Romancing the Billionaire

by Jessica Clare

  He pulled away from her mouth and she made a protesting sound, her eyes closed. Unable to resist that tiny plea, Jonathan continued to kiss and nibble at her soft upper lip. I love you, he wanted to tell her. I’ve never stopped loving you.

  But he knew that saying it again would scare her away. When she came to her senses, she’d likely regret this moment, see it as weakness. He needed to say something to keep her with him, to let her know that everything he did, every breath he took, was wholly hers.

  Jonathan’s teeth tugged on her lower lip, and he noticed how her head tilted along with his, following his movements, her eyes closed in sheer bliss. He loved that. He wanted to continue to watch her lose herself in ecstasy. Her hands clung to him as if she were starved for love, and it gave him hope. “Let me pleasure you, Violet,” he whispered against her mouth.

  Her eyes flew open. “W-what—”

  He silenced her protest with another fervent kiss. “Let me do this, Violet. I won’t ask for anything more. Let me make you feel good.”

  Another tiny whimper rose in her throat. Her eyelashes fluttered, but she didn’t push him away. Instead, he felt her fingers dig into his hair at the nape of his neck.

  She was holding tighter to him.

  Triumphant, Jonathan pressed his mouth to her jaw and began to issue quick, desperate kisses to her soft skin. God, she was lovely. He craved her like oxygen. He’d longed for that blissful look that was currently on her face. It haunted his dreams, made it impossible for him to see another woman. Not when Violet was still consuming his mind.

  He nibbled at her throat, licking and nipping the soft skin there, waiting for her to push him away, to protest that this wasn’t what friends did. But she only moaned and clung to him, and he had to fight back his own groan of delight. She was enjoying his touch.

  He vowed then and there that he’d make it so damn good for her that she’d come back for more. This time, it’d be all about her. Pleasuring her. Watching her face light up with ecstasy. Feeling her tremble in his arms. That would be satisfaction enough for him.

  And he’d take nothing for himself. Because there was nothing on earth that could compare with the softest flutter of Violet’s eyelashes in response to his touch. Nothing he could do that would bring him half as much pleasure as making her quiver.

  He wanted to do more than just kiss her on her face and neck. An image of him burying his face between her legs surged into his mind and he had to bite back his response. If this was about Violet, she had to want it, too. He’d have to kiss her and caress her until she was begging for it.

  And he remembered that his Violet loved to be touched more than anything.

  Jonathan brushed a hand up and down her arm, enjoying the feel of her small frame under his. She was wearing a long-sleeved knit top that he wanted to rip off so he could feel the soft skin underneath, but he’d follow her lead. His hand smoothed over her shoulder and brushed over her nape, caressing.

  She moaned in response, her head tilting back even as she pressed her body closer in his arms. “Jonathan,” she breathed.

  God, he loved the sound of his name on her lips. “I’m here,” he murmured softly, gliding his hands over her clothed form, stroking down her back and then smoothing over her hip.

  “Your hands feel unbelievable,” she told him. “Why do you feel so incredible?”

  “Because I know just how you like to be touched,” he told her, nipping at her ear. “Your body remembers how good I can be to you.”

  She shuddered against him. For a moment, he worried he’d pushed her too hard, but then her mouth pressed against his neck and she practically crawled into his lap. “Touch me.”

  “Take off your top,” he told her. “Then I can touch you everywhere.”

  She hesitated for a moment, and his heart thudded a warning. Had he lost her? But she only opened her eyes and gave him a dazed look. “What . . . what about . . .” She licked her lips. “Will someone see?”

  “Violet, love, we’re at thirty thousand feet. There’s no one on this jet but you and me and the pilot, and he’s not coming out of the cockpit. We’re completely alone.” For the first time that evening, he was thankful they’d elected to fly without an attendant hovering. It truly was just him and Violet in the back of the small jet, and he intended to take full advantage of the situation.

  She licked her lips again, sitting back in her chair, indecision on her lovely face. “If you’re sure . . .”

  “I won’t do anything you don’t want,” he told her, brushing the back of his knuckles along the sweetly stubborn curve of her jaw. “Never.”

  “I want you to keep touching me,” she admitted, reaching for him.

  He dragged her into his lap this time, pushing the armrest between them up into the chair. She went into his arms eagerly, her hands on his shoulders and her thighs straddling his. His cock nestled between the part of her legs and he was unable to stop the groan from escaping his throat. He had to remain in control; this was about her, not him.

  But she gave a little wiggle in his lap at his response, as if she enjoyed hearing it. Her hand slid down the front of his shirt, pressing against his muscles. “Will you take this off for me? I want to look at you.”

  She wanted to look at him? “If it’d give you pleasure,” Jonathan said.

  She nodded, the expression in her eyes eager, hungry.

  He sat upright in the chair and Violet clung to him as he carefully maneuvered and pulled the T-shirt over his head without dumping her off of his lap. Then he sat back again, drawing her against him.

  Her hands went to his chest, pressing against his muscles, and she gave a sigh of pleasure. “You sure did turn out pretty,” she breathed, her fingers tracing along his pectorals. “Oh, man.”

  He let her explore him, remaining silent lest he interrupt her and distract her from her focus.

  “And so warm, too,” she murmured, her fingers trailing along his skin. She looked pale against his tan, a sharp contrast reminding him of the different paths their lives had taken. Violet should be as tanned as he was, Jonathan thought fiercely. She should be at his side on his adventures, not trapped in a classroom.

  Grasping her hand in his, he brought the palm to his mouth and kissed the center. “I’d be even warmer if your bare skin was pressed to mine.”

  She shivered, her dark lashes fluttering again. He watched her bite her lip, deciding, and then to his intense joy, she reached for the hem of her body-masking tunic top that hid her lush curves. “I haven’t been exercising as much as you in the last ten years.”

  “I don’t care,” he told her. He didn’t give a fuck. If she was fat and lumpy—and she wasn’t—she’d still be gorgeous to him because she was his Violet. “I want to see you. All of you. I want to press you against my skin.”

  Her eyes went wide at his words, and he mentally cursed himself for losing his cool. Maybe he’d been a bit too vehement in that statement.

  But she leaned in and kissed him again, and then she slowly tugged her top over her head, her messy hair fluttering against her jaw and curving there.

  And then she was straddling him in nothing but a bra and her yoga pants.

  Her bra was plain white. Boring, she probably thought. But he liked that boring bra. He fucking loved it, because it told him that she wasn’t a woman with a closet full of lingerie designed to torment lovers. He wanted to be her only lover. He wanted to be the only one to touch her soft skin, to feel the press of her curves against him. So he tugged at one serviceable strap and then ran a finger along the seam of the bra cup. “Take this off.”

  She shivered again, and he watched her skin break out in goose bumps, her nipples erect. Her breath was coming in sharp, short little gasps. Slowly, her hands reached behind her back and he heard the pop of the clasp, watched the tight fabric over her full breasts loosen and then fall forward.
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br />   And then she shrugged it off her shoulders and cast it aside. Violet tossed her head back and sat on his lap, half naked and defiant, as if daring him to say something about the changes in her body.

  Violet had never been lean. Even back when they were teenagers, her figure had tended to ripeness. That hadn’t changed; her breasts were fuller than before, her stomach slightly more rounded, her hips a little plumper, her ass less of a tight apple and more of a juicy bouncing pair of curves that taunted him when she walked. But she was utterly and completely gorgeous. Her nipples were that dark pink he remembered, still upthrust and tight little circles that begged for his mouth and fingers. Her breasts were full and heavy, shifting with every rapid rise and fall of her chest, and her waist tapered in before spreading to her hips.

  She was obscenely gorgeous.

  “You are so lovely you steal my breath,” Jonathan told her reverently.

  He watched her tremble against him, her fingers digging against his lower arms where she rested them. “That . . . that’s not another poem, is it?”

  “That’s me,” he said bluntly. “Speaking to you. You’re gorgeous.” His gaze devoured her, the heaving breasts, the taut nipples, the smooth skin. “May I touch you, Violet?”

  Her fingers went to his neck, played with his hair. “Will you tell me more poetry?”

  “Anything you want,” he agreed. Anything so he could get his hands on her.

  “I’d like that.”

  He racked his brain, trying to think of something that came to mind that would suit the moment. He normally had a sharp memory for these kinds of things, but with Violet straddling him, her breasts inches from his wanting hands, it was difficult to concentrate. He mentally went down his list of favorite poets anyhow. Not Frost, his personal favorite. He didn’t tend to romantic moments. A few love poems came to mind, but he suspected that if he started vowing love to Violet—however poetically—she’d skitter away again. The first few lines of a filthy poem by John Wilmot he’d memorized in college sprung to mind, and he began to speak. “‘Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,’” he began, his voice husky. The next line was “I filled with love” but he modified it. “‘I filled with lust, and she all over charms.’”

  Her eyes shone as he began to recite, fascination in her gaze.

  Jonathan’s hand traveled up her arm and to her shoulder in slow, deliberate motions as he recited the next stanza. “‘Both equally inspired with eager fire, melting through kindness, flaming in desire. With arms, legs, lips close clinging to embrace, she clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.’”

  Surprise flickered on Violet’s face and she laughed, the sound sweet and pure. Her breasts jiggled with her laugh, and he was momentarily speechless at the gorgeous sight. “‘Sucks me to her face’?” She echoed, giggling. “Is that supposed to be poetic?”

  “It is,” he said, a bit of a smile on his own face. He tried to tear his gaze away from those magnificent breasts and failed. “This is also the only poem I know of that uses the word ‘cunt.’”

  “Cunt? Really? How?”

  “Patience, my lovely,” he said with a playful wag of his eyebrows.

  She snorted and tilted her head, regarding him with amusement. “I’ll try to be patient.”

  “You’re interrupting my seductive moment,” he chastised her.

  “Seductive? That was supposed to be seductive when you talk about sucking people to your face?”

  “It gets better, I promise.”

  She nodded, biting her lip to contain more laughter. “I’ll do my best not to laugh, then.”

  “Laugh all you want,” he told her. “It makes your breasts bounce very enticingly.” She sucked in a breath at his words, and he was pleased to see the soft desire return to her eyes. His hand went to her waist and brushed against the soft skin there, and he felt her tremble. “Shall I go on?”

  “Please,” she whispered, all laughter vanished, replaced by need.

  His fingers caressed her shoulder and then moved to brush against the curve of her mouth. “‘Her nimble tongue,’” he continued in a low voice, “‘love’s lesser lightning, played within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed swift orders that I should prepare to throw the all-dissolving thunderbolt below.’” Before she could laugh at the newest absurd euphemism, he went on. “‘My fluttering soul, sprung with the pointed kiss, hangs hovering o’er her balmy brinks of bliss.’”

  And he trailed his fingers down her neck to her breastbone, and waited.

  A whimper escaped her throat. “If you don’t touch me—”

  He leaned in and kissed her mouth gently, feeling her breasts brush against his own bare chest. “‘But whilst her busy hand would guide that part which should convey my soul up to her heart, in liquid raptures I dissolve all o’er . . .’” Jonathan trailed off as she burst into giggles. “I think I forgot what this poem was about,” he said sheepishly. “All I remembered were the dirty words.”

  “Jonathan Lyons,” she said, sliding her fingers over the lines of his shoulders playfully. “Have you been reciting me a poem about premature ejaculation?”

  Hell, this was embarrassing. “I might have been.”

  She giggled again, and damn, he loved that sound. “By all means, please keep going.”

  Since he loved her laughter almost as much as he loved her whimpers of desire, he did. “‘In liquid raptures I dissolve all o’er,’” he repeated. “‘Melt into sperm, and spend at every pore. A touch from any part of her had done’t: Her hand, her foot, her very look’s a cunt.’”

  “Mmm, there’s the naughty little cunt,” she said, sliding a finger over his nipple playfully. “It’s almost . . . sweet, really, the way it’s used in the poem.”

  He took her hand in his and pressed his mouth to her palm. “It’s true, you know. Every look, every touch from you and I feel like losing control.”

  The amusement in her eyes quickly spun back to desire. “Still after all this time?”

  “Worse after all this time,” he told her. “Because now I know what it’s like to wake up without you.”

  Her breath caught. “Jonathan—”

  “Hush. Tonight is about me giving you pleasure. Let’s not think about anything else.” He gently kissed her palm again, and then placed it on his chest, over his heart. Then, he brushed a knuckle along her jaw and slid it down to between her breasts to distract her.

  “All right,” she said softly, her gaze rapt on him.

  He forgot about everything but the need to pleasure her, and, his eyes locked on hers, he grazed his knuckle over the mound of her breast, circling one nipple slowly. “I remember these breasts,” he told her in a low voice. “I remember the taste of the tips on my tongue, the weight of each breast in my hand. I remember how they bounced when I thrust into you. And I know how sensitive the undersides are,” he said, tracing his knuckle down and curving it over the rounded slope.

  She shivered in response, arching against his touch. Her eyes closed, and it was clear to him that Violet was determined to lose herself in the moment.

  He loved that. He wanted that. He wanted to see her wrecked within herself, made wild by his touch.

  And the best thing was, he knew her body intimately. He knew how to make her need turn into an inferno of desire.

  And he knew that, for starters? Violet needed her breasts played with. She needed her nipples toyed with, her flesh kneaded and fingered, the peaks teased until she was breathless. He set to making her crazy, using both hands to palm and cup her breasts. “These look sweeter than I remember. Just as full and plump as before, but more soft and inviting. I can’t wait to put my mouth on them.”

  She gave a little shiver in his lap that told him she liked his words.

  “In fact, I think I will,” he told her. He wanted to lean forward and suck on one of those juicy-looking nipp
les, but with the way she was sitting on his lap, it’d be an awkward position. So he hauled her forward, dragging her body toward him. When her belly was inches away from his mouth, he took one of her breasts in hand and made it point, the tip aiming for his mouth. He knew from the flutter of her lashes that she was excited by the anticipation, so he drew his motions out a little. Instead of taking her nipple fully into his mouth like he wanted to and sucking on its sweet, pebbled tip, he brought it to his lips and . . . waited.

  She practically wriggled off of his lap, pressing her breast toward him. Inching closer.

  Jonathan looked up at her face, at the need and tension on her lovely features, the anticipation etched there as she watched him breathlessly, waiting for his mouth on her skin. He tilted his head forward, that dark pink treat so close that he could smell the fresh scent of her skin, and gently rubbed the tip across his lower lip, not quite taking it into his mouth. It was deliciously hard.

  Violet gasped, her eyes dark slits intent on his mouth as she watched him roll her nipple back and forth across his lips, never quite taking it between his teeth or touching it with his tongue. It was a tease. A tormenting, heavenly tease.

  Her fingers tightened in his hair and she pressed hard against him, pushing her breast forward. “Oh, God, please, Jonathan.”

  Hearing her say his name did all kinds of things to his resolve. Without further ado, he flicked his tongue forward and lashed it against her nipple.

  She moaned.

  He loved the sound of that, so he tongued the nipple hard again, stroking it with the broad flat of his tongue, then circling it with the tip. Then, he gently took it between his teeth and flicked against it again.

  Now she was whimpering, her breath coming in small pants, her hands plastered to the sides of his face as she held him to her. Her eyes were closed, and the look on her face was pure ecstasy.

  He wanted more of it.