Page 14 of The Reluctant Billionaire

Fuck.Fuck.

The second I let my mind relax, Margot’s buggered off somewhere, and in her place is Carlotta, headlights on full beam.

She sashays towards me, dark eyes flashing, pulling her t-shirt over her head as she approaches. The lace bra that tormented me today is white, so pure and chaste against her tanned skin, except that I can see her taut pinky-brown nipples through the lace.

I pump harder.Fuck,that’s good. That’s exactly what the basest part of me needs. Other parts of my brain are disgusted with myself right now, but I’m past caring.

In my fantasy, I reach around and unhook her bra with one hand. It falls, and she’s topless, those dark, satiny tresses cascading over her shoulders and those beautiful, beautiful tits on full display for me.

I start salivating and glance down at my dick, watching in horrified fascination at how steely it is at the mere thought of a topless Carlotta, how hard the muscles in my forearm are working.

I squeeze my eyes closed again.

She’s sinking gracefully to her knees in front of me, licking those full lips and casting teasing glances my way through her thick lashes. She unbuckles my belt and unzips my trousers, shoving them down, easing my boxers down too as she presses those delicate, ring-covered hands to my quads and takes me in her mouth.

In the capable, depraved depths of my monkey brain, the wetness sluicing over me, gliding up and down my length, teasing my sensitive crown, is not my shower and my own soaped-up hand.

It’s her warm, willing mouth.

I rub the pad of my thumb over the pre-cum beading at my tip, and it’s her greedy, teasing tongue as she gazes up at me for approval.

She fucking has it.

I’d get to my knees for her right this second.

I’d prostrate myself at her six-grand feet.

I pump my length hard, and really it’s me holding her beautiful face between my hands, my fingers clawing at her jaw through her masses of dark hair, as I fuck her mouth and she takes me all the way in like the little champ I bet she is.

The heat is building, building, engulfing me so thoroughly it’ll be the death of me. I’m breathing hard as I attempt to withstand this onslaught of the purest kind of pleasure, of oblivion, there is in this life.

So fucking good, I tell her. I’m so close I can barely get the words out.God, I’m so close. I’m so—

I’m pumping furiously, my hand a blur of movement over my cock as I chase my high. I slap a palm against the slate wall of the shower for support as my orgasm races through me. And then it’s upon me, and I open my mouth, locking my jaw in a silent scream, bucking and shaking with the intensity of the pleasure as the evidence of that pleasure erupts across the shower wall in endless hot ropes.

When I’m done, I collapse my forehead against the cool of the wall. Triumph and despair course through me equally hard, because that little fantasy I just concocted was so fucking real as to be terrifying.

7

LOTTA

Thank God for the concierge at Elgin. When I opened my front door this morning, there was a Nike shoebox on the mat containing what must be their least expensive, least exciting trainers in my size.

They’re surprisingly comfy, though. Almost bouncy. That’s the reason I give myself, anyway, for the spring in my step when I turn up at the centre at six-fifty-five prompt.

I mean business today. My hair’s tied back in a perky ponytail, I’m in head-to-toe Lululemon under my lightweight trench, and my Nikes will inspire envy in precisely no one. I look ready for action, if I say so myself. I was up till midnight signing off on which event sponsorships Venus should bid on for next year’s summer season, but for some reason I’m feeling galvanised as hell this morning.

Especially because I got a Nespresso machine couriered to my flat last night, and I have it with me, boxed up with about three million pods.

Someone must already be here, because a long folding table is set out in the play area, near the front gate. There are rows upon rows of paper bags, all unfolded and standing stiffly to attention.

I really hope we don’t get a gust of wind.

Aide emerges from the building, an insane number of carrier bags hanging from his forearms and a couple of massive industrial chopping boards in his hands on which are balanced a few tubs of butter. He dumps the boards on the table and the bags on the ground next to it before giving me a once-over.

He could not look less pleased to see me, but he manages a gruffmorning.I did wonder if he’d regret the way he spoke to me yesterday, but it would seem not.

‘What can I do?’ I ask.

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