Shopping for a Billionaire 3(11)
Author: Julia Kent

Oh, he really is a god after all.

The way he strokes me, slow and deliberate, as his tongue works in concert with his fingers, my mouth and sex both wet and wild, brings me to the edge so fast. I’m so ready.

I want him so much.

The car pulls away from the curb and I giggle as we lurch, his erection pressing into my hip. His face is dark with want. I’m wet with need. We’re a match made in limo.

I undo his pants and reach in to grip him, the sharp hiss of air sucked in through his teeth my reward. I pull his pants down enough to look and see what I never got a chance to gaze at before we were so rudely interrupted by the Bee Who Nearly Killed Shannon.

He’s beautiful. Thick and veiny and big, skin soft and vulnerable.

“I didn’t break your penis after all,” I say. I can see a tiny puncture mark with a fading bruise, though, just an inch or so away from the base of him. If I’d been just slightly off…

“No, you didn’t. But maybe you will tonight. In the best of ways.” His hands roam over my back, skimming the surface of my skin, then pressing with more urgency.

I laugh, a sound of anticipation.

“Are you evaluating me? Am I aesthetically pleasing?” he asks in a throaty chuckle. “Do you have your app ready to write up your review?”

My answer is to release him and push him back against the seat. I throw one leg over his lap and straddle him, settling over his unleashed self, the thin cotton triangle of my panties the only thing keeping us apart.

“You’re part of a new project. The Shopping for a Billionaire Project.” I wiggle just enough to make him groan.

His hands slide under my shirt, cupping my br**sts, and with a grace that makes me moan he unclasps my bra and wraps those big, strong palms around my br**sts.

“How am I doing so far?”

I make a noise of contemplation. “Eh. Six out of ten.”

He arches one eyebrow, clearly displeased. “Six? I don’t do six.”

I wiggle against him, the shaft sliding along my nub, making my next words come out with a quaking tone. “No, you’re no six.” I close one eye and slide up, shivering. “Maybe seven?”

His abs tighten, shaft lifting just enough to make little light bursts appear, somehow making an entrance in my open-eyed vision.

“Six? Let’s go for ten,” he insists. The snap of my panties registers for a second as a sharp, cutting pain against one hip as he rips them off me. All that separates us now is something deeper than decency.

Declan senses it, too, and shifts just enough, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. The condom appears and he puts it on as I watch his hands, his face, marveling at the unreality of the moment.

Yet it feels more real than anything I can fathom.

He guides me back into his lap and I settle my thighs around his hips, his tip at my entrance like a beacon, mutual throbbing making a pulse that joins two rhythms.

And then he’s in me, kissing my neck, pulling my shirt up over my head, bra hanging from a door handle and he thrusts up into me, thumbs on my ni**les, my body burning for more.

More more more.

The thrill of his fullness in me, of the movements as he kisses me, slow, languid kisses so lush and patient. The kind of kiss you give someone when you mean it. When you want to be with them.

When they’re enough.

More than enough.

“I have wanted you since the first time we met,” he says, serious and breathing hard, his hands on either side of my face, eyes lasered in on mine. A shock of hair falls over his forehead and the day’s beard gives him a rakish look, even as he’s tender and loving.

“You rivet me, Shannon. You make me want you more than I want to be in control, and no woman has ever done that. I abandoned a merger negotiation in New Zealand because I kept looking at our text stream and wondering why the f**k I was settling for pictures of you when I could be inside you.”

Oh!

I don’t have any words. He hammers his point home and I gasp, tightening.

He groans, breaking our gaze, pulling me in for a kiss that tastes like promises and desire.

“I needed you. Need you. Need this,” he says, pulling his h*ps back, clenching his abs, then sliding back up, making me pitch my head back, the sensation too immense to take in just through one part of me. My arms, my face, my flushed skin, it all feels like it’s part of Declan, and he’s part of me, and we’re both part of the sky, the clouds, part of everything.

“I need you, too, Declan,” I say as I tip my head back down and unbutton his shirt. The feel of his hot skin as I skim my palms across his pecs makes me wetter, the heat from our coupling like my own star, bright and radiant. “I can’t quite believe this is happening. That you’re with me. That we’re here.”

“You’re hot and warm and tight,” he groans. I pull in, making my core strong, and he makes a primal sound that is both threatening and satisfying. I made him do that. Me. His thumbs caress my h*ps and I surge for a second, shivering with a quick tingle. A moment of self-consciousness kicks in as his hand caresses my belly under my skirt, thumb pad stroking down again to find the spot I want him to touch the most.

But the palm across my belly makes me think about my curves. My abundant flesh. My…extra. My too much.

He frowns, watching my face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” The word comes out breathy and forced, like a cheerleader whose leg fell off but she’s in denial, still completing her program. Damn it. Don’t do this, Shannon. Don’t ruin it. You would think I’d have felt this way when we were at the park, or the first time we kissed, or the times he’s touched me intimately, and yet – no. It takes being in a limo, surrounded by the trappings of wealth and status for me to feel this sense of inadequacy, quite suddenly. 

I know exactly why, and it sucks.

The first time Steve ever hinted that I might not be good enough was, of course, in a limo. My junior year in college and we were on our way to some business networking event. He’d evaluated me from top to bottom and found the cut of my dress “a bit outdated” and asked whether I’d been exercising enough lately.

I ate a small salad for dinner that night.

Declan cocks his head and stares me down, thumb stroking until I move involuntarily, the self-consciousness replaced by a growing wave inside.

“Tell me,” he murmurs.

“No—really.” The slow circles he traces in my most private flesh are like a language he’s transmitting through these maddening finger presses.