Billionaire Boys Club 5 : Romancing the Billionaire(48)

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 f**k. 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 f**king 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 ni**les 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 br**sts loosen and then fall forward.

And then she shrugged it off her shoulders and cast it aside. Violet tossed her head back and sat on his lap, half na**d 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 br**sts were fuller than before, her stomach slightly more rounded, her h*ps 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 ni**les were that dark pink he remembered, still upthrust and tight little circles that begged for his mouth and fingers. Her br**sts 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 br**sts, the taut ni**les, 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 br**sts 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.'"