Hired a Gigolo Got a Billionaire (Zoey and Christian) novel Chapter 442

Chapter 442

Madeline’s POV

My mouth was dry. Every beat of my heart thundered in my ears, a primitive response to the heat and desire radiating from him. Pregnancy hormones already had me living in a near-constant state of heightened sensitivity, and now they’d found their spark. A heat different from the fireplace began to bloom inside me, a sweet, unbearable tension low in my belly.

“Control yourself?” The words slipped out as a rough whisper, almost a challenge. “Who said I want you to?”

It was like I’d cut the rope holding him back. His eyes darkened, his pupils dilating until they nearly swallowed the blue. A low sound, almost a growl, escaped his throat before his hands, big, warm, steady, framed my face. His thumbs brushed my cheeks, and then his mouth was on mine.

It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It wasn’t exploratory. It was a statement. Possession. His lips moved against mine with a hunger held back for far too long, like a wild animal finally set loose. I gave in instantly, my hands sliding up to bury themselves in his dark hair, pulling him closer until there was no space left for air between our bodies. He tasted like coffee, red wine, and something unmistakably Marcus. A flavor my body recognized instantly, craved like home.

He broke the kiss to breathe, his breaths uneven, his forehead resting against mine.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice thick with a vulnerability that broke my heart and set me on fire at the same time. “Madeline… I want you so badly it hurts. But I won’t go any further than you want.”

Instead of answering, I captured his mouth again, this kiss more urgent, more demanding. My hands slid down from his hair, exploring the breadth of his shoulders, the solid strength of his chest beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. I could feel his muscles tightening under my touch, every part of him taut with the same need burning through me.

“I want you, Marcus,” I murmured against his lips, my words blurred with desire. “Please. Make me feel you.”

He groaned, deep and raw, and then his hands lifted me as if I weighed nothing. In his strong arms, maybe I didn’t. He carried me to the bedroom with firm, determined steps and laid me down with a reverence that clashed beautifully with the ferocity of his kiss. The mattress dipped beneath me, and then he was over me, his body a delicious, grounding weight that anchored me to the moment.

His mouth found mine again, but now his pace had changed. Slower. More intentional. As if he meant to savor every second, every inch. He kissed the corner of my mouth, my jaw, the frantic pulse at the base of my throat. Each brush of his lips was a spark against my already overheated skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his mouth moving down my neck to my collarbone, where he buried his face and inhaled deeply. “You smell so good. Your scent has always driven me crazy.”

My hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging into hard muscle beneath his shirt. I arched into him, a primal need taking over. I needed to be closer. Needed fewer clothes. Needed him.

“Marcus… the clothes…” I begged, the words breaking apart between shallow breaths.

He braced himself on his elbows, his eyes scanning my face as if committing every detail to memory. Then, with movements that were deliberate but no less urgent, his hands found the hem of my sweater. He lifted it slowly,

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and I raised my arms to help, the fabric sliding over my head before being dropped to the floor.

His gaze darkened even more when he saw the simple cotton bra underneath. Practical. Completely unsexy. But the way he looked at me, like I was wearing the most exquisite lingerie in the world, made my blood sing.

“God, Madeline,” he breathed, his hand trembling slightly as it reached out to trace the curve of my hip, exposed just above the waistband of my pants.

He moved back, kneeling between my legs, and his hands found the waistband of my pants. His fingers undid the button, then slowly, torturously, dragged the zipper down. He pulled my pants off along with my underwear, and I lifted my hips to help, a hot flush washing over my entire body under his intense, appreciative gaze.

When I was finally naked in front of him, bathed in the golden dimness of the bedroom, lit only by the flickering firelight spilling in through the open door, he stopped. His eyes traced every curve, every dip, lingering on the gentle swell of my belly.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, his voice filled with such reverence it made my throat tighten.

He bent down and pressed his lips to my stomach, a kiss so tender and sweet that tears actually welled in my eyes. Then his hands joined his mouth, caressing the softly rounded skin as if greeting our child, accepting every change in my body.

That sweetness was quickly overtaken by a powerful wave of pure desire when his hands slid higher and found my breasts. They were fuller now, more sensitive, and his knowing touch pulled a moan from my lips. He lowered his head and took one nipple into his mouth through the fabric of my bra, and I cried out, my hips bucking on instinct.

With a practiced motion, he unclipped the front of my bra, and it fell open, freeing my breasts. The look of pure adoration in his eyes shifted into raw hunger. He bent down again, and this time there was no barrier. His warm, wet mouth closed around my nipple, his tongue circling and teasing the hardened peak while his hand kneaded the other breast. The sensation was electric, every pull of his lips sending sharp jolts straight between my legs, where a warm slickness had already begun to form.

“Marcus, please,” I begged, my hands desperately tugging at his shirt. “I need to feel you.”

He stood, and in seconds his own clothes were gone. Shirt, jeans, briefs. Until he was as naked as I was. And he was magnificent. Pure strength and restrained power. Broad shoulders, defined chest, taut abdomen… and his erection, thick and imposing, pulsing with need. He was the picture of masculinity, and he was mine.

He positioned himself between my legs, which opened instinctively to welcome him. His eyes locked onto mine, and the love and raw desire I saw there stole my breath.

“I don’t know how this… works,” he said, sounding slightly self-conscious, his voice rough. “With the baby, I mean. I can be more… gentle.”

“Don’t be too gentle,” I replied, pulling him down by his shoulders until his skin met mine, full contact, blazing and real. “I’m not made of porcelain. I want you. All of you.”

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