The Billionaire's Touch (4 page)

He groans and tilts his head back.

I move my head up and down, taking in a little bit more of him each time – although we’re talking centimeters, not inches. He’s too big for me to go far. I’m not a porn star. At one point I get a little too ambitious and start to gag, and he murmurs, “I want you to like it. Do it so you
like
it.”

With that permission, I start sucking him for my own pleasure, only going so far down and no more. I close my eyes and feel the slickness of his soft skin in my mouth. The
skin
is soft, but his cock is incredibly hard. I love how it’s so firm, like a ripe piece of fruit about to burst with salty juices.

“Play with yourself,” he growls, obviously trying to keep control.

I open my eyes and look up at him. The eye contact is hot.

“Play with your clit while you suck me,” he orders.

I comply. I reach between my legs with my free hand and start to stroke my clit. It feels good, but not as good as when he’s touching me.

I think he senses that, and he starts talking.

“Jesus… your mouth on my cock feels so good… I
love
the way you suck me, Eve… I want to just throw you down on the bed and fuck you… just slide inside you and fuck you, make you come… I want to make you come all over me… I want you to come all over my cock, buried deep inside you… I want to hear you scream… I want to make you come so hard, so deep, so much, that it never stops…”

Oh.

Suddenly I’m enjoying touching myself a lot more.

He keeps going. I close my eyes and keep sucking on his cock, enjoying the sensual feel on my lips and tongue, and the growing heat and pleasure between my thighs.

“I want to ruin you for any other man… I want you for my own… I want you to crave my cock… to crave having me deep inside you… all the time…. making you come… I want that tight, beautiful little pussy taking me in
soooo
deep… I want to fuck you so badly…”

I start moaning as I picture in my mind what he’s talking about. I can hear the passion and the pain in his voice. His cock spasms more and more often, every ten seconds or so, pressing against my lips in little pulses.

“Jesus… I want to come on your face… I want to come on your tits… I want to come deep inside you… I want you wet for me, taking me in, fucking me all night…”

My thighs are starting to tremble.

He’s groaning now. I can feel his body tense up.

“Come for me, Eve… I want you to come when I’m coming in your mouth… come for me…
come for me…
”

The ripples of pleasure start rolling through me. I’m moaning, the sound stifled by the thick cock in my mouth.

“Are you coming, baby? Are you coming for me?”

I nod the tiniest bit as I moan louder. Waves of pleasure are rolling through me, hot and fast.

“Oh Jesus – oh FUCK – ” he groans, and suddenly he is bursting in my mouth.

I was coming already, but the feeling of him spasming between my lips, the feeling of his hot juices spurting in my mouth… if I hadn’t been so turned on I probably wouldn’t have liked it, but I am so far into my orgasm that the sensation sends me even further over the edge. I come even harder as I feel him growing bigger in my mouth, over and over again, as the salty-sweet taste of his cum washes over my tongue.

“Fuck… fuck… fuck…” he pants as his orgasm tapers off. I keep sucking him slowly, gently, enjoying my own last few trembles of bliss as they plateau into a lower, steadier pleasure.

I pull my mouth off his cock and stare up at him.

He is watching me, wondering what I will do next.

I make a big show of licking my lips… and then I swallow.

“Oh God…” he murmurs, then bends down and lifts me up to my feet and kisses me.

His cock is still hard and slick against my stomach… and my pussy is still throbbing and wet.

“Fuck me,” I whisper in his ear.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He rips off the covers, pushes me down onto the mattress, and then parts my legs and moves between them. He slowly eases his cock into me – and this time, since we’re both wet, he slides in with one long, easy thrust.

“Unnnh,” I grunt as I feel him bottom out inside me.

He begins to fuck me slowly, sensually, looking me in the eyes the entire time. The intimacy… the connection… it’s mind-blowing. There is no urgency for either of us; we just take our time, staring into each other’s eyes, feeling each other’s bodies. I savor every inch of his cock inside me – the way it presses against my most sensitive places, the sensation it gives me of being completely filled up. And I know he’s loving how tight I am around him, how wet, and how I grind my hips against his. He circles his cock inside me… then switches to back and forth… deep thrusts, then shallow…

We go on like that for twenty minutes, no need to change position, no need to do anything different than stare into each other’s eyes and luxuriate in the sensation of our bodies intertwined.

My plateau of pleasure slowly creeps up, though, bit by bit, until I feel it beginning to crest.

“Oh God,” I whisper. “Oh God – I’m coming – I’m coming – ”

And with that, I send him over the edge, too. He groans and I feel him burst inside me again, which tips me over into a mind-shattering orgasm. My entire body shakes uncontrollably. And every second, our eyes stay locked. I can
feel
his pleasure as he comes, and I know that he can feel mine.

Then he collapses on me, utterly spent, and slowly pulls out. He rolls over onto his back and pulls me next to him. I put my head on his chest and we stay like that, unable to speak, basking in the afterglow, until we both fall asleep from exhaustion.

I wake up the next morning from a deep sleep. I remember last night and all the hot sex, and get a little smile on my face. I reach over for Grant –

He’s not there.

I immediately get a flashback from when he left me on the balcony. A little bit of anger, a little bit of fear.

Asshole!

I prop myself up blearily on one elbow –

There he is, across the cavernous bedroom, putting on a tie in front of a mirror.

God, he’s gorgeous. The suit pants he’s wearing hug his ass perfectly. He’s also got on a beautiful midnight blue shirt and a vest. The sight of his massive arms and chest in all that tailored finery –
yum.

He sees me in the mirror and grins. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

“If I were Sleeping Beauty, you should’ve woken me up with a kiss,” I say sleepily.

He laughs and walks over to the bed, tucking his tie into his vest. “Let’s do the post-wake-up version.”

As he leans over me, I bat him away. “No – I look awful – ”

“You look hot.”

“I’ve probably got morning breath – ”

“I don’t care.”

“Nooo – ” I whine.

Without giving me any more chance to pout, he seizes the back of my hair and pulls, forcing my face up to meet him – and gives me a deep, passionate kiss.

Ohhhhhh.

Within seconds, I’m ready for him to get back into bed and be inside me again.

He finishes up the kiss with a hand on my breast, cupping it and pressing it firmly. Then he breaks off. “Now
that’s
the way to start the morning.”

“Then let’s start it that way,” I say, tugging at his arm.

He pulls away, a grin on his face. “I can’t, I have an important meeting.”

“Maaaan…” I gripe, imitating him from the other day.

He laughs and kisses me again, then moves away. “This evening. We’ll take all the time in the world.”

“Fine,” I harumph, and settle back down into the sinfully delicious sheets.

“There’s some breakfast over there,” he says, pointing to a tray at the foot of the bed. A silver dish covers a plate, along with a bowl of chopped fruit, a fluted glass of orange juice, and a small pot of coffee. “If you want anything, the maid’s in the kitchen. Just stick your head out the door and call for Amy.”

“What if I want
you?”

He kisses me again. “Tonight.”

I sigh. “I guess I can start looking for our mystery man. Do you have that FBI profiler’s report?”

He lifts up a piece of paper on the dresser. “Already ahead of you.”

“Cool.” I watch him as he goes to get his suit jacket. “You’re not worried about him trying to ambush you while you’re going to that meeting?”

“I have to live my life. I can’t hole myself up in a castle and wait for him to come to me.”

“I guess… ” I think for a second. “And I’ve got your number, so I can call you if I find anything important.”

“My number?” he asks, confused.

“That I got off the internet? After you stole my phone?” I say, in a voice like
Duh.

“I got a new phone.”

“What?”

“Yeah, once you cracked it, it showed me that I had a weakness, so I went with a different company and more layers of security.”

“I could still find it,” I say, totally confident.

“You could, but I’ll save you the trouble. What’s your number?”

I give it to him, and he enters it into his cell. Then he texts a message.

Over on the dresser, my phone buzzes in my purse.

“Bye,” he says simply, and gives me a lingering kiss before he walks out of the room with a wink and a smile.

I go over and check my phone. There’s a text from a 212 area code number.

See you soon, beautiful.

My heart soars a little as I enter his name into my contact list and dream of what we’ll do when he gets home.

After a shower and breakfast, I start reading the FBI profiler’s write-up.

Given the limited information in the two text messages, there are only a few conclusions we can draw with any certainty. The following consists mostly of suppositions drawn on the available texts and statistical probability given similar criminal profiles.

Subject is most likely a middle-aged male, 40 or older. He is well-educated, with both a technical education and a background in the arts. Subject is probably wealthy, and is likely to be in the highest strata of the economic upper-class, with accompanying status and prestige. He is probably a prominent fixture in social circles consistent with upper-class economic status. He has narcissistic or sociopathic qualities, such as megalomania and a desire to inflict harm on someone viewed as slighting or snubbing him. However, the subject has a high degree of impulse control. He acts with calculation and deliberation, though he is a man of action and may move swiftly when the need arises. Subject displays homicidal tendencies and views the interaction with Mr. Carlson as a game to be savored.

‘A game to be savored.’

The phrase sends chills up and down my spine.

Other than that, though, the profile isn’t particularly revelatory.

Male, 40’s, rich.

Cultured, refined, educated.

Megalomaniac.

Narcissistic and sociopathic qualities.

It could have been describing any number of CEO’s, Wall Street hedge fund managers, politicians, or surgeons – all professions that tend to attract sociopaths and people with God complexes.

Of course, I don’t know of any CEO’s, hedge fund managers, politicians, or surgeons who go around stalking billionaires.

I start analyzing the texts. Grant’s people were right – the information on the source of the texts is scarce. If I had to guess, the guy routed the texts through several dummy connections. He knew his stuff – or he hired somebody who knew their stuff.

As I’m plowing through IP Addresses and Subnet masks, Grant texts me. I smile as I see
See you soon, beautiful
, then go on to read the message underneath it.

Hey, beautiful – I just got a fantastic lead. Somebody the profiler knows in the FBI wants to meet with us, but off the record. I’m sending the car for you right now. Hodge will take you to an art gallery in Chelsea. See you soon.

I grab my jacket and the key to the penthouse and set out for downstairs.

Hodge drives up just as I exit the building.

“Hi Hodge.”

“Miss Saunders,” he replies in his upper-crust British accent.

“Do you know where we’re going? I only know it’s an art gallery in Chelsea.”

“Yes, Mr. Carlson texted me the address.”

I get in the backseat of the Rolls and watch the New York City streets creep by as we wind our way through traffic.

About 20 minutes later, we stop in front of an industrial loft-looking building. Hodge gets out and holds the door open for me.

I call Grant’s number but it goes straight to voicemail.

Immediately a text comes in.
FBI guy doesn’t want me answering the phone. Security concerns with recording or whatever. Go right in, the front door’s open. I paid the owner to clear the building; we’re on the third floor.

I walk in the front door and let it shut behind me.

The gallery is amazing. It’s a huge four-story space, with an open atrium and levels that circle around it. The lights are off except for a few single white emergency lights on the fourth-floor ceiling above the main lobby. There’s no skylight, so the entire place is pretty dark, but I can see paintings on the walls closest to the central chamber.

Perfect place to meet a modern-day Deep Throat.

The Pentagon Papers version, not the Linda Lovelace version, mind you.

The elevator area at the far end of the atrium is lit. I walk over and hit the button.
Ding.
I get inside and push ‘3,’ then exit on the third floor.

I walk out into a dim foyer that leads into a maze-like jumble of hallways, each showing off paintings of geometric shapes and indistinct blurs of color.

Everything is dark. Only the tiny emergency lights are on. There’s one every 20 feet or so, which is barely enough to see anything.

It’s kind of creepy.

Actually, it’s
really
creepy.

“Grant?” I call out as I walk through the maze.

No answer.

“Grant!” I call out again.