Page 61 of Saved By the Billionaire

“Where is she?”

“Right now?”

She shrugged. “I haven’t seen her.”

His eyes lifted to hers, and held. “I sent her to another property of mine.”

“You sent her?”

“She goes where I need her. That’s the job.”

“And where did you need her, all of a sudden.”

His lips twisted. “Anywhere but here.”

“Roman Hayes,” Kate said, voice unsteady. “Were you trying to get me all alone?”

“Is that a crime?”

Happiness throbbed. She tried to contain it. Tried not to let it seep through her entire body, but it was impossible. It was a raging torrent and there weren’t enough defence mechanisms in the world to dam it.

“Roman.”

“Kate.”

“I think we should go to bed.”

He stopped moving, stared directly at her, then through her. “Do you?”

“You don’t agree?”

His eyes roamed her face. “No.”

Her heart burst. “No?”

He was striding then, around the bench, towards Kate, swivelling her on the bench seat and then standing between her legs. “Fuck the bed, I need you now,” he said urgently, and before she could guess what he was going to do, he was kissing her, rough and hard, with the same desperate need that always flared between them, his mouth the most beautiful assault on hers she could contemplate. His tongue didn’t just tease hers, it dominated, taking over her mouth and her soul, and then his hands were curled in the bottom of her sweater, lifting it, pushing it hard and fast up her body and over her head, groaning at the sight of her in her cotton bra. “I thought we agreed you’d stay naked.”

“Mmm. That would have been a nice surprise for Tia,” she panted, as his hands unhooked her bra and unfastened it, then curved over her breasts, his breath coming in rapid spurts as it appeared that he was coping with this. Touching her. Holding her. This moment of what was to come.

They were balancing on a precipice, and they both knew it. He lifted her onto the edge of the bench he’d just cleaned so perfectly, his hands finding the waistband of her pants and pulling them down, rough and certain, each movement conveying his conviction. She shivered at his raw, latent power, his masculinity, and then she was naked, her body on the bench, his hands running over her, heated and calloused, his mouth following them, kissing her shoulders, her breasts, moving to her flat stomach, his hands guiding her backwards before his mouth connected with her sex and she cried out at his easy invasion, his tongue so confident and right there, flicking and tasting then driving against her most sensitive cluster of nerves. Her breath rushed through her body, unable to release fast enough, until she was spiralling and crying out and he was pushing up and saying, “You taste like a fucking queen.”

“How many queens have you gone down on?” she asked, but the sass of the question was lost in the heavy, frantic panting breaths.

He smirked, glancing up at her. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Well, there’s the whole contract issue to consider,” she pointed out.

“Precisely.”

He stood and pulled her thighs forward, so her sex connected with his arousal, a hard outline jutting against the fabric of his suit pants. Even as he held her there, he was fishing into his pocket for a condom, pulling one out and tearing the top off, before unfastening his pants and pushing it in place. She held herself propped up on her elbows, staring at him, aching for him, excitement a thundering pulse in her ears.

He paused though, running a hand slowly between her breasts, towards her belly button.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“I’m big.”