Page 53 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

Gigi sits on an ornate chair in this very big and very private fitting room. Her luscious lips look perfect around my cock as I fuck her mouth.

Insatiable. That is how I would describe her. And…free. She is free here in St. Barts in a way I could not have imagined. Even in the first days here, tired and in pain, she wanted me. Our lovemaking in those early days was soft and careful, but no less meaningful, no less satisfying.

She brings me so close and I have to pull away quickly to avoid coming in her mouth. She stands, clad only in silk panties and bra, and reaches beneath her underwear, touching herself as I watch. I growl in response, my cock ready to explode.

Stalking toward her, she giggles, backing away, her expression one of both lust and dare. When she is against the wall, I am lifting her, ripping her panties aside as I shove inside.

I take her, expensive clothing hanging all around us, my mouth hard against hers. When someone knocks at the door, reality comes back into focus and she stifles a laugh as she says, “Yes?”

“Can we get you any other sizes?” the salesperson calls from outside the room.

Still giggling, Gigi calls back, “No, thank you! I’m just about done.”

“Okay, well let us know if we can grab anything else.”

Her forehead against mine, she whispers, “I’m almost done.”

“Well, I’d better help you with that, then,” I grin as I lean in for a sensuous kiss.

“Focus,” she says.

“Youfocus,” I say, laughing. “I was ready before I was even inside you.”

I move again and our eyes lock and there is something between us all I can see is the woman I love. Nothing else matters. I fuck her hard as her sweet pussy clenches around mine, her orgasm ripping through her body as she goes rigid, baring her teeth at me as she rides the wave of her climax.

It doesn’t take long for me to follow. For moments after, I just hold her there, sweating and breathing, until I finally slip free and look around for anything we can use to clean up.

Gigi giggles as she digs in her bag and finds a packet of hand sanitizer wipes. We quickly clean up, dress, and then she picks a few items of clothing, which we will purchase for the privilege of fucking in the store’s dressing room.

As we walk out, flushed and grinning, I am reminded of just how different things are now. How different I am. Just two months ago, I was just the foreign policy expert for a United States Senator. I had a safe life, a life I had worked hard to build. I was a planner, always quiet and under the radar. I rarely took risks.

Today, I am a man unafraid of spending the billions I inherited. I am a man who fucks in public, who flaunts his wealth, who lives in a house by the sea with a mysterious and beautiful woman. I am a man who stages expensive logisticalrescue missions, who is planning my next move and my next move after that – just to keep us free of an international criminal.

Gigi has changed, too. Gone is the young woman living like a teenager. She looks like a woman now, with her shorter, blonder bob and her high-end clothing. Her body is curvier; thanks to being able to eat what she wants now, rather than having her every calorie scrutinized. She is still reckless, rebellious.

We walk hand-in-hand down the street to the doctor’s office. She grumbles the whole time about not wanting more surgery, and when the doctor says that there will actually be three surgeries over at least a year, she stands up and says there is no way she is going to be in and out of medical procedures for such a long time.

“My dear,” he says kindly, “You are healing well. You walked in here on two feet, rather than using your scooter, which is proof you are doing well. You will be able to work out, to walk. But if you want your calves to look similar, we need to proceed.”

She scoffs. “The way it looks does not bother me. It is a reminder of what I endured.”

“The surgery can help to rebuild muscle,” he says. “And with extensive physical therapy, I believe you could potentially dance again. Enough, at least, to teach or choreograph, if not perform.”

“My dance career is over,” she says, waving him off. “I will never stand on a stage or perform at a professional level again and I am okay with it.”

I am inclined to push her to do the surgery just in case she changes her mind. She is so young – I would hate to see her throw away the remainder of her career. Realistically, though, I know that we likely do not have a year to spend here in St. Bart’s. We will need to keep moving. Roman and I shared details about both the Baranov and Gusev operations in the United States in order to get help from Senator Jennings’ office. Bothfamilies will be after us now, and both have a very long reach. Roman himself is already under witness protection, only able to communicate infrequently and always with news that terrifies me.

“Are you sure?” he asks, but he looks at me, as if he expects me to step in. I am, after all, the one who has made the appointments. I have paid the bills. I am the man.

She looks at me, as well, and I can see that she expects me to make an argument as to why she should do the surgery plan. She expects me to make the decision for her, because most of the decisions in her life have been made for her, and not always with her best interests in mind.

I hold out my hands and then clasp them in my lap.

“I used to want to start my own studio,” Gigi says. “But my whole life has been dedicated to dance and so my only dreams were about dance. I think this injury… I think I have realized I might want to explore other interests, and I doubt any of those interests will require my calves to look the same. People in dance were always hypercritical of my body but I never was. I have never been vain about my appearance.”

I chuckle and both the doctor and Gigi look at me expectantly.

“I was, uh, just thinking about the night you came to the restaurant in cowboy boots, a tutu and, like, a hoodie or something.”

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