Blame It On The Billionaire (Blackout Billionaires Series Book 3)

by Naima Simone

No hiding from him. Not tonight.

  “They don’t belong here at all.” He gently tapped her temple. “Every curve—” he slipped his hand down her shoulder, brushing the backs of his knuckles over the mound of her beast “—every valley—” he swept a caress over the dip of her waist, the slightly rounded swell of her stomach “—every inch—” he slid his hand between her thighs, cupping her drenched, warm sex “—deserves to be seen. To be worshipped.”

  A whimper escaped her and in the sexiest, earthiest show of abandon, she grabbed onto his shoulders, threw her head back and ground herself against his palm.

  He growled. “Do it again. I want you to do just that again. But on my mouth.”

  With hands that should’ve been gentler, less hurried, he quickly stripped her of her dress, her boots and underwear. He refused to leave a scrap of clothing on her.

  In moments, he jerked back the dark gray bedspread and laid her out on his silver silk sheets. In the place where he’d woken up sweaty, straining with his throbbing, aching erection in his hand—dreaming about her. But now he wasn’t fantasizing. This was vivid reality. And so much better.

  Unable to tear his gaze from her, he crossed his arms in front, gripped the bottom of his sweater and tugged it over his head. Toeing off his shoes and peeling off his socks, he stalked forward, not stopping until his knee dented the mattress between her thighs and his hands bracketed her hips.

  She tried to close her legs, but his knee prevented the action.

  “Open for me,” he encouraged. “I need to see you.”

  He smoothed his hands up her thighs, his thumbs meeting at the juncture. Exerting easy pressure, he waited until her muscles relaxed, then she opened her legs for him. His flesh pulsed behind his zipper, and he groaned at the sight of her glistening, swollen sex. He hadn’t even touched her yet, and he was ready to come.

  “Damn, Nadia. You’re so pretty. So beautiful. I want to...”

  He didn’t finish the statement. He couldn’t with his mouth covering her flesh. With her heady, delicious taste filling his senses. On a growl, he licked a path through her folds, hungry for more. Beneath his hands, her thighs tensed, tightening around his head. A long, high cry erupted from above him, and it only spurred him on. That, and the insatiable appetite her decadent flavor stirred in him.

  He feasted on her. Like a man starved who sat before the most sumptuous of feasts. He discovered and tongued, sipped and worshipped every part of her sex. The plump folds, the small, fluttering entrance, the hard little button of nerves at the crest. Wet, open-mouthed kisses; lush, greedy licks; tight, pointed thrusts. He didn’t let up, didn’t stop until a litany of cries poured from her, and the legs he’d hooked over his shoulders shook.

  Focusing on the engorged, quivering nub at the top of her sex, he circled it, sucked on it. And below, he slowly drove his fingers into her soaked, clenching core. He moaned into her flesh, his dick flexing and aching as it remembered the perfect clasp. The clawing need to feel her sex pierced him. He pulled his fingers free and drove them harder.

  She exploded.

  Satisfaction roared inside him, and he didn’t stop pleasuring her until the last tremble rippled through her body. Only when she went limp did he withdraw, jackknifing off the bed and ridding himself of the remainder of his clothes. He retained enough control to yank open his bedside table drawer and remove a condom. In seconds, he sheathed himself and returned to the welcoming haven of her body.

  Nadia’s eyes, slumberous and deep, met his as he crouched over her, his arms braced on either side of her head. He lowered his head, captured her mouth, and she didn’t flinch away from tasting herself on his lips. Giving him one of those whimpers he loved—the ones he counted and hoarded—she slipped her tongue between his lips, dueling with him. She curled a hand behind his neck, holding him to her, and trailed the other over his shoulder, his chest, across his abs and down. He hissed into her mouth as she wrapped her slender fingers around the base and guided him to her entrance.

  He jerked his head back, his eyes closing at the first brush of her wet heat against the swollen head. Letting her take control, he followed her lead. Allowed her to feed him inside her, inch by inch. Claiming him with each tiny pulse and arch of her hips. And when she slid around to his ass, cupping him, pressing against him, he sank fully inside heaven.

  Curses, praises, prayers—they scrambled up his throat. But he clenched his jaw, locking them behind his teeth. Bowing his head, he blinked against the sweat rolling from his brow and stinging his eyes. He stared, captivated by the view of her folds spread around his staff, hugging him as her silken, tight flesh sucked him deep.

  “Grayson,” she breathed, lowering one hand and lifting the other until both gripped his shoulders, her short nails biting into his skin.

  God, please let her mark him. He wanted to glimpse those little half-moons denting him in the morning.

  “Gray,” he corrected, lust and his almost nonexistent restraint roughening his voice to the consistency of churned, broken gravel. “Say it, baby. Gray.”

  He’d ordered her to say the shortened version of his name before in the hallway. And she hadn’t uttered it since that night. Hearing her say the name only those close to him used—he didn’t analyze why it was damn near vital for him to hear it. He just did.

  “Please...Gray,” she whispered, levering up and brushing her lips across his damp shoulder. “You feel so...” She rolled her hips, her tight core spasming around him. “I can’t take...”

  “Yes, you can, baby,” he ground out, battling the lust threatening to tear him to shreds. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her close, pulled free of her body, then thrust back inside to the hilt. “You are taking it. Taking me.”

  Any more words were beyond him. He reverted to that caveman who’d preceded all of his blue-blooded ancestors. Claim. Brand. Possess. Those were the defaults he flipped to, and he lived only to ride her body, plunge into her, mark her as his own. If he wasn’t consumed by pleasure, that thought might scare him. And later, maybe it would. But now, with her cries blanketing his ears, her nails marring his skin, her sex pulling at him, urging him to drive deeper, pound harder...

  He was an utterly sexual being created to pursue ecstasy.

  Nadia clung to him, chanting his name—Gray—again and again, sharper, higher. He couldn’t hold out much longer. Not when electrical pulses crackled and raced down his spine, sizzling in his lower back, his balls and even the soles of his feet. He was alive, so much more alive than he’d ever been in his life—except for the last time he’d been balls-deep inside her.

  “Give it to me, Nadia.” He reached down between their sweaty, twisting bodies and rubbed a firm caress over the stiff nub that peeked out from between her folds. Once, twice...

  A keening wail erupted from Nadia, and she bowed so tautly in his arms he almost feared she would snap in half. Her sex clamped down on him like a vise, squeezing hard, milking him, coaxing his pleasure.

  And damn, he surrendered to it. To her.

  Release barreled down on him, and with a hoarse, ragged growl, he slammed into her, riding it out, at the same time giving her every bit of the orgasm still rippling through her. His senses winked out, leaving him in a space where nothing existed but her and the pleasure she gave him.

  Air rasped out of his lungs as he fell over her, at the last second tumbling to her side so he wouldn’t crush her with his weight. He curled around her, still connected, still buried deep inside her.

  And for this moment, there was no other place he wanted to be.

  Twelve

  “Why am I feeling a sudden affinity to the poor lamb about to meet his Maker?” Nadia grumbled under her breath as Grayson opened the passenger’s side car door and extended a hand to her.

  Grayson snorted. Apparently, she hadn’t been as quiet as she’d thought. She smothered a sigh and slipped her
palm over his. With the other hand, she gathered the skirt of her dress—another gift from him—and stepped from the car. Grayson didn’t release his hold on her as the valet drove the vehicle away, instead intertwining their fingers.

  It’s pretense. Act 2 of the Grayson and Nadia Show.

  The cool but frustrated voice of reason whispered the reminder inside her head, and she heeded it. Even repeated it. But it didn’t stop her heart from thudding or the slow heat from pooling low in her belly at the casual sign of affection.

  Of connection.

  Walking into this glittering lakefront mansion where the guests ranged from senators to billionaires like Grayson to celebrities, she needed that connection. This anniversary party thrown in honor of his parents by a family friend was a whole different animal from the smaller cocktail parties and dinners she’d attended by Grayson’s side. There’d already been mentions of them in a few society columns, blogs and sites. And while some had been kind toward her and others hadn’t been as charitable, the same thought had echoed through each—what was the Chandler heir doing with an unknown like her?

  Unknown. That had been the nicer name. The not-so-nice names had included “nobody,” “the wide-hipped ingenue,” and the ever popular “gold digger.”

  She didn’t like Grayson’s world. It was beautiful, but cold, petty and cruel. Her mother, who had perfected the art of “nice nasty,” had nothing on Chicago’s social elite. In the month since they’d started this charade, Nadia had lost count of how many times she’d chanted “It’s for Ezra. It’s for Ezra...” to herself. Her brother’s future was the only thing keeping her from bailing, returning to her plainer, poorer but kinder world.

  Well, Ezra...and Grayson.

  She glanced at him as he guided her up the marble steps and past the stone arches soaring high above them. Mounted sconces and strategically placed lamps lit the porch—if that’s what rich people called it—illuminating the majestic beauty of the foyer beyond the grand front door that wouldn’t have been out of place on a palace.

  Grayson fit this place. With his regal male beauty and sexy confidence that he wore as naturally as his perfectly tailored Italian tuxedo, he belonged in this place of wealth and prestige. In this moment, she felt like a girl dressing up in a costume gown. She was a fraud, while he was the real thing.

  And yet... Yet, she continued the charade.

  Because as unbelievable and impossible as it might seem, Grayson needed her. And not just to avoid his mother’s matchmaking schemes. But in the weeks they’d been spending time together, she noticed he showed people the playboy or the charming businessman. But not him. Not the broody, sometimes dark, sharp-minded-and-tongued man who existed beneath the veneer. He granted her peeks, though. Glimpses she suspected he didn’t allow anyone else to see. He needed someone with whom he could shed the personas. Even if only for a little while.

  And she would be a liar if she didn’t admit, if only to herself, that she hungered for those moments.

  Stupid. Stupid to want more. Have you learned nothing?

  “Are you okay?” Grayson murmured in her ear as they entered the mansion.

  “Yes.” She pasted a smile on her face that she hoped appeared serene. Or at least normal. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because you have my fingers in a stranglehold,” he drawled, arching a dark eyebrow.

  Immediately, she loosened her grip. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t realize.”

  A tall man in a black suit complete with a bow tie approached them. “Can I show you to the ballroom?” he said, extending an arm toward the rear of the foyer.

  “Give us a minute, please.” Grayson didn’t wait for the staff member’s agreement, but cupped Nadia’s elbow and guided her toward the fireplace on the far side of the room. A fireplace in a foyer. Jesus, she really had entered another world.

  “Nadia.” Grayson’s fingers pinched her chin, raising her head so she had to meet his blue-and-green gaze. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  She tried to quell the tingle that zipped from her face down to her breasts and lower still. Tried. And failed. It’d been two weeks since they’d had sex at his penthouse. In that time, he hadn’t touched her more than their pretense required. Part of her understood why. After their discussion that night at the restaurant and what she’d revealed to him about her past, he probably didn’t want her to feel as if she were pressured to make sex part of their bargain. He was respecting her boundaries.

  But the other part of her... That half wondered if he no longer wanted her. If the novelty of sex with her had worn off. If he didn’t find her desirable...

  She shook her head, trying to dislodge those destructive words from her head. But the movement inadvertently removed his hand from her. Grayson frowned. And didn’t return his hand.

  “I’m thinking that I’ll be lucky to not embarrass either one of us. This night is on a much larger scale than a dinner party,” she said. Not a lie. Those had been her thoughts earlier.

  His frown eased, and his gaze softened. Once more, he touched her, this time cradling the nape of her neck. A charge sizzled down her spine, and she barely smothered a groan.

  “You have the prettiest eyes,” she blurted out, desperate to distract herself from her short-circuiting body. But then, her own eyes rounded as what she’d uttered rebounded against her skull. Oh. Hell.

  Surprise flickered in his stare, before it became shuttered. “What?”

  She waved a hand in front of her head as if she could shoo away her words. “Don’t mind me. I told you I was nervous. Let this be a forewarning of what I will be like once I enter that ballroom. If I have the chance to meet Cookie or Lucious from Empire, I’m just letting you know right now to expect more spouting of random crap.”

  He didn’t chuckle. Not even the corner of his mouth quirked in amusement. “So the comment about my eyes was just...crap,” he stated, voice flat.

  Now, she frowned. “No, I meant it. Your eyes are gorgeous.” She studied the carefully bland expression, heard the monotone timbre. “You don’t believe me,” she concluded.

  When he didn’t reply, but just continued to peer down at her, she wavered between being curious and offended. Hell, no one said the two had to be mutually exclusive.

  “Present situation aside, I’m not in the habit of lying. Care to tell me why you don’t believe me?” She thrust up a hand, palm out, when his lips parted. “And don’t you dare say you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  His mouth firmed into a straight line, and his eyes narrowed. Silence beat between them, but she was raising a teenager; she could out-stubborn him any day.

  “My eyes are weird, not pretty. You should save the meaningless compliments for when we have an audience. They’re wasted when the two of us are alone,” he stated in that same aloof tone.

  He’d meant to shut her down. Hurt her feelings and force her into dropping the subject. And oh, goal almost accomplished. Her chest throbbed where that cold arrow had taken a direct hit. Maybe if she hadn’t caught the thread of hurt beneath the steel, she might have let it go.

  “Ouch,” she drawled. And something that could’ve been regret flickered in his eyes before the shadows shielded it. Risking more rejection, she shifted closer and clasped his head between her hands, tilting it down so this time she was the one forcing him to meet her gaze. “You listen to me. I don’t know what asshole put it into your head that your eyes are weird or anything less than unique and beautiful but screw them. No,” she snapped, when he covered her hands with his and tried to remove them from his face. “They are beautiful. Gorgeous. Intelligent. Different. Bold. You. In this pretentious world of yours where conformity is mistaken for perfection, you are utterly perfect. And anyone who says differently can get fucked.”

  His eyes flared with shock, a heartbreaking and maddening uncertainty and...delight. Joy that should’
ve terrified her—and God, it did—swelled behind her ribcage. Afraid of what her face might reveal, she dropped her arms and turned away, taking a step in the direction the staff member had indicated.

  But a muscled arm wrapping around her waist drew her up short. A hard chest pressed against her back, tuxedo jacket lapels brushing the skin bared by her backless gown.

  “When you greet my father, I’d suggest you not tell him to get fucked,” he drawled. Before it could fully sink in that it’d been his own parent who’d criticized him, Grayson tightened his hold on her and pressed his lips against her hair. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  He released her, took her hand in his and guided her forward.

  Silently, she exhaled a deep, slow breath.

  Okay. Still feeling the imprint of his arm and the caress of his mouth, she straightened her shoulders and hiked her chin. Tendrils of hope cautiously bloomed within her.

  Maybe this night wouldn’t be as bad as she’d assumed.

  * * *

  You know what they say about assuming.

  The taunt floated through her head as she stood near the huge balcony doors of the ornate ballroom. Massive crystal chandeliers provided more than enough light for her to glimpse the elaborate gardens beyond the spotless glass.

  Sighing, she turned from the temptation of the great outdoors and surveyed the grand room filled with Chicago’s wealthiest, most famous and celebrated. For the first hour after she and Grayson arrived, he’d stayed by her side, refusing to leave her alone. And she’d appreciated his solid presence. It’d been easier to maneuver these choppy society waters with him.

  But ten minutes ago, his father had cornered him and practically yanked him away to speak to business associates. Since then, she’d smiled and murmured hellos to those who didn’t stare right through her, floating through the crowd like a ghost.

  She strolled to one of the many framed photographs of Grayson’s parents and family that were mounted throughout the ballroom. Pausing before the one that included all three Chandler children as well as Daryl and Cherise, she studied it. Grayson’s parents sat on a white settee, while Grayson, Jason and Melanie formed a semicircle behind them, Jason in the middle, standing a couple of inches taller than a younger Grayson.