Page 13 of The Reluctant Billionaire

In terms of materials, we went for only the most natural. The most sustainable. This is where I’m happy spending my money. This is where it feels right to invest.

I’ve made peace with the vast sums I sunk into this place. I’m aware that being environmentally conscious is often the privilege of the wealthy. And while I can’t stomach spending money on stuff, pointless objects to fill my home for the sake of it, I can get on board with investing in materials and pieces that are kind to our planet. That respect it.

That’s where the guys at Venus really excelled themselves, to be honest. I’m sure they have clients who demand gold taps and wall-to-wall marble, and I’m sure they do a great job for them. But they were as strong on the fundamentals as they were on the design elements, and I can sleep easy knowing my home’s ecological footprint is as gentle as possible.

There are plants everywhere, too. That was another priority for me. After growing up in a cramped, squalid part of London, I knew I wanted to bring the outside indoors as much as possible. The polished floors of the ground floor, made from green concrete that’s far more environmentally friendly than traditional concrete, give way to numerous built-in planters of the same substance. In turn, these planters are brimming with trees and plants.

There’s even a water feature in the hallway. The sound of running water and the presence of living things both contribute greatly to my mental wellbeing. When I’m at home, away from the frenetic buzz of the office and the relentless pull of everyone who demands my time, I want to be soothed. I want no distractions. No fuss.

Which is why there’s so little furniture, much to the dismay of my interior designer. There are a few amazing, oversized paintings. Smooth, abstract sculptures crafted from stone. And the odd piece of mid-century furniture. But not much else.

Every single item in my home has to justify its existence.

Just like I justify my own existence every fucking day.

I wish I could tell you my mind is quiet, stilled from hours of manual labour today, but that’s not true. It’s the opposite, in fact. My brain is busy and fizzing, and it’s not from the riot of emails I just processed in the car. It’s from my day at the centre.

It’s from dealing with that fucking woman.

I didn’t even have much interaction with her. She was in a different room for most of the day, to be fair. But she got under my skin in every possible way, and she’s still under my fucking skin even now.

And I do not fucking appreciate it.

I crank the handle in my shower, and a torrent of water hits the concrete floor of my wet room with gratifying force. Less gratifying is the reminder of my last verbal exchange with Lotta.

It sounds like the only person who needs a cold shower around here is you.

Jesus Christ. Much as I hate to admit it, she’s not wrong. I hate to admit even more that a good proportion of the friction in my brain just now isn’t anger or resentment or irritation.

It’s desire.

Because not only is she a knockout of the finest proportions, but she’s a firecracker. I mean, she’s fifty percent Italian and one hundred percent entitled, so it shouldn’t be a huge shock.

What’s a bigger shock is thatI liked it.

I liked riling her. Getting a reaction. And I fucking loved the fact that she was eyeing me up too, even if I suspect her physical reaction to me pissed her off just as much as my carnal reaction to her did me.

The steam coming off the water tells me I’m good to go. No cold shower tonight. My tired, aching muscles need heat. I really am getting soft—need to double up on the PT sessions when this project is over.

I peel off my vest and unzip my filthy cargo pants. Jesus, I stink. Unfortunately, there’s one part of my body that’s not getting soft and it’s my dick.

Nope.

It is rock fucking hard and it definitely hasn’t got the memo that my body is exhausted.

Fuck my life.

I shuffle into the shower and hang my head, letting the torrent of water massage my scalp and course over my sore shoulder and back muscles as I attempt to ignore my throbbing dick.

Attempt unsuccessful.

After a minute or two, I give in. I close my eyes, and I fist it roughly at the root.

Jesus fuck, that feels good.

I pump some shower gel into my hand and smooth it over my length. The glide of skin against skin has me huffing out a sigh of anguish and ecstasy, because this is what I need. A quick wank to release all that tension. I close my eyes and pull up an oldie but a goodie from the spank bank: Margot Robbie, spreading her legs inThe Wolf of Wall Street.

She’s so hot, and so golden, with that breathy voice telling Leo she’s not wearing panties. She does it for me every time. She’s uncrossing her legs, and—

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