Page 144 of My Husband Problem

He cups my face with both hands. “I will always be that person. No matter what happens. I don’t care how muddy things get.”

I never knew I could love someone like this. That I could have these soft, mushy feelings at the same time that I feel hot and needy and like if I don’t get my naked body against his in the next minute, I might die.

I reach for the bottom of the sundress I changed into when I got home from the arena. I strip it up and over my head, tossing it to the side, then quickly shed my bra and panties. This is no time for a slow, drawn-out striptease.

His eyes are hot as they track over me, but I take his hand and lead him over to the cushions without a word.

I push the little coffee table aside and kneel on the closest cushion, pulling the others closer and arranging them into a makeshift mattress on the floor. Then I look up at him. “I was thinking about it—I’ve been thinking about it all night—and I think it might work best if I’m on top the first time.”

A little growl comes from his chest. He drops to his knees and the cushions next to me. “Whatever you want.”

I reach for the buttons on his shirt. “That way I can control the speed and angles and depth.”

I notice how his hands flex at his side as if he’s holding back and resisting reaching for me.

I take one of his hands and bring it up to my hip. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to do anything. Touch me. Talk to me,please. Kiss me.” The last two words are raspy as I lean in and put my mouth against his.

He cups the back of my head, kissing me deeply, and I am so thrilled that he does not hold back. His mouth is hungry on mine, and I quickly finish his buttons and push the dress shirt off his shoulders. He yanks it off his arms and tosses it aside, almost angrily, though I know it’s eagerness for what's ahead.

I undo his belt, pulling it through the belt loops, but pause before I unzip his pants to run a hand over the long, hard length behind his fly.

He shudders, groaning into my mouth. “Fuck yes, Firework.”

I love that he lets me know I affect him and that he’s not going to try to take this sweet and slow.

If I need to slow down at any point, I know that I can. But I feel like I’ve actually got sparklers lit underneath my skin, popping and crackling and heating every nerve ending.

I stroke him again, leaning in to rub my breasts against his bare chest. He takes over with his pants, ripping the fly open and surging to his feet so that he can strip them off, kicking his shoes and pants to the side, then stripping off his socks and his underwear before kneeling in front of me again.

“Now, where were you?” he asks.

I laugh and return my hand to his cock, this time with nothing between my palm and that hot, silky skin. I stroke him until he is panting, his forehead pressed to mine. “Goddamnit, I love your hands on me.”

“Do you want me to finish you this way?” I ask. “In case we can’t?—”

I find myself flipped onto my back and an intense, very turned-on billionaire between my thighs.

“I think you’re going to be able to take me, Firework,” he tells me gruffly. “And I want as much of this sweet pussy as I can have. But if there is a point where we have to stop, we can talk about how you can finish me off then.”

Heat jolts through me as options for finishing him off go through my head. I like them all. Which means that, however this ends up, everything’s going to be great.

Which I know is exactly his intention.

“Okay,” I tell him.

He kisses my mouth, then presses kisses along my throat, saying, “Of course, there are so many ways I want to enjoy this pussy before my cock gets a chance at it.”

Said pussy knows that she is the star of the show, because she flutters, eager for his attention.

I lift my hips, encouraging it all. “I’m ready for?—”

Again, he cuts me off, this time by taking the hands I am using to try to urge him back up my body and pinning them to the cushion over my head. He stares down at me, one corner of his mouth quirking. “I am going to let you be in charge of the speed, angles, and depth when I fuck you,” he tells me, that deep voice rumbling over me as if he’s stroking my skin with his hands. “But other than that, I’m in charge here. I will be giving you your first two orgasms, and you’re going to lie here and take them. Happily.”

I nearly sob with pleasure and relief.

It’s taken us only days to get to the point where he knows exactly how to talk to me and what I need.

I’m so tired of talking about my pelvic floor and my vagina and how it all works—and how itdoesn’tall work—and coaching people, including him, about how touch and pressure and friction affect it. Part of my fantasies have been someone simply taking over and making everything feel amazing without me having to tell them anything.