Olivia Gates - The Billionaire's Conquest

“You’re worse than a little kid,” he said. But he was smiling that delicious smile again.

As he drew nearer, Della moved farther away, until she’d backed herself into the far corner of the terrace, away from the door. When her back bumped the wall, the motion unsettled a small bundle of snow from somewhere above her, sending it cascading down around over her. She laughed as she shook her head to scatter the flakes, then the comb that had been holding her hair came loose, making it fall around her shoulders. He came to her immediately, slipping a little on his way, grabbing the railing to steady himself as his laughter joined her own.

“Well, aren’t we a mess?” she said.

Not that she cared. Her life had been a mess for a year now. At least this mess was a fun one. She extended her hand over the balcony to let the snowflakes collect in her palm one by one. As soon as they landed, they melted, but the moisture still sparkled against her skin. “Look at it, Marcus,” she said. “How can you think it’s not lovely?”

He tucked himself into the corner of the darkened terrace as snugly as she was. “It’s cold,” he corrected her. “And you left your coat inside.”

As chivalrously as a paladin, he slipped off his tuxedo jacket and reached around her to drape it over her shoulders. The garment fairly swallowed her, but it was redolent with both his scent and his warmth, and she was helpless not to pull it more closely around herself.

“Now you’ll get cold,” she told him.

“I haven’t been cold since the moment I laid eyes on you. A little thing like snow and subfreezing temperature isn’t going to change that.”

Della wasn’t feeling cold, either. Not that that would make her return his jacket to him. It felt too nice being enveloped in it. Almost as if she were being enveloped by Marcus himself.

Almost.

As if reading her mind—again—he started to lean forward, dipping his head toward hers. Knowing he intended to kiss her, Della turned quickly away. Why, she had no idea. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to kiss him, too. But she still couldn’t quite bring herself to allow it. She wasn’t the woman he thought she was. She was beginning to wonder if she was even the woman she thought she was. Soon, she would be someone else—entirely and literally. And in a couple of hours, she and Marcus would be nothing but a fond memory lodged in each other’s brains. What kind of memory did she want to be for him? What kind of memory did she want him to be for her?

Marcus didn’t give her time to think about it, because the moment she had her back to him, he coiled both arms around her waist to pull her against himself. His broad chest more than spanned her shoulders, but his long torso aligned perfectly with hers. It was at the small of her back where she felt him most, however, because as he drew her closer, rubbing their bodies together, he stirred to life against her.

Della’s heart rate quickened at the realization that he was becoming as aroused as she. Heat coursed through her when he dipped his head to hers, his mouth hovering just over her ear. His breath was warm and damp against her skin, at odds with the snow, clouding her senses until she was dizzy not knowing what was what.

“I can say the snow isn’t lovely,” he murmured, his voice as hot and demanding as the rest of him, “because I’ve seen something much lovelier this evening. In fact, you, my intriguing Della, are absolutely electrifying.”

Instead of replying to that—mostly because she was afraid of what she might say … and even more afraid of what she might do—Della leaned further over the railing and into the falling snow. She turned her face to the caress of cold air, hoping it would be the antidote she needed to quell the swirling, simmering sensations inside her. Instead, her new position pushed her backside even more intimately against Marcus, and she felt him swell to even greater life against her.

She swallowed hard at the recognition of his condition, curling her fingers tightly over the metal railing, afraid of where her hands might wander otherwise. She wasn’t so lucky with her thoughts, though, because they wandered plenty, telling her things she didn’t want to hear. Things about how she would never meet another man like Marcus, and how he could be out of her life in a matter of moments, and how there was nothing sadder in life than a missed opportunity. So she tipped her face upward, welcoming the soft cascade of snowflakes, hoping they would numb her brain and make her forget …

… everything. Every ugly memory of where she’d grown up. Every miserable feeling she’d had since discovering the truth about Egan Collingwood. Every anxious moment she’d experienced since discovering even worse truths at work. Every terrible shudder of loneliness that had plagued her over the past eleven months. Every reason why she shouldn’t do exactly what she wanted to do with Marcus. He was the surprise birthday gift that fate had presented her, sporting a big, satin bow.

Again, as if he’d read her mind, he covered her hands with his and gently urged them apart, opening his jacket over the front of her dress so that he could slip his fingers between the two garments. They went immediately to her rib cage, strumming it as if fine-tuning a delicate instrument. Ripples of pleasure wound through Della as he touched her, and she sighed her delight, her breath a puff of fog in the frigid air. Unable to help herself, she leaned against him, reaching behind herself with both hands to curl her fingers into his hair. Marcus used her new position to plunder her at will, covering her breasts with sure fingers.

“Oh,” she murmured at his touch. “Oh, Marcus.”

He said nothing in response, only dipped his head to her neck to drag kisses along the column of her throat. One hand gently kneaded her breast, while the other began to venture lower, moving along the elegant curves of her waist and hip and thigh, where he bunched the fabric of her dress in his fist. Slowly, slowly, oh … so slowly, he drew the garment upward, until Della could feel the cold and snow on her stocking-clad legs. Because of the gown’s length, and because of the cold, she’d worn tights that rolled just above the knee, leaving her thighs bare. When she felt the whip of cold on her naked skin, she gasped, not only because of the frosty air, but also because she realized how far, how fast, things had progressed between them.

“Marcus,” she began to protest. But the words sounded halfhearted, even to her own ears.

“Shh,” he told her. “I just want to touch you. I just want to feel your skin beneath my fingertips.”

She told herself to tell him he’d done that by holding her hand, but the words stilled before emerging. It had been so long since she’d felt a man’s touch. Too long.

She’d forgotten how delicious it felt to be this close to another human being. Had forgotten how essential it was to share physical intimacy with another person. Had forgotten how exquisite it could be, how alive it could make her feel. Had forgotten—

Marcus found the leg of her panties and pushed it aside, threading his fingers into the damp, molten core of her.

Oh … oh, Marcus … She’d forgotten how that could feel, too.

“You’re so wet,” he murmured against her ear, obviously surprised by her response to him. “Della … oh, sweetheart … it’s like … It’s like you’re already ready for me to—”

He moved his fingers against her again, eliciting a groan from deep inside her. Her fingers fell to the railing again, convulsing on it, then relaxed, then gripped the fixture again. Hard. She turned her fists first one way, then the other, then began to move them up and down along the length of the railing, the way she would touch a man’s—