlemanly.

I see my husband every day. I wake up with him each morning, mainly in this beautiful home he built—the home that’s become our much-needed sanctuary—but sometimes in our flat in London.

I go to sleep each night, wrapped up in his arms.

I share an office with him at least twice a week when I’m doing what he refused to do properly and marketing the hell out of the man behind Fresh Start: Aidan Fucking Duffy.

And yeah, I do it really well. It helps me sleep better at night, knowing my entire week hasn’t been spent selling eight-figure properties to people who are richer than God.

My point is, I get to see, to enjoy, all the facets of the extraordinary man I fell in love with.

The animal.

The husband.

The entrepreneur.

The philanthropist.

The father-to-be.

And it gets me thinking. It gets me reminiscing about how angry I was that time, what feels like long ago now, when I found out he’d been lying to me about who he was.

Turns out, the only things he’d failed to disclose back then were his surname, his day job, and his bank balance.

He never lied to me about the man he actually was .

He was right when he told me, that day in his office, that he’d shown me the real version of himself.

Everything Aide has done, and said, and shown me, has been authentic.

The man doesn’t have a false bone in his body.

He’s incapable of subterfuge. He’s incapable of not wearing that huge, beating, bleeding heart of his on his sleeve.

He is the realest man I’ve ever known.

THE END

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