Page 47 of The Reluctant Billionaire

Either Carlotta is far more of afuck ‘em and leave ‘emtype than I would have guessed, or I did something wrong. She seemed happy, or as happy as three orgasms can make a person, but she shot me down when I suggested staying.

Maybe she just likes her own space.

Maybe blowing hot and cold is normal for her.

Maybe she came, saw conquered—or rather saw, conquered, came—and promptly lost interest.

It made a change from clingy post-coital women, but still. I’m a little pissed off, to be honest.

Should have got her number. At least we could have flirted over the weekend.

Fuck, she was hot. I knew she would be. Knew she’d be even more stunning when I got her naked. I suspected, from the way she got her tits out for me the other day with the unselfconsciousness of someone shaking my hand, that she’d show me a good time in the bedroom.

But she was so much more than that. She was passionate and responsive and willowy and lithe and hot for me. A mental image of her bent over in the shower, my dick disappearing between her smooth, pert cheeks, assaults me. Another one for the spank bank, as was the moment she swiped my pre-cum off the tip of my cock and sucked her fingertip between those beautiful lips. Second time around was different. Slower. More intense.

Caging her in.

Pinning her down.

Unable to look away from each other as I moved inside her.

Jesus Christ.

I wish she’d let me hang around for round three. I could have managed it after a brief recovery period in Lotta’s beautiful but totally fucking OTT bedroom.

I subtly adjust myself as I pull out the napkins. Mum would have an aneurism if we sat down for dinner without napkins.

Oh, shit. She’s saying something.

‘Huh?’

‘She means the nail, you wanker,’ my brother Pete says, earning himself a clip around the ear from mum. ‘Ow!’

‘I will not tolerate language like that in my home,’ Mum tells him. She turns to me. ‘I can tell when your head is in the clouds. I’m asking how Gaz’s hand is.’

‘Oh.’ I return to the present moment with a bang. ‘Yeah. Dunno. He seems okay. Turned up for work yesterday, and all. I read him the riot act, but he said he’d taken the time off work and wanted to get stuck in, so I let him do a bit of painting.’

‘I expect he’d be bored stiff at home,’ Mum muses. ‘He can’t come to any harm with a paintbrush.’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘You’d be amazed. He was out last night, though. When I left, he was getting Judy fu—trolleyed.’

‘That woman is a marvel,’ Mum says.

‘She really is,’ I agree. ‘She hasn’t stopped all week. But she and Carlotta have got through far more work than I thought they would.’

The second Carlotta’s name is out of my mouth, I regret it. Well, I regret it with everything but the tiny part of me that gets a kick out of hearing her name on my lips.

Her name is just like her. Beautiful. Elegant. Exotic. Classy.

‘Who’s Carlotta?’ my twelve-year-old nephew, Woody, pipes up. He and his mother, Laura, are by far my waste-of-space brother’s biggest achievements.

I turn back to the dresser and count out five knives, forks and spoons. Not that any of us will use knives except Pete, because even Woody is civilised enough to know you use a spoon to twirl your spaghetti around your fork when you’re eating spag bol.

Not Pete.

He still likes to cut his up into little bits.

I’m surprised he doesn’t still ask Mum or Laura to do it for him.

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