Page 41 of The Reluctant Billionaire

I can have fun with himandhave fun with him, if you catch my drift.

‘We can go back to mine,’ I suggest airily as we saunter down a sun-soaked Ladbroke Grove, the bulky muscles of his upper arm grazing mine, ‘unless you live nearby?’

‘I live out west,’ he says. ‘Osterley. Yours sounds great.’

‘Ah.’ Half an hour ago, I would have imagined some depressing terrace house on the way out to Heathrow. Now I’m recalibrating. He probably has a fucking estate. ‘My flat is five minutes away,’ I tell him. ‘I live in our most recent development. It’s called Elgin.’

‘As long as it has a shower and a bed,’ he says with a sideways look so scorching it makes me full-body shiver, ‘it works for me.’

A shower.

A showerwith Aide.

Jesus.

It’s a prospect so tantalising that, for a second, I almost don’t care that he’s a lying twat. Because, at the end of the day, no matter what his actual identity is, his physical reality is real. It’s real, and it’s outstanding, and nothing will stop me from enjoying this man tonight. From letting him show me what he’s capable of. Whatever else I may think of him, it’s clear ‘Aide’ is capable on far more fronts than I initially gave him credit for.

So let’s see what he can do.

17

LOTTA

As I press my fingerprint against the lift button in my building, Aide’s hands snag on the sides of my waist. He follows me into the lift, shuffling behind me so he can bury his nose and lips in my neck. The mirror shows me in a state of dishevelment and early arousal as a gorgeous specimen of a man kisses my skin, one hand sliding around to caress my stomach.

He’s already doing everything right.

And I’m already in danger of losing my head and succumbing to him completely.

‘Nice place,’ he observes neutrally from behind me as I open the door to my flat. Technically, Gabe lives here too. He’s staying with me while he recovers from his divorce, but he’s in Paris this week.

‘Thanks.’ I bend to untie my basic-bitch Nikes before toeing them off by the door. As I said, I feel a damn sight less awkward about Aidan Duffy seeing my palatial pad than I would have done about Aide seeing it a couple of hours ago.

He’s crouched down and is taking off his steel-capped work boots. As he stands, those shocking pale eyes trained only on me, I have a weird flash of self-consciousness. But then he’s pulling me into him, one big hand splayed across my back as the other fists my ponytail, tugging my head back, and I sag, squishing my boobs and their armoured bra against his hard chest as he lowers his face and his mouth finds mine.

Thisis real. The attraction between us. The need. The wet heat of his mouth as he coaxes mine open with his tongue. The scrape of his beard over my chin as he angles my face just how he wants it and deepens his access. I wrap my arms around him and hold on tight as I drown in the smell of his sweat and the faint taste of beer on his tongue and the slick bulk of his muscles under my fingertips.

I despise myself for thinking it, but no matter who this enigmatic guy is beyond these walls, right now I’ve got him all to myself, and it’s magic. He’s got me wrapped up in his enormous arms, and he’s doing things with his tongue that make me need it between my legs, like, yesterday, and he’s growing so divinely hard against me that my head is spinning.

For the next hour or two, this will be all that exists. Him and me. And if I give him everything, I’m bloody well going to take everything I can from him, too.

‘Any chance of a shower?’ he asks against my mouth. His voice already sounds husky, and it makes everything clench between my legs.

‘Solo or together?’ I ask.Together. Together.

‘What do you think?’ He plants a lingering kiss on my lips. ‘Lead the way.’

I wriggle free of him and sashay off to the master bedroom, which is spectacular, if I say so myself. I’m sure Aide’s been in many a woman’s bedroom, a fact I have no desire to dwell on, but he may never have seen anything quite this girly. He’s going to look like some oversized cartoon beast ravishing the princess in her enchanted palace.

Come to think of it, that’s not a bad analogy for this situation. Nor an unappealing one.

My carpet is white. My bed is four poster and epic. And my walls are papered in hand-painted De Gournay panels whose palest green backdrop showcases perfect pink cherry blossoms and green-gold hummingbirds. It’s a work of art. In the main part of the flat, I went for pale colours and bold artwork, but here, in my sanctuary I’ve gone ultra-feminine.

I’ve gone similarly indulgent in my bathroom. I’m not a huge fan of the current penchant for minimalist wet rooms. I wanted mybagnoto echo the most spectacular penthouse bathrooms I’ve ever stayed in. Shitloads of marble. Shiny chrome. Gorgeous sconces on the walls and flattering mood lighting, given there’s no natural light.

‘Come on through,’ I say, uttering a silent prayer of thanks to Venus’ lighting engineers as I select the button for low-level, sultry lighting. The wall sconces come on low as do the spotlights around the base of the bath. I know from previous encounters that this setting will showcase every shadow of every one of Aide’s beautiful muscles to perfection.

I crank the lever—old school chrome—to turn the shower on. A torrent of water immediately hits the tiles of the enormous, four-person enclosure. From my position by the vanity I watch Aide approach me in the mirror. He puts his hands on the marble surround, caging me in, and presses his erection against my bum. I wiggle shamelessly against his hardness, because boy does it feel amazing. Like the best kind of promise.

---