The Billionaire's One-Night Secret

Wrong Room

His hips rolled, slow at first, dragging almost all the way out before sinking deep again. Each stroke was deliberate, measured, the friction of him sliding against my walls making heat coil low in my belly. But the longer it went on, the more the tether holding him steady seemed to snap. His rhythm grew harder, deeper. His hands gripped my hips tight enough to bruise, yanking me into every thrust. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. He f****d into me like he was trying to bury himself so far inside he’d never have to leave.

“Still here,” he muttered against my throat, voice wrecked, almost feverish. “Still mine for the night.” His mouth found mine in a messy, open kiss, tongue sliding against mine as he drove harder. One hand slipped between us, fingers finding my c**t again, rubbing in tight, relentless circles while his c**k pounded into me. The dual sensation was too much the thick stretch, the relentless pressure on that swollen bud, and I came with a broken cry, walls clenching hard around him, pulsing in waves that made him groan like he was the one being ruined.

He didn’t stop. He f****d me through it, dragging the o****m out until I was shaking, oversensitive, the pleasure edging into something sharper. Then he pulled out, flipped me onto my stomach with startling ease, and dragged my hips up. He pushed back inside in one smooth motion, the new angle letting him go even deeper. His chest pressed to my back, one arm banded around my waist, the other braced beside my head. He rutted into me with short, powerful thrusts, the head of his c**k dragging over that same spot again and again until I was moaning into the sheets, another c****x building fast and dirty.

“Take it,” he rasped against my ear, the words almost a plea. “Take every f*****g inch.” His hand slid down to where we were joined, fingers spreading me wider so he could watch himself disappear into me. The wet, filthy sounds of it... my cunt taking him, the slick of my earlier release coating his shaft filled the air. When I came again it was harder, longer, my body locking up around him as pleasure tore through me. He followed with a guttural sound, burying himself to the root and pulsing deep inside me, filling me in thick, hot spurts until it leaked out around his c**k and down my thighs.

He stayed inside me as the aftershocks faded, breathing ragged against the back of my neck, one hand still stroking lazily over my hip like he needed the contact to stay present. Eventually he softened and slipped free. Warmth trickled down my inner thighs as he rolled onto his back, pulling me half across his chest without a word. His arm stayed locked around me, possessive even in exhaustion.

By the time he finally stilled and his breathing slowed into sleep beside me, the sky outside had gone from black to the deep blue of almost morning, and every part of my body ached.

I lay there a long moment before I moved, feeling the soreness settle into my hips, my thighs, the tender places his hands had gripped too hard somewhere near the end. My skin felt raw in places I didn’t want to think about, my n*****s still sensitive, the insides of my thighs sticky with the evidence of what we’d done. I told myself it was fine, I had survived worse for less, and made myself sit up slowly, biting back a wince as the movement reminded me exactly how thoroughly he’d used me.

My phone rang before I’d even finished dressing.

“Where were you last night?” Camille’s voice was sharp with worry. “I called room 124 twice. Nobody answered.”

“I was there,” I whispered, glancing at the man still asleep across the room. “Room 124, exactly like you texted.”

“Violet, I’m looking at the booking right now. That room’s been empty all night.” Papers shuffled on her end. “What room are you actually in?”

I checked the little brass plate by the door, and my stomach dropped straight through the floor.

“Jezz... Camille, it's 214,” I breathed.

The silence on the other end stretched so long I thought the call had dropped.

“What?? Violet!” Camille’s voice had gone strange, tight and disbelieving. “That’s not a guest room. That’s the owner’s private suite.” Another pause, longer, worse. “Violet, that’s Lawrence Blackwell’s room.”

My whole body went cold. I turned slowly, and there he was, still asleep, morning light creeping across a face I now recognized from a dozen magazine covers, the most powerful man in the city lying in the bed I had just left, come still drying on my thighs, the bruises of his fingerprints already blooming on my hips.

I don’t remember grabbing my bag. I don’t remember the hallway, or the elevator, or the cold air outside as I ran, every sore, aching muscle screaming in protest with each step, my mind stuck on one sentence that drowned out everything else.

I had just slept with Lawrence Blackwell.