I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 207 - 208 Plenty of Protection

Chapter 207: Chapter 208 Plenty of Protection

I pulled harder, dragging Ashton back to the bed. ‘Let it go. We’re not doing this tonight.’

Ashton looked down at my hand, his arm still trapped in my grip.

He let out a slow breath and let me drag him back down beside me.

His fingers slid against my palm, firm and warm.

‘You really think you can hold out?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said quickly. I even faked a yawn for effect. ‘I’m exhausted. We’ve got the sponsor event tomorrow, and I’d rather not show up looking wrecked.’

I started to lie back, but he didn’t let go.

He pulled me straight into his chest, his voice brushing past my ear. ‘I can’t.’

‘Then take a cold shower,’ I muttered.

He let out a short, incredulous sound. ‘It’s freezing outside. You want your husband to freeze his balls off? Seriously?’

My face heated again. ‘Then I don’t know... figure it out yourself. We’re not doing this tonight.’

He dropped against me like his spine had given out, heavy and hot.

I fell back with him, both of us landing in the same place we’d started, except this time he was sprawled right on top of me.

He buried his face in my neck, breathing hard and fast.

It didn’t last long.

I broke first.

If he kept huffing like that, neither of us would sleep.

I nudged his head with my palm, grinding the words out under my breath. ‘Fine. I’ll help you.’

His head snapped up. ‘You sure?’

I glanced up at him.

His mouth twitched.

His eyes weren’t desperate—they were smug.

I narrowed mine. ‘You manipulative bastard.’

He smiled, wide and unrepentant. ‘You offered. Don’t back out now.’

‘Fine,’ I snapped, nearly biting my own tongue.

His smirk grew wider.

I slid my hand lower, and he hissed through his teeth.

The muscles in his abdomen clenched beneath my fingers.

His breath caught, shallow and uneven, like he hadn’t expected me to actually follow through.

I paused at the waistband, looked up once more, waiting for a flicker of hesitation.

There wasn’t any.

Slowly, I slipped my hand under the band and touched the tip.

He jerked to attention at once, hips twitching in reflex.

My fingers circled, light and teasing.

His jaw went tight.

The sound he made—half groan, half growl—vibrated low in his chest.

His fingers gripped the sheets.

‘You’re taking your sweet time,’ I muttered, not bothering to hide the wicked lilt in my voice.

‘It’s not a race,’ he said, voice thick and ragged.

I kept the pressure steady, shifting my grip slightly as I moved.

His breath got louder.

His hips kept shifting against the mattress, chasing the rhythm.

The silk pyjama sleeve of my arm kept sliding down, but I didn’t stop.

His thigh brushed against mine, hot and tense.

I was keenly aware of every tiny twitch, every tremble, every shudder.

The tension built fast.

I could feel it in the way he breathed—how each inhale came sharper, heavier.

His other hand found my waist and clung tight, as if anchoring himself there.

After a while, my arm started to cramp.

My wrist ached, and my palm burned from the friction.

I shifted positions, but he caught my hand again, lacing his fingers through mine, still breathless, still not done.

‘Ashton,’ I groaned. ‘My hand’s going numb.’

‘Just a little more,’ he muttered.

I leaned my forehead against his shoulder, half-asleep, still moving my hand in slow, consistent strokes.

The heat radiating off him was overwhelming.

He was trembling now, whole body taut and straining.

When he finally let go, his grip on me slackened, and his chest heaved like he’d just surfaced from underwater.

His lashes fluttered against his cheekbones.

His arm came around me, dragging me in.

I didn’t remember when he’d left the bed, when he came back.

I slept straight through, heavy and dreamless.

When I opened my eyes, the room was dark.

Thick blackout curtains sealed off the sunlight.

I blinked against the low light and found my face pressed against something smooth and cool.

Silk.

I reached up to touch it and felt muscle. Dense, solid, warm.

Ashton’s chest.

He was wearing pyjamas now, black silk, from the look and feel of it.

Last night he’d been in a full suit.

Above me, his voice rang out. ‘Morning.’

I tilted my head.

He was watching me, propped on one elbow like he hadn’t slept at all.

‘What time is it?’ I asked.

‘Little past nine.’

‘Seriously? I thought it was barely six.’

I started to sit up, then gave up halfway and dropped back into the heat of the blanket and Ashton’s chest behind me.

His arm tightened just enough to keep me in place.

I pressed my cheek into the pillow and kept my eyes shut. ‘Why’d you show up last night? You flew here?’

‘No flight. Driver got me here in five hours.’

‘You didn’t need to come. I told Yvaine to let you know I was fine.’

‘I know, but I was still worried.’

He shifted lower and wrapped both arms around me.

I squirmed a little, getting comfortable, then glanced past his shoulder—

And froze.

On the nightstand: a neat, ridiculous pyramid of condoms.

All sealed. All different sizes. Some had matte wrappers. Some had glossy ones.

There were stripes, neon colours, even a shiny purple one that claimed to be cinnamon-flavoured.

Sleep vanished.

I nearly launched out of his arms.

He was watching me with that smug, unblinking stare that made my jaw twitch.

‘When the hell did those show up?’ I demanded.

He caught my hand again and laced our fingers. ‘They were delivered earlier.’

‘They?’ I yanked my hand free. Heat rushed up my neck. ‘You actually called the bloody front desk?’

I should’ve stayed half-awake to intercept whatever lunatic impulse made him do that.

Ashton shrugged, nonchalant. ‘I just asked for pyjamas. I didn’t know they’d include the whole room service catalogue.’

‘Liar.’ I turned my face into the pillow, too mortified to look at him. ‘No hotel staff on Earth does that unless you specifically ask.’