Hired a Gigolo, Got a Billionaire

Chapter 357 "Welcome to your honeymoon, Aphrodite," he whispered, and that rough voice which was already the soundtrack of my freedom sent a shiver down my spine despite the humid heat wrapping around us. He looked at me. Really looked at me. He must have seen the exhaustion written all over my face, the greasy hair, the travel-worn skin. "We need a shower. Now," he said, his voice low and urgent, and it wasn't just about getting clean. Without ceremony, his hands found the strap of my dress.

He lifted the fabric, and I raised my arms without hesitation, letting him strip away that last layer of grime, and the memory of the journey. The dress fell onto the wooden floor. He was already pulling off his own shirt, and within seconds we were both naked, facing each other in that luxury bungalow that smelled like salt air and new beginnings. He took my hand and led me into the bathroom. The glass shower was spacious and modern. He turned on the water, adjusting the temperature until warm steam began to fill the space. The first rush of warm water against my back felt almost religious.

I closed my eyes and let my head fall forward, a long, deep sigh slipping from my lips. Thirty hours of travel washed away, and with it, some of the tension I'd been carrying in my shoulders. "Turn around," he ordered, his voice muffled by the water. I turned to face him. He grabbed the liquid soap from the shelf and lathered his hands. Then those soapy hands landed on my shoulders. His grip was firm, massaging away the strain of the trip, the nerves, the escape. "Relax," he murmured, his hands sliding down my back to my ass, pulling me gently against him.

every hard muscle, every sharp line of him. His cock, already hard, pressed against my stomach was not subtle or accidental. It was a statement. My hands went to his arms, feeling the strength beneath his skin, tracing tattoos I wanted to decipher with my fingers and my tongue. He slid lower, his soapy hands washing my legs, touching me with a confidence that bordered on possessive. When he straightened

It was urgent, hungry, like he'd been waiting for this moment since I stepped onto that plane. His tongue invaded my mouth, and my hands tangled in his wet hair, pulling him closer. His kisses moved down my neck, my shoulder, the curve of my breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly, precisely, making me moan and arch against the cool glass

1/3 nothing to do with washing anymore. I moaned out loud, gripping his shoulders to keep from collapsing. "Open," he commanded my lips, his voice thick with desire. I spread my legs, and his fingers slid

my neck as the wave of pleasure tore through me. When the last tremor faded, he turned off the water. The sudden silence was broken only by our ragged breathing. He grabbed a large, plush towel

the center of it and stood at the edge, looking at me. The fading light gilded his skin, his tattoos, the body I already knew intimately without knowing his name. "Now," he said, his voice a rough promise, "it's my turn." He climbed onto the bed, settling between my legs. His hands spread my thighs, and he leaned down, his mouth finding me in a deep, languid kiss, drinking in the remnants of my pleasure. I moaned, my hips lifting on instinct. His tongue was a tool of sweet torture now-slow, deliberate, savoring every reaction