Found (Not Quite a Billionaire Book 3) by Rosalind James Page B

over and over for me. You need it, and I need to do it to you.”
    He was drawing my shirt over my head, unfastening the clasp of my bra. I was sprawled across his bed, my legs parted, all of me exposed for him, wearing only that tiny golden heart and his ring. And he still had all his clothes on.
    “I should . . .” I said. I rose on my elbows, and he pushed me back down with a gentle hand on my shoulder.
    “No,” he said. “There’s no ‘should’ tonight. You don’t have to do anything. I’m going to do it all.”
    His hand was on my lower belly, tracing gently over the little bit of swelling there, and he said, “This is nice. This is so pretty.”
    “That’s your baby,” I said, and smiled at him.
    He kissed me there, and the tenderness in it tried to bring tears to my eyes even through my excitement. Then he stroked over my belly, up my side, until he finally reached my breast. I jumped, and he asked, “Are they sore?”
    “Yes. Tender. Feels good,” I managed as his hand traced carefully over the swell of my breast and grazed a peak that had been hard for what felt like hours. “Just . . . tender.”
    “Mm.” He got onto a knee on the bed, and then he was over me, kissing his way from my neck to my breast, exploring me with so much gentleness, reading my sighs, taking it slow, taking it easy.
    I said, “I need to feel you. I need to see you.” My hands went to the buttons of his shirt, and I began to unfasten them, to stroke my way over his broad chest, and felt his instant reaction.
    How could a man have as much self-control as Hemi? How could he do all this without needing anything for himself? So I told him so. “You’re the most amazing lover,” I said. “You make me feel so good. But right now, I need to feel you inside me. I need to feel you taking your own pleasure. I want you to do everything that feels good to you. Everything you want. I want you to tell me what that is, and to show me what you need. I’ll do whatever you say, because obeying you excites me. Please, Hemi—let me please you now.”
    I shoved his shirt off his shoulders, and he finished taking it off, then stood and got rid of the rest of his clothes. After that, he stood there, and I drank him in. My Maori god, all muscle and sinew, controlled strength and powerful intent. And all of it was for me.
    After that, he did just what he’d said he would, and he did what I’d asked. He took his pleasure, and he did everything he wanted. He told me what to do, and I did it. And whether I was on my knees, taking him deep in my mouth, obeying every gasped command, or lying on my back with his hands on the backs of my thighs, feeling him stroking deep, or on my elbows and knees, his hand at the back of my neck holding me down, my forehead on my hands, my entire body jerking hard at every thrust . . . wherever I was, and through everything he did to me—he was heartbreaking careful, he was breathtakingly thorough, and he let me know that I was absolutely and completely his.
    And just for now, just for tonight . . . I let myself be that and nothing more. Sometimes, your will truly isn’t your own, because giving it up is such exquisite pleasure.
    Independence matters, and autonomy is a wonderful thing. But sometimes . . . sometimes, surrender feels so good.

 
    Hope

    I was nearly dozing, wrapped in Hemi’s arms, when he asked, “Hungry?”
    “Mm.” I rolled over and pushed myself up. “Yes. How did you know?”
    There was no smugness, no calculation in his smile. All I saw was contentment when he said, “Hang on, then, and I’ll fix your dinner.”
    I tried to fall asleep again, but as exhausted as I was, I really was too hungry. Hemi was back in less than five minutes, though, with a plate and a mug that he set on my bedside table.
    “Oh,” I said, and tried not to be disappointed. Three crackers, topped with bits of cheese, and a cup of herbal tea.
    He laughed. “No worries, baby. That’s your snack, so this