Page 1 of Dirty Nasty Billionaire: Part 2

Chapter 1

“How was your first day?” My roommate Elise asks. We share a two-bedroom apartment on the top floor of a triple decker in Cambridge, an apartment we found the summer before our senior year. It’s cheap, thanks to the faulty radiator, the sloping floors, and the drafty windows, but I don’t care why it’s cheap. I only care that it is. And since Elise is using her brand-new degree to work as a recruiter for New England College (a job which pays less than a year of tuition at NEC), she appreciates it, too. She’s waiting for me on the ratty old couch in our living room, her feet up on the chipped Ikea coffee table, which is covered with a fleet of tiny white Chinese takeout boxes.

“It was …” I pause, trying to figure out how to describe what happened today, from the promising start, to my morning crash-and-burn, to the earth-shattering orgasm that ended it. I can’t imagine what Elise would say if I told her that I got oral sex from Nixon Blake while perched on the edge of his desk in the executive suite on my first day. I have a feeling there would be a stern warning in there, at the very least. So instead I go a little more cryptic. “Unexpected.”

“Wow, something Delaney Masterson couldn’t plan for? That’s fucking unfathomable,” she says, diving into a box of lo mein with a pair of chopsticks.

I drop my tote bag on the floor by the door and practically bum rush her on the couch, snatching the low mein container out of her hand. “You talk to high school students with that mouth?” I ask before shoving greasy noodles into my own.

“No, I save it for you, old roommate of mine,” she replies before tucking into some General Tso’s chicken.

Elise and I have been roommates since freshman year, when the housing office randomly paired us up. We always wondered if it was purposeful, throwing two scholarship girls from working class families into the same tiny room. And thank god they did, because I don’t know if I would have survived with one of the trust fund princesses that ended up living on our floor. Elise may have gone the sorority route at NEC while I tended more towards the library, but at the end of the day we were always a pair. A team. I could always count on her to commiserate when I was stuck waiting tables for a bunch of Harvard bros wearing Nantucket red, who loved to flaunt their wealth until it came time to tip.

We lived in the dorms for three years before finally saying to hell with it and finding this apartment. And when we both scored jobs that kept us in the city, it went unsaid that we’d stay together. The thought of having to find another roommate (because until I score an actual job with Scour and not a low-paying internship, there’s no way in a freezing cold hell that I can afford to live alone in this city), practically makes me break out in hives.

“So did you get to meet the Sexy CEO?” She asks. Elise spent more than her fair share of time staring over my shoulder at pictures of Nixon Blake during pre-internship deep dive.

I instantly choke on a slippery, salty noodle. I feel like I’m blushing red as a maraschino cherry, so I fan myself as if I’m just warm from the commute. “Yeah, he made an appearance.”

“What was he like?”

Well, he gave me the first, and likely best, orgasm of my whole life and is now in possession of the tattered remains of my favorite panties … so, pretty great.

“He’s a little aloof,” is what I say out loud.

“Do you think he’s good in bed?” She asks, and I immediately choke on a water chestnut. “Well come on, he’s got to be shit, right? He’s hot and rich and a genius. He has no reason to be good in bed. He could be fucking terrible at fucking, and he’d still have no problem getting women.”

I swallow the mouthful of lo mein, which gives me time to not say something completely ridiculous. “Elise, he’s hot and rich and a genius. He’s definitely good in bed,” I say, and try not to sound too much like I know what I’m talking about.

“Well, play your cards right and maybe you’ll find out,” she says. She drops her box of chicken back on the coffee table and rises from the couch. “I’m going to get a beer. You want one?”

“Sure,” I say, and as soon as she’s out of the room, I let my mind drift back to Nixon on his knees. It’s not an image I’m soon to forget, that’s for sure.

As if to prove my point, I spend the entire night dreaming about our encounter in his office. Which should be amazing (who doesn’t want to relive the best orgasm ever over and over again?), but when I wake up, I find myself surprisingly on edge. Because the reality of the situation has come crashing down upon me. I fooled around with my boss. And not just any boss, but the most powerful man in tech, the very field I want to enter at the very company I hope to work. The man who holds my future in his hands has seen me naked and splayed out on his desk.

Am I going to be able to look at him without blushing? Is he going to be able to see me as anything other than a sex object? He was very clear yesterday that what happened was to be forgotten (yeah right). We’ll be returning to boss and employee when I show up at Scour today. But how does that even work? Will it even work? Or will he summon me up to his office at the end of the day for another round?

I’m ashamed to say that the dominant thought is dear god I hope so.

* * *

I arrive at Scour,my emotions a roiling cauldron of anxiety, determination, and lust. I feel like if anyone looks at me wrong, I’m going to explode. I’m a live wire as I ride the elevator to the 9th floor, where my fellow interns probably aren’t expecting me. I wouldn’t expect me to show up after what happened yesterday.

Though if there’s one perk of my encounter with Nixon yesterday (you know, other than the mind-blowing orgasm), it’s that I’ve almost completely forgotten about the dumb thing I said that precipitated it.

But while I may have forgotten my get-to-know-you faux pas, my fellow interns certainly haven’t. As soon as I walk in the door, Jenna and Amber start giggling. Colin can’t bring himself to look up from his laptop, where he’s furiously tapping away, his cheeks growing redder by the second.

I don’t know how Nixon is going to see me, but they certainly still see me as the hapless girl who’s never had an orgasm.

Little do they know that I’m the artist formerly known as the hapless girl who’s never had an orgasm.

“So you’re still here,” Amber says.

“I am,” I reply, dropping my bag into one of the chairs and taking a seat.

“Color me surprised. I sort of assumed you’d be busy too with the process of trying to change your name and leave the country to bother showing up to work,” she drolls. “I gave your assignment to the nerd.” Amber tosses her head in Colin’s direction. He finally glances up over his screen and mouths a quick sorry when she’s not looking.

I give him a quick smile to let him know I don’t hold it against him.

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