New York Billionaires Series

“From where I stand, you’ve done a pretty good job with everything, Tristan,” she murmurs. “Things don’t need to be perfect to be worth doing.”

I wake up in a bed that’s large enough for five, snuggled deep under soft linen comforters. A heavy arm is draped around my waist. My legs threaded through someone else’s.

I smile sleepily. I’m with Tristan in his bed, having spent the night. The intimacy we’d shared has settled into my bones, thorough relaxation throughout my body. Lingering pleasure from the night before. A light, pleasurable soreness.

The giant room is cast in soft shadows and flickers of faint December light. The strong lines of Tristan’s face are smoothed into softness, the thick hair mussed. A man used to being watched, here where no one can watch him.

Tenderness clenches in my chest at the sight. He might be my boss. There might be a thousand things standing in our way. But I want this man, with all of his doubts and flaws and strengths and skills.

His arm tightens around my waist. “You’re awake,” he murmurs, not opening his eyes.

“So are you.”

His arm inches higher, a hand settling around one of my breasts. I’ve quickly learned it’s one of his favorite handholds.

I run a hand over his chest. “Thanks for being my heater.”

“Hmm,” he says, hand squeezing. “I do my best.”

“You must run a degree or two hotter than me.”

“We all have our skills.” He rises on an elbow, his shoulders a contrast of sharp, masculine angles against the softness of the comforter. “You really have amazing breasts, you know.”

It’s such an offhand comment that I laugh.

He raises an eyebrow. “It’s true. Perhaps not a skill, but very true.”

I peer underneath the comforter, where his hand covers one of them from view. “They’re all right,” I agree. “But the size can get pretty annoying. I can’t really buy sports bras from normal stores, for example. Shirts often gape at the buttons.”

Tristan frowns. “Must be difficult.”

“It’s a nuisance sometimes.”

“One wonders if they’re worth it.” He pulls the comforter back, folding it at my waist, and inspects my breasts. His hand switches from one to the other and my laughter makes them bounce.

“Yes,” he finally announces. “From my perspective, they’re worth it.”

“I’m so happy to hear that,” I tease.

He grins as he bends his head, taking one of my nipples in his mouth. A sharp sting of arousal rushes through my body at the heat. “Can’t resist,” he tells me, as he switches breasts.

“You did warn me,” I murmur, sliding my hand into his hair. Closing my eyes as his hand moves down my stomach and over my bare thighs.

“It’s a Saturday morning.”

“That’s right,” I echo. “We don’t have to be anywhere.”

“Your heater’s not running away.”

My breathing hitches as he pushes my legs apart beneath the comforter, his fingers finding me as naked as I’d been last night.

“No,” I breathe. “It’ll be just as broken in a couple of hours.”

“No need to rush.”

“None at all.” My back arches at the smooth circling of his fingers. My pleasure comes easily, a path well-trodden in the past few weeks with him.

“That’s it.” He bites down softly around a nipple and I shudder against him, my fingers knotted in his hair. Lazy, unhurried, unrushed. Intimate.

Tristan in the morning, I’m learning, is a glorious thing.

I try to reach for the hardness resting against my hip, but his fingers stop me. One of them sinks deliciously deep inside me.

His mouth slides up to my neck. “Do you know how good you feel?”

“Mmm.”

“Sore?”

I shake my head, my hands curving around his wide shoulder. “Just a little.”

“Good,” he murmurs, adding another finger. His movements are still light and teasing. I twist my hips and he shakes his head. “I’ll never tire of this, Freddie. Never stop needing you.”

“That doesn’t sound like a problem.”

A hoarse chuckle. Then his hand disappears, leaving me bereft and wanting. He pulls the comforter back and reaches for a pillow. “On your stomach,” he orders, voice rough from sleep and want. I look down at him, hard and aching, and obey. He slides the pillow beneath my hips and I look over my shoulder to see him there, straddling my legs, tightly pressed together.

“Tristan,” I tell him. A plea and a question.

He gives me the wide, unfiltered grin I love the most. The one of a man who loves being in control. And then he pushes into me from behind.

The fit is snug like this, the pressure inside me rising with each disappearing inch. Only when he’s buried to the hilt does he lie down on top of me, elbows on either side of my face to bear his weight.

He’s everywhere. His body on top of mine, touching from foot to crown, his hair-roughened chest against my back.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever experienced.

“Yes,” I breathe as he starts to move. With my legs still pressed close together, I can feel every ridge of him.

He bends his head and gently bites into my shoulder. Laughter escapes me, one he echoes, before it turns into a groan. I turn my head against the mattress and wrap my arms around his, the muscles taut and bulging as he carries his own weight. Press my lips against his arm.

“Never stop wanting you,” he murmurs, voice pained.

“Me neither.” He’s bearing me into the bed, and with the pillow beneath my hips… The pressure is right where I need it. “Don’t stop.”

The pleasure spreads through me in shockwaves, my hands turning into claws around his braced arms. I can’t move, can’t think around the pleasure of my orgasm and Tristan moving inside me. My whole world narrows to sensations. Like the sound of his hoarse groan in my ear. The feel of his hot skin against mine.

He rests his cheek against mine and grinds out the words. “It’s too good.”