Very Bad Billionaires (34 page)

I have no idea where I'm going and in my haste I'm still wearing the silk and pure lace peignoir Mark insists I sleep in. He loves to toy with my nipples or stroke my swollen clit through the thin damp fabric.

My feet are bare and as I tear along the high paneled hallway, my hair and the long gown stream out behind me. I try the various door handles but all are locked as usual or open onto the same sumptuous guest bedrooms, unslept in for a long time. And then one opens, the last door on the passageway, gives under my grasp on a bed newly slept in. The room is not yet made up but the occupier has recently left. There are no toiletries in the ensuite but the trash basket contains guy stuff.

I tug the closet open and find a hanging line of black pants all exactly the same and a perfectly folded pile of black cashmere sweaters. All exactly the same, same designer, as though bought in bulk at a Gucci Costco.

Who sleeps in here?

Mark? Josh? Why is it suddenly deserted?

Back in the recess, behind the door, I swish my hand around not expecting to come up with much of anything when my fingers graze something soft and lush. I reach in and tug it forward and sticking out of the top of a cotton laundry bag where its been hastily stuffed, a slash of red satin, poking from a pocket of green velvet.

I rip the bag open where the tie gathers the top and pull out an old-fashioned man's costume. A full tunic of luxury fabric, short as they wore them back then, with the skirt cut open to reveal- their manhood- the codpiece thing. Four black balaclavas definitely not of the time period complete my trove.

And suddenly the soft furry fabric reminds me of crashing into a man's arms as he hauled me back from plunging into the cold water. Of the plush feathery material covering his taut muscle. The well-packed hunk man who kissed with a mouth that devoured me, as my palms rested against a green velvet costume slashed with red silk.

Ohmigod that was the night I met Josh in that creepy dead end alley.

What was he wearing?

I have no clue. No image forms other than the outrageous beauty of his face and the blonde hair illuminated in the night. I'd been so agog at coming face to face with such stunning manliness, every other detail faded to nothing.

I fish furiously in my brain, frustrated with the inability to dredge up an image of what his costume had been that night. It comes back to me as nothing but a massive, dark and shapeless form, like a shadowy old film negative.

It seems logical that he'd been wearing this costume, seeing as it's stuffed in his closet.

Green velvet.

Continue to PART TWO

RIPPED is a two-part romantic suspense. The second part will be published July 15
th
.

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A bit about Molls

I'm a wanderer. Rootless. A slow world traveler. A visit is never enough for me to fully experience different cultures. I have to stay and make like a local. I've lived in different countries all over the world for research, great food and no end of adventures. Naturally, all my stories feature mysterious alpha males in exotic locations. What better kind of lover is there?

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Billionaire Behaving Badly Series

Holly Stone

REBECCA

If I told you I was a good girl, a respectable girl who made sensible decisions, would you believe me?  Maybe if you met me before all of this took place you would.  I was twenty-six, successful in my career, with pretty limited sexual experiences which had all taken place within relationships.  I’d kissed a few others but never thought about one night stands or casual sex until a business trip to Atlanta put me in a hotel bar with
him
. 

I can’t blame everything on him.  He didn’t have magical powers that charmed me into behaving in a way that was totally out of character.  He was just a man after all; an incredible man with eyes that seemed to see beyond the obvious. 

If I was being honest, it was everything that had happened before I met him that made me vulnerable.  The past failed relationships and disappointments that had led to my feelings of hopelessness when it came to emotional commitment.  It was the frustration that, despite doing everything right, things hadn’t worked out as I expected.  I’d been hurt by those I trusted and I didn’t want to get burnt again, no matter how clichéd that sounded.  I just couldn’t see the point in looking at interactions with the opposite sex as precursors to long term obligation when I was terrified to give of myself emotionally.

And maybe, if
he
hadn’t been there at that time when circumstances had left me so exposed, I would still be a good girl who made sensible choices.  But he was there, in all his suited glory, and when he took me I knew I would never be the same.

***

It was 5pm Atlanta time as I sat in the almost deserted hotel bar nursing a very early but very necessary gin and tonic, stifling a jet-lagged yawn.  I was still on London time, trying to relax in a booth that had a view of the door and through into the lobby.  I’d picked up a newspaper for company but nothing grabbed my attention so I flicked through the emails on my phone to pass the time. 

I was there on a business trip to sell software to a company based in the U.S.  This wasn’t my first trip across the Atlantic but it was my first to Georgia.  I used to find travelling for work exciting – flying business class and seeing somewhere new – until I realised that all chain hotels look the same and I would be based mostly in business parks in uninteresting suburbs off a freeway.  Now I was resigned to the inevitable boredom, usually getting through it with a few too many drinks and maybe some retail therapy. 

I was tired enough to sleep but knew if I turned in this early I would end up awake in the middle of the night with only the mini bar for company.  Somehow, drinking in public seemed less tragic than knocking back tiny bottles in the privacy of my room. 

There were three other people in the bar; the barman who had smiled a little too broadly when I’d approached to order my drink and two ruddy looking men with worn out brief cases engaged in deep discussion.  With the opportunities for people watching so limited, I returned to my phone.  After a couple of minutes of idle browsing I looked around and found myself gazing straight into the greenest eyes I had ever seen.

The man was walking from the bar towards a table near mine, with short-glass of amber coloured liquid, but as our eyes connected he paused momentarily and then continued in my direction.  His gaze stayed fixed to mine until he was standing over me, his impressive tall frame casting me in shadow.  “Are you alone?” he asked.  I was at that moment and in my heart I’d felt alone for so long I’d forgotten what it felt like to be connected. 

“Yes,” I said because it was true and because the feeling of his eyes on me was so intense I momentarily lost the ability to think of a good enough rebuttal to steer him back to the table he’d first intended to occupy.  That one word was enough for him to think it would be okay to sit down opposite me in the booth and rest his glass on the table.  A presumptuous move but one I didn’t object to.  There was still time. I could finish my drink and leave.  No big deal.

“I hate drinking alone,” he said without the warming smile I expected from a stranger in this kind of situation.  The smile that says, ‘hey, I’m a nice friendly person and you’re safe having a conversation with me’.  Instead, he leant back and I felt one of his ankles press against mine as he stretched his legs out under the table.  My first instinct would always have been to move, but his action had seemed so deliberate and his eyes burned with intent that it made me feel embarrassed to pull away.  Typical Brit, I thought, too polite to make a scene even when I had every right.  The stranger tipped his head to the side, still holding me with his serious green gaze. 

In the seven years I’d been dating I’d never felt the kind of instant attraction that drove women to drop their knickers without the ‘getting to know you’ phase that progresses neatly through the bases over an acceptable length of time.  Maybe it was his seriousness, or the languid way he moved.  Maybe it was his confidence or the lack of mine at that moment but under his scrutiny I felt my mouth go dry and my thighs press together involuntarily.  He must have felt it because his eyes flicked to mine in response.

His hair was sandy brown, styled to perfection, and his skin lightly tanned across his straight nose and cheekbones.  In a sharp grey suit that clung to his broad shoulders and biceps he was the archetypal hot executive, but my eyes were drawn to his mouth which was full and pressed into a serious line. 

If someone had asked me to describe my perfect man, I would have said dark hair, dark eyes, and a friendly smile. But somehow, this stranger with his cat-like gaze and raw magnetism was everything that made my heart flutter and palms sweat. I was aroused and it had been a long time since I felt like that without the aid of a dirty book or saucy romantic movie.

“You’re English,” he said, a statement rather than a question, and I nodded, still unable to construct a coherent sentence.  “Here on business?”  He raised his glass to his lips and swallowed half the drink.  Those lips, the flash of the inside of his mouth, the swipe of his tongue made me woozy.

“Yes.” The whispery sound of my voice surprised me but I carried on.  “Just for two days.”  He nodded and leant forward, pressing his leg against the inside of mine more firmly. 

“Me too,” he said as though our identical schedules somehow connected us.  “You’re not married?” he asked, reaching for my left hand and running his thumb along my ring finger.  I flinched slightly, more at the intrusive question than his assumption that caressing me would be fine after we had exchanged such limited conversation, but he didn’t let go. 

“No.”  I watched him as he looked at my hand, still stroking my fingers. 

The way I was behaving was so unlike me.  I didn’t like talking to strangers and I certainly didn’t appreciate them taking the liberty of touching me, but at that moment I didn’t want to move away from his gentle caress.  The stranger looked up at me again and I found myself licking my lips, suddenly thirsty.  When I reached for my drink and knocked it back in one gulp, he smiled.  “What was it?” he asked.  When I told him he slipped out of the booth and returned with another drink for us both, pressing his leg back against mine as though that was where it was meant to be. 

“Thanks,” I said, and took another big mouthful, relishing the cool sensation against my gums and down my throat.  

“Drinking to forget?” he asked quietly, still so serious, as though he could see inside me to the gaping hole in my chest and the loneliness I felt seeping from every pore.  It was disconcerting to realise how badly I concealed it and to feel so naked even though I was fully clothed.

I shrugged my shoulders, not wanting to go where the answer might lead.  “I’ll drink to that,” he said and downed his half-finished drink, pushing the empty glass along the table and reaching for the second.  “What shall we drink to now?”  He moved his leg ever so slightly, easing mine apart under the table and I shuddered as the air hit the bare skin on the inside of my thighs.   He nudged my drink towards me with the back of his hand and held his glass, waiting for my response. 

“To something worth remembering,” I said, looking at my drink before downing it in one gulp.  He paused, his eyes suddenly darker, and did the same.  I knew I was playing with fire.  I knew I was provoking him but it didn’t feel wrong.  It felt dark and exciting, like liquorice on my tongue.

I wanted to know what was in his glass, to taste what he tasted as he seduced me with his words, presence and actions.  “I’ll have one of those,” I said and he nodded, rising to go to the bar and returning with a matching pair of amber filled glasses.  I brought it to my nose, smelling the rich aroma of whisky that I knew would burn all the way to my stomach.  I wanted to feel the heat hoping it would distract from my aching heart and the strange feeling that was growing low in my belly the longer I looked at him.  When I drank, the heat made me gasp and he grinned; the first smile to grace his mouth was breath-taking.

“That noise you just made is something for me to remember.”  I felt a flush rise to my cheeks and his eyes sparkled as though he relished my embarrassment.  Under the table his feet pushed in between mine and very slowly eased them apart again.  All the while he held my gaze, watching my mouth as my lips parted with my thighs. 

The alcohol was making its way into my bloodstream but I wasn’t so drunk I didn’t know what I was doing.  He hadn’t told me his name but I knew what his mouth would taste like if I slipped my tongue inside it and the thought of it made me want to moan.  The bar was gradually filling up with people seeking pre-dinner or after work drinks.  He leant forward.  “Would you like me to give you something to remember?” he said, low and deep.  It was a simple question but the intension behind it was so loaded I felt my clit pulse and my pussy tighten.  The sensible thing would have been to say no, but I was far from wanting to be sensible.  Sensible hadn’t gotten me anywhere I wanted to be.  I felt numb inside but also strangely reckless as I realised I had so little to lose.  The fates had put me in a booth with a beautiful stranger who had already managed to spread my legs and make me forget my troubles. Who was I to argue?

“Yes,” I said, in a breathy voice that was almost lost to the background noise.  I wished I had sounded more certain.  Maybe things would have been different somehow.  I guess I’ll never know.  In response his smile was devilishly sexy and he reached across the table for my arm and held his finger to my wrist where he would be able to feel the racing of my pulse. 

“Good girl.  Now, take off your panties.”  I gasped again and glanced around at the people sitting at the tables nearest us.  My hesitation annoyed him and he pushed against my ankles again, demandingly.  “Don’t think,” he said, and because he willed it, I did it.  He smiled as he watched me push the edges of my knickers down through the fabric of my skirt and his eyes flashed dark and hungry. As I wriggled from side to side the movement rubbed up against my already sensitised flesh.  When my panties were finally past the hem of my skirt I pulled my knees together and followed them down with my hand until they were over my shoes and balled in my fist.  The wetness in them left a cool trail down my legs as shameful evidence of my arousal.  I looked up at him and watched as he ran his tongue over his bottom lip.  I imagined that tongue stroking against my skin.  Innocent places first like the soft spot where collar bone meets neck, just below my ear lobe and maybe the underside of my wrist that he had caressed with his finger, then moving on to teasing licks around my nipples and over my clit.  My cheeks felt like they were on fire.

He put his hand on the table, palm upturned, and I gave the lacy thong to him, trying to conceal what I was doing from anyone who was close enough to notice.  He slipped them into his jacket pocket.  “Something for me to remember you,” he said with one raised eyebrow and I realised that each step was a challenge, a little push to see if I wanted to be on the journey with him and if I would play his games. 

“What’s your room number?” he asked, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hesitate to tell him.  Playing with a man while in the safe surroundings of a bar was one thing but taking that game into the privacy of a hotel room was another.  I looked up into his eyes, the thud of my heart so hard in my chest it was like a drum, my thoughts flicking between agreement and resistance.  Then, in a flash of impulsivity, I slid my key card across the table. He took it as though he’d had no doubts I would give it to him, and stood, waiting for me to get up too.  I put my phone in my bag, all the time thinking
oh my god, am I doing this, am I really doing this,
feeling giddy with the wrongness of it and the rightness.  As I slid out of the booth he had to reach out to steady me as I wobbled on my heels.  Maybe he thought I was drunk or maybe he already knew that my knees were weak with desire and anticipation. 

My stranger didn’t hold my hand like a lover but instead rested his heavy palm against the small of my back to steer me out of the bar and to the lift.  His touch was firm and so hot through the cotton fabric of my blouse that I was torn between the urge to pull away and fierce desire to press back against him.  I was delirious and he was in control, hitting the call button, keeping his hand against me as we waited, tantalising me with the tips of his fingers which moved to caress my bottom.  The lifts were at the back of reception so anyone coming in through the main doors would have been able to see what he was doing but something about the slow rhythm of his movements and how good they felt prevented me from stopping him.  I was trembling as I watched the numbers counting down towards us, panting with anticipation.