Master & Student (The Billionaire's Way) Book 2 (9 page)

We moan. We scream. We both cum at the same time. Our bodies collapse on top of each other as the cool air from the broken window brushes across our bodies. We can hear the police sirens below. This morning has been a hell of a ride.

***

Mr. Peak’s New York office is not an office. It’s a freaking luxury apartment. After we had sex, he picked me up and walked me to this door. He kicked open the door and there in front of me is an eight hundred square foot bathroom suite complete with a jacuzzi tub.

My boss turns on the water and hugs me from behind as he looks out of the windows. We watch as the police try to control the melee forty-two floors below. Apparently, when you toss over fifty million dollars of gold, silver and cash out of a window, New Yorkers tend to over-react.

We watch as people kick, punch and fight each other while police use mace, batons and illegal choke holds to stop the chaos. Mr. Peak looks at the action for a minute and then he says, “That, right there, is the story of our modern world.”

The water from the jacuzzi fills up and we get inside. Mr. Peak grabs his iPhone and makes a call while he looks at me. “Jonas. There is a short black dress along with a pair of black high heel shoes, which belongs to Miss Sulamari. Have it brought up to my office immediately,” Mr. Peak orders.

My boss tosses away the phone and turns on the 60 inch TV in the bathroom. He switches over to CNN. I lean over and hug him as we watch the latest updates from Odostan. The once crisp white Presidential Palace at Kuva is a pockmarked mess spewing black smoke. An alert blazes across the screen: CONFIRMED: PRESIDENT MOLIDAK KILLED.

Mr. Peak smiles and puts the remote down. We watch as the citizens of Odostan dance in the streets. Three tanks pull down the statue to the late dictator. People take turns kicking the large marble head of the dead dictator.

“Odostan exports over 200 billion dollars of oil per year which is now in the control of General Zhukov and myself,” Mr. Peak brags as he strokes my hair. I look up at my boss and he educates his faithful student on the art of managing the spoils of war.

“General Zhukov will need to manage the hundreds of billions of dollars generated by the oil sales. That will be my responsibility. I conservatively estimate that my firm will earn anywhere from ten to fifteen billion dollars a year managing that money,” Mr. Peak explains. Damn.

“So, everything has worked out, Sir?” I say hoping to gain the approval of my master.

Mr. Peak looks out of the window, then he looks down at my anxious face. “Tomorrow, the front page of the
New York Post
and the
Daily News
will feature a full front page photo of the clusterfuck below. My name will be associated with it. This will spurn scrutiny in my activities. The New York media is the one thing I can not stop. But, I can control it,” Mr. Peak explains.

“And how will you do that, Sir?” I ask.

My boss looks at me. He takes his right index finger and points it at my nose. “Sarah, you have this gift of seduction. You can seduce powerful and violent men. Now, I need you to seduce an entire world.”

My boss’s cryptic words make me nervous and excited.

Mr. Peak steps out of the bath and grabs a towel. I follow him, grab the towel and begin to dry off my boss’s muscular body. “Normally, I shun the media. I kept a low profile which allowed me the privilege to profit in secret. The media didn’t mind. They are more obsessed with DUI driving starlets and drugged out rock stars. But in the age of Twitter, YouTube, buzzfeed, blogs and Internet forums, no one powerful person can remain truly private. That’s why I need to present a face for the media. I know powerful, strong men can scare people. It intimidates and angers society when they see one man with so much wealth and influence. But there is one thing that melts the heart of the darkest, most cynical person. That is the beautiful and stunning arm candy to any power man. Ah, the world is seduced by young beauty. That’s where you come in, Sarah,” Mr. Peak explains as he puts on his robe. I quickly dry myself off as we walk back into my boss’s office.

We find a pressed suit for my boss and a black dress for myself. Mr. Peak begins to get dressed as he explains his intentions. “Tonight, there is a gala at the Met. Some fashion thing I am always invited to and never attend. It is traditionally New York’s biggest nights for the rich and powerful. We will be there in attendance tonight. And you will be introduced to the world as my woman.”

My jaw drops. He is presenting me to the press and to the world as his woman?! Oh fuck! Mr. Peak walks up to me and grabs my shoulders. “This will be your ultimate seduction. You will smile for the cameras. You will make the press, New York society and the world fall in love with you. You will be charming. You will be stylish. You will be my Jackie O, my Princess Grace,” Mr. Peak says as he pauses for a moment and then continues. “You will be my better half.”

***

Mr. Peak’s last words kept resonating through my head.
You will be my better half.
Our bond is complete. My boss makes the rounds to his traders. He has an intimate conversation with his managing director. I can’t help but listen to the intense conversation. It sounds like many of the gold and silver coins have been recovered from the street below. The fifteen million dollars in cash is gone due to the fact that the paper money is pretty much untraceable. My boss doesn’t seem to be too upset about that. He seems more concerned about any potential bad publicity.

After my boss finishes his conversations with his staff, the two of us descend down to the lobby. I am still very much intimidated by my boss so I dare not make any small talk. When we get to the lobby, the cleaning crews are just about done sweeping up the glass around Columbus Circle.

Mr. Peak and I get into a stretched Maybach and head out of the Time Warner Center. We cruise to the Upper West Side. Oh my goodness, I am going to see Mr. Peak’s townhouse! We make a turn onto East 81st Street. This is true blueblood territory. I have been to New York a few times before but I have never stepped foot into this exclusive enclave.

The vehicle stops in front of  a large five story townhouse, which is twice as wide as any of the neighboring properties. I arch my head up and look at the intricate marble work on the townhome. This thing looks like it was built during the Gilded Age. Impressive.

I follow my boss inside of the townhome. The entryway is completely white save for a tasteful black and white marble flooring. An iron chandelier illuminates the space in an angelic glow. The entire room is a blend of masculine simplicity.

My boss notices me gawking at his impressive townhome. He snaps his fingers and orders me to “Keep up.” I dutifully follow behind him. He leads me to his private elevator. Wow. What else should I expect?

We stand close to each other as the elevator glides up to Mr. Peak’s New York lair. “Vera Wang is sending over your dress for the evening,” Mr. Peak says simply. Hey, what else can I expect from my boss. He may be all man but he certainly has good taste in women’s fashion.

The elevator stops at the third floor. The doors open and I am hit with the sight of the most opulent room I have ever seen in my life! The furniture looks like it was plundered from the finest castles in Europe. The walls are filled with Renaissance paintings. At the center of the space is a Roman statue of a naked woman. I walk up to the statue of the woman who appears to be washing her hair.

“There are very few ancient Roman statues of women in the nude,” Mr. Peak lectures. He says that with a sense of pride. I notice that the statue is bathed in light. My boss puts his hands around me. “The model who posed for the sculpture impressed an artist who dedicated years to capturing her image in stone. Even though that Roman woman has been dead for thousands of years, her image still captivates people today. Her soul lives in that sculpted piece of rock. That, Sarah, is the power of seduction,” Mr. Peak informs me as he kisses my neck. Dammit. This man is as good with his mind as well as his lips.

Mr. Peak continues his tour of the townhome. Every room is drop dead gorgeous. We take a sweeping staircase up to the top floor and my boss’s master bedroom. Now, I know my boss is a billionaire, but I can’t get over the fact that one man can own so many luxurious pieces of art, possessions, vehicles and real estate. It’s intoxicating.

As I walk around the top floor, I notice a set of stairs leading up to the ceiling. “Where does that go, Sir?” I ask. Mr. Peak walks up the stairs and shows me the door that leads to the roof of the townhouse. Now, that’s fun!

I follow my boss to the roof. The warm breeze of the summer city air hits my body. We walk around the rooftop terrace. I look over the side and see yellow cabs snake through 81st Street. I also catch a glimpse of Central Park just a few blocks away.

My boss checks his iPhone and says, “Vera Wang is here.” I look at him oddly. He mentioned that Vera Wang - the fashion house - is sending a dress over for the gala. But he makes it sounds like Vera Wang
herself
is coming to dress me!

We walk down the rooftop stairs and head to the elevator. We descend to the first floor. It opens. And right there, in the reception room, is Vera fucking Wang. The elegant designer is standing there with two of her assistants.

Mr. Peak and the legendary designer exchange some pleasantries. She asks about the “incident” on Columbus Circle. My boss assures her that “it’s not a big deal.” One of the assistants unzips a dress bag and reveals the most stunning white gown I have ever laid eyes upon.

My head is in a daze. This is just too much. “The gala will begin in a few hours. We should get dressed and make the rounds before we hit the Met,” Mr. Peak says to me. I can’t argue with that.

The designer and her assistants are led to a parlour room on the ground floor. I remove my clothes. The assistants dress me in the gown complete with a black ribbon around my waist. The gown’s long skirt has a flowing ruffled, five foot circumference which dominates the space around me. Wow, I feel like I am getting married.

I look into a full length mirror and I swear I want to cry. My body looks perfect in this dress. I never want to take this gown off. For the first time in my life, I really, honestly, feel like someone special.

The designer recommends a hair and makeup team who work on the Upper East Side. Since Mr. Peak is footing the bill, the exclusive hair and makeup team get to the townhouse in record time.

I am sat in a chair and primped and prodded with expert hands. My medium length hair is sculpted into an irresistible flowing hairstyle complete with curls that fall over my right shoulder. The make-up artist emphasises my strong cheeks and applies these eyelashes that make me look like a “golden age” movie star.

Mr. Peak walks down stairs and looks at me. “Stand up. Turn Around,” my boss orders. I obey. He tells me to walk towards him. I push my shoulders back and use my elevated confidence to give Mr. Peak a good show. The big man nods in approval. It looks like I am ready for tonight’s “coming out” event!

***

The night falls on Manhattan. Mr. Peak and myself get into a black Maybach on 81st Street. We cruise from the Upper West Side to the Met. My body is shaking right now. Even though I have risked my life, the specter of being the center of attention is even more terrifying.

Mr. Peak notices that I am bobbing my right knee up and down. He places his firm hand over my leg. It makes me stop instantly. We approach the sight of the gala. Expensive luxury cars and limos are lined up ahead of us.

I look to my right and notice that my billionaire boss is a little apprehensive as well. Well, this doesn’t make me feel any better! The car pulls up to the red carpet. A door opens. Mr. Peak grabs my hand and says, “After you.” Oh my goodness. I step out to a flood of flashbulbs. I look around and see A list movie stars, fashionistas and some of New York’s most powerful citizens. None of the photographers are even interested in little ole me.

My boss steps out of the Maybach. All of a sudden, the wave of lights hits both of us. “Mr. Peak! Mr. Peak! Over here!” photographers scream. Some of them scream, “How much money did you throw out onto the street?! How much money did you recover?!” I look up at my boss who seems at a genuine loss for words.

Mr. Peak grabs my hand and leans down. “Get ready. Now it starts,” my boss says as he lifts up my chin. Mr. Peak kisses me on the mouth. There is a huge pause in the press line. All of a sudden, all the photographers aim their cameras directly at me.