A Billionaire for Christmas(74)

                Even as he moved inside her, he was already wondering where they could make love next. Heat built in his groin, a monstrous, unstoppable force. “I’m gonna come,” he groaned.

                She had barely made a sound. In sudden dismay, he leaned back so he could see her face. “Talk to me, Phoebe.” Reaching down, he rubbed gently at the swollen nub he’d been grazing again and again with the base of his sex. When his fingers made one last pass, Phoebe arched her back and cried out as she climaxed. Inside, her body squeezed him with flutters that threatened to take off the top of his head because the feeling was so intense.

                With his muscles clenched from head to toe, he held back his own release so he could relish every moment of her shuddering finale. As she slumped limp in his embrace, he cursed and thrust wildly, emptying himself until he was wrung dry. With one last forceful thrust, he finished, but as he did, his forehead met the edge of the cabinet over Phoebe’s head with enough force to make him stagger backward.

                “Hell…” His reverse momentum was halted by the large island in the center of the kitchen. He leaned there, dazed.

                Phoebe slid to her feet. “Oh, Leo. You’re bleeding.” Her face turned red, and she burst out laughing. Mortification and remorse filled her eyes in addition to concern, but she apparently couldn’t control her mirth, despite the fact that he had been injured in battle.

                Okay. So it was a little funny. His lips quirking, he put a hand to his forehead and winced when it came away streaked in red. “Would you please put some clothes on?” he said, trying not to notice the way her breasts bounced nicely when she laughed.

                Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Take them off. Put them on. You’re never satisfied.”

                He looked down at his erection that was already preparing for duty. “Apparently not.” When she bent over to step into her underwear and pants, it was all he could do not to take her again.

                Only the throbbing in his head held him back. When she was decent, he grimaced. “We’re going to a party tomorrow night. How am I going to explain this?”

                Phoebe took his hand and led him toward the bedrooms. “Which one is yours?” she asked. When he pointed, she kept walking, all the way to his hedonistic bathroom. “We’ll put some antibiotic ointment on it between now and then. Plus, there’s always makeup.”

                “Great. Just great.”

                She opened the drawer he indicated and gathered the needed supplies. “Sit on the stool.”

                He zipped himself back into his trousers, more to avoid temptation than from any real desire to be dressed. “Is this going to hurt?”

                “Probably.”

                The truth was the truth. When she moistened a cotton ball with antiseptic and dabbed at the cut, it stung like fire. He glanced in the mirror. The gash, more of a deep scrape really, was about two inches long. And dead in the center of his forehead. Now, every time he saw his reflection for the next week or so, all he would remember was debauching Phoebe in his kitchen.

                She smeared a line of medicated cream along the wound and tried covering it with two vertical Band-Aids. Now he looked like Frankenstein.

                Their eyes met in the large mahogany-framed mirror. Phoebe put a hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she mumbled. But she was shaking all over, and he wasn’t fooled. Her mirth spilled out in wet eyes and muffled giggles.

                “Thank God you didn’t go into nursing,” he groused. He stood up and reached for a glass of water to down some ibuprofen. “Are you hungry, by any chance?” The kitchen episode had left him famished. Maybe it was the subliminal message in his surroundings.