Page 34 of Her New Billionaire Bosshole

I nod, practically trembling with anticipation. He notches himself in my entrance and I arch into the feeling, nothing more than the whisper of a touch, the promise of contact, and yet still making hard for me to catch my breath.

Lowering his mouth so it’s just near my ear, he says, “I want to hear you say it, Sophie. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to… fuck me.”

I whisper the last two words, blushing ridiculously at the sound of it. I’ve never said something like that during sex before, but then again, no other man has asked me to.

Elliot lets out a low noise, his hands finding mine and pinning them above my head on the pillows, and my heart picks up into double time. The anticipation is killing me.

Then, slowly, inch by inch, he takes me.

I move my hips against him, whimpering and begging for him to go faster, but he just shakes his head, smiling against my skin as he takes his time, draws it out.

It feels like a continuation of everything between us. The way I stuffed my attraction to him down when I first met him. The constant back and forth, that hunger and frustration in my body that I tried to tell myself was all anti-Elliot, rather than the debilitating knowledge that I wanted something I believed I couldn’t have.

As he presses in, he kisses me, planting his lips on my forehead, my cheeks, the line of my jaw. Then we’re both gasping at the feeling of him —all of him— fully seated inside me.

“Good?” he asks, his voice so quiet, so raw around the edges that it takes me a moment to realize he’s said a word and not just made another rough noise. I nod, wrap my legs around his waist, rock my hips against him, asking for more.

Elliot, to my relief, obliges.

He’s attentive, careful, groaning through his pleasure and still checking in with me, asking if it feels good, what I want.

After a second, I realize he likes it when I tell him that it feels good, so I do so without prompting, running my fingers through his hair, whispering about what I like, what he does that brings me closer to the edge.

“Just like that,” I murmur, and Elliot lets out a quick breath, holding the rhythm, one of his hands drifting down to my hip. He touches me with duality, firmly yet gently, like he knows I can take it, but won’t make me.

Time doesn’t exist, and there’s nothing but the sounds of us — breathing, touching, rough, unfiltered noises that come from the back of the throat — the soft scratch of the sheets, the loud, steady beat of my heart.

There’s nothing but the feeling of him against me. All of his skin, all of my skin.

Normally, no matter what I’m doing, I feel the tug to turn back to soccer. Even at my parents’ house, having dinner on Sundays, I’m thinking about my strategy for the next game. Talks I need to have with the players.

I’ve tried yoga, mindfulness, walks through nature. And yet, this is the first thing I’ve ever done that actually managed to get soccer off my mind. To move that thing to the back, to give me a moment of rest.

This is the first time in years that my mind has completely left my body, blankness surging in. There’s nothing but the full, rolling sense of pleasure moving up and down my body. Nothing but Elliot. Nothing but the smell of him, the warm, smooth feeling of his skin beneath my lips as I kiss him, touch him, breathe in the scent of his cologne.

When we finish, my body feels boneless, wrung out, limp. Elliot disappears to the bathroom, returns a moment later with a warm cloth. It makes my chest squeeze.

Then he’s climbing back into the bed wordlessly, and I realize that, for a moment, I thought he might ask me to go back to my own hotel room. But he’s curling his body around mine, tucking my head onto his bicep, taking a deep breath.

His chest shifts against me, the muscles tensing and relaxing. Wordlessly, without discussing it, we cuddle together until we fall asleep.

CHAPTER 17

ELLIOT

When I wake up the next morning, it’s with Sophie’s body pressed to mine.

The room is warm, the golden Miami sunlight streaming in through the window, and I hold my breath, staring at the woman on the pillow next to me. Her honey blond hair spills out in tendrils, and my fingers itch to run through it, feel it again like I did last night.

In fact, I want to feel every part of her like I did last night. I want to feelmoreof her, find new and different ways to touch her.

Then, my eyes shift to the alarm clock on the bedside table, and a jolt of awareness rolls through me.

It’s past eight in the morning.

Just as suddenly as they came, the warm feelings rush away, replaced with a sense of urgency. I’m no stranger to having a woman in my hotel room, but I’ve never let it interfere with my schedule.