To Want A Billionaire (The Billionaire's Baby Series Book 1) by Ava Claire

she gave my hand a squeeze. “‘Best Mom Ever’ too, I hope.”
    “Damn straight,” I echoed with a smile, squeezing back.

Chapter Six
    I was surrounded on all sides by pink, blue, and yellow tissue paper, onesies, pacifiers, bibs, and the remnants of the Sullivan’s Megan ordered. I was overwhelmed by the number of my fellow employees and complete strangers who had sent gifts for the baby, including a diamond studded rattle from Alicia, and the restored bassinet that my mother had tucked yours truly into from my parents. I’d opened presents and let Marco and his team of massage therapists work their magic. The moment I was alone, insisting that I needed a nap and Jacob and I could handle the clean up, I’d eviscerated an entire roasted chicken.
    I was scribbling in my gift tablet, gnawing on a bone when a familiar voice filled the den.
    “Quite the haul.”
    Turning as red as the sleek knot at his throat, I tossed the bone in with the carcass on the plate beside me and scooted my hips to the left, like I was hiding the evidence. My butt started singing and I blushed even harder, realizing I’d set off one of the baby’s new toys. The ‘ABC Song’ filled the room.
    “You’re home!” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and slapped a smile on my lips. I was on a floor pillow in the center of the den, which had worked out spectacularly while we all attempted baby yoga and opened gifts. Now, I was starting to think it was a terrible mistake, because there was absolutely no way me getting on my feet in a graceful manner was possible.
    Jesus, Lay! It’s not like Jacob hasn’t seen you with the infamous Leila Bedhead, complete with morning breath. Or heard your very feminine, and disgustingly fragrant ‘toot’ . Or seen you red eyed, snotty nosed, and gross when you were sick.
    It must have been the hormones that made me wish I’d dashed up the stairs and waited for him in some sexy neglige with lip gloss and mascara, so he’d get the full effect of my bedroom eyes when I whispered, “I need you.” Because at the moment, letting my eyes devour him, inch by beautiful inch, another kind of heat was rippling over me.
    His slacks were far more than ‘slacks’. They were glorious, the fabric sliding over his powerful calves, raking up the thighs I wanted to stroke my fingertips along as I reached one of my favorite erotic destinations. I wanted to linger at his groin, watching him grow and harden beneath my gentle and demanding touch. I wanted to tear off his belt, the same belt that he’d worn when he caught me burning the candle at both ends, and tease him with it. Run the leather across my bare pussy like his own private burlesque dancer. Watch the fire in his gaze rage with want and curiosity as he wondered where I was headed next.
    I bit my lips as my eyes flicked over the buttons I wanted to destroy, tearing off the crisp shirt and jacket that kept him respectable. He was sexy as sin in a suit, in any form of clothing, and straight up evil without because he made me want to do bad things. Things like biting his golden flesh as my fingers glided over muscles. Every part of him was mine, and mine alone.
    My hands would meet at his neck, arms pulling him close as I perked on my toes and brought my lips painfully close to his. I wanted to feel him stiffen with lust. Every breath, every moment he wasn’t inside me was painful and maddening. I’d make him wait for my kiss, my lips cutting to his ear.
    “Did you miss me?” I’d whisper, my body, my heart already knowing the answer, but needing to hear the words fall from his lips. Words I’d never get tired of hearing.
    “Every-”
    “-minute we’re apart.”
    The last words came from his lips. In real time, not soft focus words from my daydream. I was sure I was still fantasizing because I was in yoga pants and a gray Whitmore and Creighton tank top that used to be oversized, but was more like a crop top these days. The smell of roasted chicken