Page 26 of Accidentally Marrying the Billionaire

I don't know which of us moves first.

Maybe him. Maybe me. Maybe we both do, meeting in the middle like magnets finally allowed to snap together. But suddenly we’re kissing.

The kiss starts slowly. Exploratory. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing over my cheekbone, and I melt into it like I've been waiting for this—for him—my whole life. Maybe I have. Maybe every mediocre kiss before this was just preparation for the moment Mike Sinclaire would ruin me for anyone else.

When his tongue slides against mine, I make a sound—something between a whimper and a moan—and he growls in response. Actually growls. Low in his chest, vibrating through me.

“Come here," he murmurs against my mouth. “Closer.”

Before I can respond, his hands are on my hips, lifting me effortlessly onto his lap. I settle against him, thighs bracketing his, and oh. Ohhh, that's— He's hard. Very hard.

The realization sends a bolt of heat straight through me.

"Is this okay?" he asks, pulling back just enough to search my face.

"Yes," I breathe. "God, yes."

He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I rock against him instinctively. The friction is perfect—his hardness pressing exactly where I need it, the rough drag of denim against the thin cotton of my leggings.

"Fuck," he groans. "Evelyn⁠—"

"Don't stop." I roll my hips again, chasing the sensation. "Please don't stop."

His hands grip my waist, guiding my movements, setting a rhythm that makes my brain go staticky. Every roll of my hips grinds my clit against him, pleasure building in slow, devastating waves.

"You feel so good," he manages, his voice wrecked. "Christ, the sounds you make⁠—"

I'm not quiet. That's another thing Kurt hated—said I was too loud, too much, too needy. But Mike looks at me like every whimper and gasp is a gift. Like he wants to catalog each one and play them back later.

Our mouths meet again. Tongues tangle, breaths mingle. Everything one of my senses is on high alert, and I hope this is really happening and not some fever-induced dream. Oh God, what if I fell and hit my head in Vegas and I’m actually in a coma and there is no Mike.

He pulls back from the kiss. “Where did you go?”

I stare into his pretty brown eyes. “To crazy town. I was just thinking that this could all be a fantasy or a dream.”

He bucks up against me. “Feel how hard I am for you?”

“Yes,” I breathe. “You feel so good.”

"That's right,” he says, his forehead pressed to mine. “This isn’t a dream. It’s you and me living our new reality. Right now, we’re not going to think about exes or deadlines or prenups. We’re just going to be together. Husband and wife. Now, take what you need, princess. Use me."

Use me.

Something about those words snaps the last thread of my self-control.

I grind down harder, faster, my fingers fisting in his shirt for leverage. His hips buck up to meet mine, and we find a rhythm—desperate, frantic, perfect.

"I'm close," I gasp. "Mike, I'm⁠—"

"I know." His hand slides up my back, presses between my shoulder blades, holding me against him. "Let go. I've got you. Come for me, Evelyn."

His voice—low and commanding and wrecked with want—tips me over the edge.

I shatter.

The orgasm crashes through me, white-hot and blinding. I cry out against his mouth, hips jerking, wave after wave of pleasure pulsing through me while he holds me steady.

"Fuck," he groans, and then he's following me over, his whole body tensing beneath mine, a guttural sound torn from his throat as he comes. “You made me come in my pants like a goddamn teenager.”