Page 88 of The Reluctant Billionaire
‘Exactly. I’m just wondering why I never got to meet you—that fucker Gabe kept me safely away from his little sister.’
‘Probably because you were an incoming. No need to get the marketing team on a client if they come to us. It’s a pity, though.’ She licks her lips. ‘I definitely would have enjoyed helping you seal the deal.’
‘And I would have greatly enjoyed any freebies you were willing to throw in,’ I counter. ‘Though if I’d turned up in a suit, without my power tools, you might not have looked at me twice.’
‘I’d have eye-fucked you even if you’d turned up in aMinionsonesie,’ she retorts. She leans forward. ‘And I know exactly where you keep your power tool, gorgeous. And how good you are at using it.’
‘Because you can still feel it,’ I say.
Her eyes are soft in the dim light. I watch her lips annunciatebecause I can still feel it.
CHAPTER 33
Lotta
When your jaw-droppingly beautiful boyfriend asks you to be his date at a ‘boring black-tie thing’—his words—and you find out it’s a super-important event for the tech industry in London, and that said boyfriend will be thekeynote speaker, and it’s your first official engagement together, you make an effort.
And when you set the bar pretty high with your daily sartorial choices, you know it’s time to pull out the big guns.
So you do.
It’s weird, because I’ve dated a lot of guys who are successful at what they do—even if that success has been handed to them on a plate. And, obviously, I attend a tonne of these sorts of things already in my capacity as a C-suite-level representative of a large company.
But Aide and I got together in an environment completely outside of all that corporate schmoozing and incestuous London networking, and neither of us were trying to impress each other with our professional credentials. Which is code forhe was entranced by my tits and I was entranced by his biceps and—at the time confusing—Big Dick Energy.
Which makes tonight’s little outing on his arm feel like a step-change for us. We’re doing something formal, work-related, as a professional couple.
That feels very grownup.
Happily, Ilookvery grownup, thanks to my sweet and insanely talented fashion designer friend, Astrid Carmichael. I only gave her a couple of weeks’ notice, but she’s worked her usual magic. The dress is emerald green super weight crèpe de Chine, which is her signature fabric. It hits the floor, but there’s plenty of skin on display thanks to an epic thigh slit, plunging keyhole neckline and cutaway waistline. It’s sensational, if I do say so myself, even if it’s not the most practical choice for a sit-down dinner.
The makeup artist I use for such occasions has excelled herself, giving me a fabulous smoky eye and applying highlighter to every inch of visible skin on my body. My hair’s in a sleek, low ponytail to one side, and the extensions my stylist added in have it falling in a silky snake almost to my hip. Green satin Louboutins, chunky gold hoop earrings and a pair of gold Chanel cuffs complete the look.
I hope the good people of London’s tech industry appreciate my efforts. I bet they won’t. I’m sure most of them have had to be dragged kicking and screaming out of their hoodies for the occasion.
Actually, forget the tech industry.
Because when I walk—okay, maybe I sashay—through the double doors of my bedroom to where Aide’s waiting in my living room, the expression on his face is everything.Everything.It goes from gobsmacked to feral in a second flat.
‘Fucking hell,’ he growls, standing and coming for me like he plans to throw me over his shoulder and take me back to his cave. ‘You are magnificent.’
Yesplease.
‘Don’t touch her!’ Amanda, my makeup artist squeaks from behind me. Aide stops like a kid who’s been caught red-handed.
‘You can touch me.’ I slink towards him, loving the hunger in those blue, blue eyes. ‘You canalwaystouch me. Just don’t mess up my makeup.’
He closes the gap between us, sliding his hands around my bare waist with an appreciative hum before tilting his head to the side of my neck not sprouting a ponytail and pressing his lips to my skin. There’s a hint of tongue, and I sag into him, clutching at those biceps through his impeccable Tom Ford tailoring. Jesus Christ, this man gets me horny. How can he be just as hot in a custom tux as he is in a grimy, Die-Hard-style vest?
How can that be fair?
He looks like Henry fucking Cavill on the red carpet at Cannes. Actually, forget Henry, because it’s Aide who has true star quality.
It’s Aide no one will be able to take their eyes off tonight.
I’m just the candy on his arm, and I couldn’t be prouder.
The shallow steps leading up to the Natural History Museum’s gothic entrance are covered in a wide strip of red carpet and lined with paparazzi. It turns out the guest list tonight goes way beyond the tech industry to politicians, lobbyists and celebrities, all of whom are invested in enhancing London’s reputation as a hospitable base for high-growth global tech companies—not easy when Dublin has cornered the market thanks to the low Irish corporation tax rate.
