The Billionaire and the Virgin Chef

By: Bella Love-Wins

Seduction and Sin, Book 4


One





Prologue – Dylan





I come to realize I have a thing for Emily.

We have a thing for each other.

I crave her.

Now I want a taste, and I’m not referring to food.

Emily cranes her neck to meet my gaze, head tipped back. I tilt her head up and gaze into the most intense eyes I've seen in a long time. And she won’t look away. There's darkness and a little torment in her stare. A lot of pain coming from her soul, if that saying about eyes being the window to the soul is true.

I cup her chin and stroke the pad of my thumb down her cheek. A wave of hot need courses through me. I should say something, do something, but I don’t want to be anywhere but here. With her. The resolve in her eyes tells me what I already know. We want the same thing. Taking her champagne flute, I put both our drinks down nearby without looking away.

She leans back on the cold glass door, eyes steady, locked onto mine, overflowing with longing. I’m not surprised when her hands slide up along my chest, slowly feeling her way up, experiencing my chest by touch before looping her hands behind my neck. I rest my hands at the sides of her waist, pulling her against me as my mouth covers her for another intoxicating dose of that drug. That high that spreads across my skin, courses through my chest, and causes my cock to thicken, throb and jerk.

Except with Emily, there’s something different.

It’s not easy to admit it, but fuck, she has me in a trance. I always thought I’d enjoy an independent woman who’s as busy as I am. And I do, but hell, she’s got so much going on, way more than what I have on my plate. That’s new to me. The woman’s busier than I am.

There’s even more to her.

Something more than the urge to fuck her.

As I kiss and explore her mouth, my wayward hands move up her arms again. This time, I curve my hot palm around the back of her neck, winding her hair around my fingers. We fuck each other’s mouth, tasting, boring into each other, tangling our tongues together, bringing the intensity of our kiss to heights that rival a climax. I’ve never come from just kissing, but if it were ever to happen, it’d be with this woman.

She feels it too. Her moans, her hands gripping the hair at the base of my skull, her left leg that runs from my calf to my knee and back down, they all tell me so. My taste for her pulses inside me like a drug. And she’d felt it, too.

Pulling back from the kiss, I meet her wild eyes. “I want to take you upstairs to my bedroom and fuck you,” I tell her honestly. “I’ve wanted that since I saw you. After I taste you and make you come, I’ll fuck you. But then, I’ll take my time and worship every inch of you. If that’s what you want… Is it?”

“I…” she answers in a shaky whisper.

She circles a spot on my upper back with one finger, hands still at my neck. It takes everything in me not to press her body harder against the sliding door and take her right here. Right now. Just from her touch.

My heart pounds in my chest as I wait for her answer, the anticipation clutching me like it’s life or death. It’s the most foreign experience I’ve ever felt. A need, an urgency to hear her say yes.

Her eyes widen under her thick lashes, and her tongue runs over her bottom lip. “Yes, I want that too.”

I don’t wait for her to finish her sentence. Grabbing her by the waist, I lift her up to my chest, and her legs wrap around me. A quick turn and I take ground eating strides toward the stairs near the study. We make it to my bedroom. I lower her onto my bed, sealing my mouth to hers on the way down.





Two





Emily





Twelve Years Ago

I hurriedly leave my grade six classroom at the end of the school day with unshed tears in my eyes. There’ll be no more afternoons with her waiting outside like the other moms and dads. No more short walks with Joy and me skipping on the sidewalk a few steps ahead.

No more looking back at her when we get to a curb, arms outstretched so she can take one of our hands in each of hers to cross the street. No more begging her for two, five, fifteen minutes more outside our apartment to play a little longer before we go inside to start homework or sit down to dinner.

No more meals together, no more story time, no more lullabies sung by that voice as sweet as honey to my eleven-year-old ears. No more of her warm, cozy hugs and wet kisses on my forehead after she tucks in my covers, switches off the lights, and no more blowing one last kiss to Joy and me before we close our eyes.

No more anything with Momma.

She’s gone.

Dead.

Grams says she’s with Grandpa Henry and Great Grams up in heaven, and although I didn’t ever meet them, I’m relieved she’s not alone.

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