Billionaire Boys Club 5 : Romancing the Billionaire(70)

Her name dragged out of his throat between thrusts. "Violet."

She opened her eyes, even as her body quivered with the orgasm, and wished she could touch his face. "Come for me, Jonathan," she whispered. "Oh, God, come with me."

Even as she came down, he tilted his head back and groaned, the cords in his neck straining as he came on his own. She watched in wonder as his body tensed, his face flushing, and she thought she'd never seen anything more beautiful than Jonathan Lyons, face tight in the rictus of orgasm. His thrusts became erratic and slowed, his panting equally so, and then he dragged his c**k in and out of her in one last, almost exhausted thrust, and his sleepy eyes opened to stare at her in wonder.

"Violet," he murmured thickly.

"I'm here," she said in a soft voice. "I'm here."

Breathing hard, he rolled off of her and headed to a nearby garbage can, peeling off the condom. She watched his bu**ocks flex as he walked, admiring them and the tan lines separating his waist from his ass. He turned back to the bed and moved to the headboard, his fingers undoing the knots that held her wrists in place. "You okay?"

"I can honestly say I completely forgot what my safe word was supposed to be," she said breathlessly.

He tensed. "Did I hurt you?"

She snorted and sat up as the bonds on her wrists released and she rubbed them. They didn't hurt except for where she'd been straining against them. "Don't be ridiculous, Jonathan. If I was screaming, it was because I was out of my mind with pleasure."

He relaxed and got back into the bed. Before she could head to the bathroom to clean up, he put his hands around her waist and dragged her body against him. "Don't leave me yet."

Those words were like knives in her heart. Don't leave me yet. Poor Jonathan. She snuggled close to him and enjoyed that she got to touch him now, finally. She rolled onto her side, facing him, and began to slide her fingers up and down his flat stomach.

"Mmm," he said softly when she dragged her fingers through the thin line of hair below his belly button. "Next time, no hands tied. I like your touch too much."

Would there be a next time, Violet wondered? Then she decided, yes, there would be. She wasn't an idiot; if Jonathan gave her mind-blowing, weak-in-the-knees sex, she'd gladly take it every chance she could get before they had to part.

Then she frowned. They did have to part. It wasn't a good idea to fall in love with Jonathan again. She might always be fond of him. She might love the sex he gave her. But she didn't know that she was ready to go all-in once again. Her heart still carried the bruises from last time.




 

 

Troubled, Violet rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling.

"You all right?" Jonathan's hand brushed her arm.

"Just thinking." Her thoughts sucked, too. They were full of her returning to her quiet teaching job back in Detroit, and Jonathan going back to his whirlwind lifestyle of fascinating projects and exploring famous and dangerous places and running his car company. Even though they'd fit together as college students, she'd switched directions once she'd returned home. They didn't fit as adults. Jonathan was a billionaire with a hectic lifestyle. Violet was, well . . . boring. She was just a schoolteacher.

He'd get tired of her in another week or two.

Which was why it was so important that she keep her heart locked down, no matter what. They could have sex, they could laugh and play together both in and out of bed, and she could kiss him, but she had to keep her heart her own.

Because if it broke again, she'd never be able to recover.

Violet sighed and stared at the ceiling without seeing it. She did notice, however, that they'd knocked the picture on the wall askew. It hung over their heads, a few feet above the headboard, and was tilted distinctly to one side. That was rather funny. "I think we were a little overly vigorous," Violet said with a smile and pointed at the picture.

And just then, she noticed the picture itself. With a gasp, she sat up and whirled around to stare at the picture. It was a giclee, a mass-produced print of a pastoral scene that was probably sold in multiple hotel catalogs full of ugly but unobtrusive furnishings. She hadn't paid a bit of attention to it before, and she probably wouldn't have noticed it now except for one thing: the pastoral scene of a river that flowed toward a mill and a gigantic waterwheel.

A wheel.

"Do you see what I see?" she asked, pointing at the picture.

Jonathan sat up. After a moment, he laughed and quoted the first line of the poem again. "'Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel.'"

"You think that's our wheel?" Violet asked eagerly. She hobbled forward on her knees on the bed and pulled the picture off the wall, looking at the back of it. Nothing.