She Was Never Just the Billionaire’s Wife (Natasha and Chase) novel Chapter 165

(Chase)

Tonight’s the night.

Natasha pulls me into her bedroom with the same urgency I’m feeling.

The moment the door closes behind us, I push her against it hard enough to rattle the hinges.

Her mouth opens immediately.

She tastes like the Malbec from dinner and sharp, jagged impatience.

It goes straight to the base of my spine.

Her hands are already at my chest, deftly unbuttoning my shirt and tearing the fabric apart to get her palms flat against my skin.

I make a sound into her mouth that I probably should be embarrassed by.

I'm not.

She makes a ragged noise back, and the entire world shrinks down to the exact spot her fingers are digging into my chest.

"Bed."

"Yeah."

We don't walk, we shove each other toward the mattress.

Her dress comes off over her head and hits the floor.

I abandon the shirt behind me.

My belt buckle catches and I nearly rip the leather getting my trousers down.

There is zero grace here.

We’ve had a month of polite, careful grace, and I’m entirely out of it.

We hit the bed, and the second I settle my weight over her, skin to skin from chest to thigh, my brain short-circuits.

I have to stop for a second.

I bury my face in the curve of her shoulder, my pulse hammering against my own ribs, trying to remember how oxygen works.

The sheer psychological shock of finally having her under me is deafening.

If I move right now, I’m going to lose my mind.

"Chase."

"Give me a second."

"Of course."

Her hand slides down the ridge of my spine, slow and deliberate.

Her other hand tangles in my hair.

She isn’t pushing.

She’s just holding me there, letting me feel the fast, uneven heave of her lungs against my chest.

I lift my head.

She’s looking up at me in the dark, her eyes blown wide, completely stripped of whatever polite defenses she usually wears.

It’s the look of someone who’s been starving just as long as I have.

I kiss her again, slower.

Deliberate.

I drag my mouth down her jaw, finding the exact spot on her neck I’ve realized makes her stupid, and bite down, just a little.

Her hips jerk up off the sheets, grinding hard against mine.

I move lower, mouthing the hollow of her collarbone.

Her fingers tighten in my hair, pulling sharply, and her breath hitches in a jagged, broken way that’s going to ruin me for the rest of my life.

The underwear goes.

Her lace first, tossed somewhere in the dark, then my boxers.

I force myself not to look down at her body.

If I look, she’ll see the exact size of the feral need I’m keeping on a leash, and I don't want to terrify her.

I touch her instead.

My palm tracks down her ribs.

The sharp dip of her waist.

The flare of her hip.

I drag my hand down the outside of her thigh, then slide it up the inside.

She is so hot, soaking wet, and the wrecked sound she makes when my fingers finally find what they’re looking for is the best thing I’ve ever heard.

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