Series: Werewolves of Wall Street Series by Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“Oh…okay. Yes, lift me up.” I can’t keep the laughter out of my voice as I pretend I ordered it first.
The fact that I love being picked up by this man pretty much proves his entire case against me. Billy isn’t Incredible Hulk-big like Grayson, the door guy downstairs. He’s muscled but on the wiry side. Still, he makes me feel as light as a child the way he easily holds me, his forearm propped under my ass.
“Carry me to your bedroom.”
His answer is a dark rumble, but he swiftly strides down the hall. My breasts thrust in his face, and he bites one boob through my thin shirt.
I cry out, clamping my inner thighs more tightly around his waist, my pussy contracting.
I suddenly can’t remember why I was resisting sex with him. Oh, yeah, because I didn’t want him to win. But clearly I’m the one winning here. I’m being charioted to a bedroom by a tall, strong, billionaire who apparently is willing to do my bidding when it comes to bed-related activities.
Plus, no commitment or relationship. Just sex.
Now that I’m over being offended, I can realize that it’s a perfect scenario. The idea that men only want sex and women have to use that bargaining chip to get them into relationships is just an old philosophy stemming from times when women had no agency or rights to property. As if we’re not supposed to love sex, too. As if we can’t just be in it for pleasure alone.
So yeah. I’m burning down the patriarchy right now. Starting with ordering Billy Billions around in his own bedroom.
The bedroom is like the rest of Billy’s penthouse–decorated in glass and metal and devoid of any color except black, white, and gray. White walls. Dark grey rug. An enormous California King four post bed in lacquered black stands in the center of the room. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park shape one wall. On the wall opposite the bed hang a series of three framed black and white prints of sweeping mountain and forest landscapes. They look like Ansel Adams’ prints of Yosemite. I make a mental note to examine them later.
Apparently, Billy doesn’t know how to not be in charge because he drops me in the center of the bed and unbuttons my shorts.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I hold up my hand. “Take off your own clothes.”
Let’s see if he’s truly capable of following my orders.
He holds my gaze, that small smile playing around his lips as he swiftly unbuttons his dress shirt. I hold my breath, waiting for him to take off the undershirt. I’m dying to see his chest to find out–
Hairy. Not waxed.
Yum. I do love a hairy chest.
I scramble off the bed.
Billy’s hands move to unbuckle his belt.
“Wait!” I hold up a finger. I’m making this up as I go.
Billy holds still, his fingers still on the buckle. It’s a sexy look. I don’t know why I’m imagining him using that belt on me. Buckling my wrists together. My thighs. Spanking my ass with it.
I’ve never played that kinky, but something about Billy and the things he just said about me inspires these crazy thoughts.
I walk around behind him and take over, slowly sliding his belt out of the loops. I drop it on the floor and then slide my palm over the hard ridge of his cock in his trousers. Damn, he’s big. I unbutton his pants and tug the zipper down.
“Kick off your shoes.”
He toes off his expensive Italian leather loafers.
“Sit on the edge of the bed.”
He turns and sits. He’s relaxed, his gaze half-mast, like he’s drunk with lust. If I were truly evil, I would order him to strip, tie him to the bed, and then leave to paint the mural.
That might serve him right, but I’m not sure I could handle the blow-back. Maybe I’m starting to care about this pseudo-relationship Billy and I are developing.
Besides, that’s not what I want. I want to taste him, like he’s tasted me.
I kneel on the plush rug that probably costs more than I’ve made in my entire lifetime and free his erection.
He groans, and his hands clench into fists by his side, but he keeps them there, like he’s at a strip club, and I’m a dancer on his lap. I can touch him, but he can’t touch me. I fist his cock and slide my hand up and down his length.
A low rumble sounds in his chest.
Wow. He’s more of an animal than I would’ve thought. Before this week, I imagined sex with him could be a cold, manicured endeavor, but he’s off-the-hook hot.
I show him my tongue as I slowly lean forward, creating anticipation. His thighs tense.
“Do you want me to put your cock in my mouth?” I ask.
“Don’t tease.” His voice is even. Maybe there’s even a slight challenge to the words.