Before Her Billionaires

By: Julia Kent

Laura


The sound of her steady breath was the only way she could anchor herself as he pressed against her in the silk-covered bed. Moonlight dripped into the room through sheer curtains that billowed in, pushed by a wind so eager to watch what Laura and her lover did under covers and in privacy that it made the cloth tickle her calves, eliciting a throaty laugh as his hands catalogued her.

He smiled, face in the shadows, thickly-muscled arms tending to her and only her. The muted sound of the city clamored outside, both immediate and distant, a background rumble that seemed necessary, like oxygen. It was there, it was noted, and it was forgotten, imprinted into her. What was new was him—his touch, his taste, his scent.

Him.

“You are perfect,” he whispered, a husky voice darkened by want echoing through the room. Mingled with her quickened breath, it made her feel whole. Richer and more mature somehow, tempered by her own driving, throbbing need. She felt changed, from a woman who felt lucky to be under his attentions to one who was wanted enough to be secure.

The shafts of light from the window teased her as they danced across his face, highlighting only the thick, blonde waves she could touch as she felt for his shoulders, fingers playing with his shirt collar, the warm rush of skin and hair at the back of his neck like an invitation to bury herself there. She inhaled musk and a lightly-spicy cologne, orange and clove and something that staked her in place.

She never wanted to leave. Her unclothed legs savored the feel of his, the tingle of thick leg hair against her own smooth skin. A deep breath filled her chest, her throat, her senses with his scent, making her ache to have him inside her in so many more ways. While his musk lingered in the air she inhaled, his fingers made other parts of her shiver, the rush of heat between her legs both welcome and foreboding.

If the mere brush of fingers on her hip could produce such intensity, what would his mouth between her legs feel like? A shudder of anticipation ran through her as his mouth made the delectable journey down the path of her torso, tongue leaving a lazy trail that made her breath hitch, air flow coming in fits and starts as he went down, down, down...leaving no question she was about to learn the answer to what she had just wondered.

Her hands plunged into his thick waves, the soft crush of hair in what became clenched fists maddening against the thin skin between her fingers. The texture of him, of his hair, his neck, the nuances of skin and beard and the nape of his neck, so masculine and yet so tender, made her yearn for this. For more. For all of it, as if she couldn’t grasp enough in the inadequate time they had to touch.

“Oh, there,” she murmured, feeling a smile spread his lips as he parted hers. So many words bounced in her addled head, jumbled and incoherent as his tongue found the pulsing center of her sex. Gratitude. Mercy. Delight. Ecstasy. Joy. Abandon.

Home.

“God, you’re so...” she whispered as he tended to her with such care, like a virtuoso of a woman’s body, playing her as if she were a fine instrument only a handful of masters could manage.

“Mmmm,” he murmured against her, one hand cupping her ass and driving under her, up over her hip and onto her belly, lounging there as if it were waiting for something that it knew was coming. “You’re the one who is a goddess,” he said against her thigh, the wisps of air against her vulnerable, exposed flesh making her quiver. “A luscious, beautiful, amazing gift,” he continued, his words arousing her as much as his ministrations to her flesh.

One hand on her belly, one hand in her, and then a third hand cupped the soft flesh of her ass, a fourth on her breast, tweaking the nipple where his mouth had just been.

And—wait.

Four hands?

A new mouth kissed her, tasting like wine and spices, different from the earlier man, who’d carried a distinct minty flavor. Her body flushed and her eyes searched the dark room, seeking answers.

“We adore you,” said a new voice, deep and filled with a sensual growl that made her entire body shiver, the epicenter of this tectonic shift between her legs. Her hand groped to find the body attached to that voice, encountering hard, rigid muscle, arms with veins that stood out like a rope, like a lifeline she must grab and hold on to for dear life.

And just as her eyes found a shaft of light that illuminated the room just enough to see their faces, to focus on the very man (men?) who gave her so much pleasure, she woke up to a cold, empty room, her heart racing, pulse flying like a supersonic jet, a cold sheen of sweat soaking her breasts, her cleft, her soul.

“No!” she cried out.

Not again. Pounding her fists on the unsympathetic mattress, she hit two, three, four times, her thin cotton nightgown stuck to her loose breasts, her hair flying with the force of her anger.

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