Billionaire Romance Boxed Set (9 Book Bundle) (27 page)

Her face is still glowering as he gets up and walks to
where she is seated. A hush ripples through the guests.

He mock bows. “May I have this dance, milady?”

She takes his proffered hand and gets up, clearly unnerved.

“You are going to embarrass me, aren’t you?” she hisses.

“Why do you always think the worst of me? Just follow my
lead, and you’ll be all right.”

“Your lead?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know? I took ballroom dancing lessons when
I was in juvie.”

“You were in juvie?” she says, aghast.

“No, but it’s a good story.”

They take to the dance floor amidst claps, whistles and
cheers. Brian spies the cunning look on Lori’s pert features. On Sammie baby,
you’ve got one helluva bitch for a sister. And in that instant, both pity and
resolve strengthen his spine.

“Put your hand on my shoulder,” he says.

She obeys, and he lifts her other hand.

“Now when my left leg moves forward, your right leg moves
back. And vice versa. And then you move forward, and I move back.”

“OK.”

He begins to lead her. One step forward, one step back. She
treads on his toes.

“It’s OK,” he whispers. “Smile and look radiant. No one
will notice if your footwork isn’t perfect.”

She treads on his toes a couple more times. He smiles at
her encouragingly.

“You’re getting there,” he whispers.

The look of surprise in her eyes suggests that she had no
idea that he could actually be nice. He winces internally. Hey, I’m not that
bad. I just don’t want people to know it.

By the second stanza, she has gotten the hang of the dance
steps. It’s time to introduce more fancy moves.

“When I tell you to pirouette, you pirouette.”

The tightening of her hand on his shoulder indicates that
she is nervous.

“Don’t worry. You’re doing fine. Don’t think about getting
every move perfect. Let yourself flow into the music. Relax.”

With that, she visibly relaxes and actually looks as though
she’s enjoying herself. He smiles at her.

“Now pirouette,” he murmurs.

She takes her hand off his shoulder and makes several
rotations before coming back to him. Their audience applauds.

By the third stanza, both of them are laughing and
completely in tune with the music. He leans over and dips her head back, and
she flexes her shoulders gracefully. It’s like magic.

“Those Zumba classes really paid off,” he teases.

“You actually remembered.”

“I have an elephantine memory … when I remember to use
it.”

She smiles, and he can see the fire in her eyes. They match
each other move for move. They are both far from technically perfect, but their
passion and enjoyment is contagious, and more than once, he hears whoops from
their audience.

She catches on so fast that he finds himself wondering
about her in bed. He can well imagine teaching her a few new sexual tricks and
having her master them … on him … in a matter of minutes. His cock
grows hard again at the thought. He inwardly groans. She’s having some wild
effect on him, and if he doesn’t watch out, he’ll find himself fucking her. Or
trying to, seeing as she would probably club him on the side of the head before
he can get beyond first base.

He wonders how much of why he is so attracted to her is
because she doesn’t want to have anything to do with him sexually. Once he has
had her, would he continue to find her so engaging?

The song winds down to a finish.

“Now put on a show and kiss me,” he says.

She does not hesitate. Their mouths clash in a
desire-soaked tangle of moving lips and tongue. Her hands creep around his neck
and draw him to her forcefully. He falls onto her aggressively, be damned with
who is watching. He explores her mouth, swirls his tongue around and across it,
tastes her sweetness and the red wine that still clings to her mouth.

He scarcely hears the applause that has broken out amongst
their audience until they come up for air. Her face is flushed, her hair is
disheveled, but her eyes are misted over with an emotion he can’t quite
decipher. There’s a softness brimming in them that calls to mind candlelight
dinners and red, red roses the texture of velvet.

An unbearable lightness buoys his stomach.

No. You mustn’t. You don’t believe in relationships,
remember?

He steels himself and tears his eyes away from hers before
he can fall into them. There’s a tightness in his throat that makes it hard to
draw breath.

His gaze closes in on Lori’s face – as black as a
raincloud.

He murmurs, “Uh oh, I think we’ve stolen the thunder from
the bride.”

10

After saying goodnight to Cassie and Caleb, they trip back
to their room at three in the morning, a little drunk.

She’s giggling, trying not to get her heels twisted around
one another. He’s laughing. His skin is flushed and he’s obviously high on
alcohol.

She inserts their old-fashioned key in the lock. He leans
against the corridor wall and lights a cigarette.

“Why do you that?” she asks. “Smoking is so bad for you.”

He inhales deeply and lets out a cloud of smoke. “And here
I thought we were getting along so well together.”

“It’s just a comment.”

“They’re just my lungs,” he deadpans.

She pushes open the door, suddenly self-conscious. They are
alone again. In a room with a bed.

He strides in and stubs the cigarette in an ashtray on the
table. He starts tearing off his clothes in a completely oblivious way, not
even looking at her as he throws his jacket, shirt, silk scarf and belt on the
bed. He wrenches off his shoes and socks.

She clears her throat.

“Excuse me, but I think we should discuss our sleeping
arrangements.”

He turns to face her. He is dangerously handsome. His pants
are unzipped and his thatch of pubic hair sprouts from his crotch.

He says, “It’s easy. There’s nothing to discuss. I’ll take
the bed and you’ll take the couch.”

“There isn’t any couch.”

“Tough. Then you’ll just have to share a bed with me.”

Even though his words carry a seductive languor, his
demeanor towards her is not sexual. He is merely undressing himself as he would
any other day in his apartment when he’s alone. Before she can say anything, he
drops his pants. His penis is semi-hard. He flashes her a grin as he turns to
walk towards the bathroom. He has a deeply sexual swagger to him.

She understands now that he is not putting on a show just
for her. His sexuality is as much part of his genetic makeup as his cockiness
and extreme self-confidence.

When he comes back, naked, she has already changed into her
nightgown. Before this trip, she and Cassie had gone shopping.

“You’re going to make him sleep on the floor without a
pillow,” Cassie said gleefully.

“I can’t do that. That’s mean.”

“That’s your trouble, Sam. You don’t know how to play
bully. Just think of all the things he did to you in middle school, and
comeuppance will come naturally.”

Sam doubts it. She fingers a pretty black silk nightgown
– bordered with lace.

“Oh, that’s a nice one. The idea is to tempt him, make him
hard, and then shove him away to let him painfully sleep on the floor.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get him hard for me. We don’t even
like each other. Besides, that’s not the point of the whole weekend.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, but these are fringe benefits. Play the
coy seductive, torment him to distraction, then pull away at the last minute.”

Sam doesn’t think she can ever do that. She’d probably snag
the lace nightgown on some hook and tear it to shreds before she can get sexy.

And now she’s wearing that very nightgown. Not that he can
see it, because she has consciously covered herself up to the neck with the
blanket. Only the table lamps are on, and the entire room has taken on a cozy,
romantic hue which is only too apparent.

“Move over,” he says, his knee treading the mattress.

“No. I’d really like you to sleep on the floor.”

“After all the tonsil tennis we shared?” He scoots into the
bed and lifts up the blanket, which she clutches all the more tightly to her
chest. “Relax, I’m not going to touch you with a ten foot pole, although mine
is more like ten inches, give or take a few.”

She wonders how he can be so cavalier about his nudity. She
makes room for him by displacing herself to the edge of the bed. If she rolled
to her left, she would fall off and land on the floor with a thud.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” he says, twisting his body so that
his back is to her. Within seconds, she hears his breathing grow deeper.

Damn him, but he is soundly asleep.

How is she expected to sleep now, cramped up like this?

She switches off her lamp. She is very aware of his warmth
permeating the air space under their shared blanket. She can imagine Cassie
asking her in the morning, “So, did you make him sleep on the floor?”

‘Uh … no.”

“What? You mean you slept with him?”

“Not exactly. He muscled his way onto the bed and promptly
fell asleep.”

“With you beside him? And he wasn’t even tempted to …
you know … grope you?”

Come to think of it, her situation is kind of miserable.
Here she is, with a handsome and incredibly sexy man, who is stark naked and
lying in bed with her. And he falls asleep without so much as making a pass at
her.

She listens to his breathing. Her mind tumbles with all sorts
of possibilities. And always she comes back to his kisses, the feel of his hard
body against hers, the smell of his aftershave mingled with his intoxicating,
extremely male scent.

Her entire body stiffens. Moistness trickles within her
core, and she feels a rush of inexplicable need, as if her insides have turned
into gooey mush.

Oh, oh, oh!

Her hand moves to her swollen sex, all plump and ripened by
the hormones coursing in her bloodstream. She’s about to do something
embarrassing, but she’s helpless to prevent it.

She closes her eyes as she slips her fingers underneath her
panties. Her clit tingles at her own touch. She delves her fingers through her
cracks, squeezing her clit in between. A soft moan escapes her lips. Her pussy
is exquisitely wet, which lubricates her scissoring movements. She wriggles and
digs her fingers in deeper, prodding the soft petal folds of her clit and inner
labia.

Her breathing rhythm escalates even as her heart slams
against her ribcage. In her mind’s eye, she can see only Brian’s face, hovering
above her as he fucks her repeatedly.

The pleasure that peals in her pussy lifts her body and
arches her back. She twists her neck against the damp pillow as her orgasm
crests through her. Her muscles contort explosively. She coils and recoils, her
body a whiplash of sensory overload. The sheets beneath her hips are a
veritable mess of intermingled creams and sweat.

Oh Brian, Brian!

She would be mortified if he ever found out she masturbated
while thinking of him when he was beside her. She would never live it down,
especially with his caustic, razor tongue. She can well imagine him using his
tongue for something else more inappropriate – much is the agony of it.

Her shudders dissipate slowly, like a wave breaking apart
into froth.

Her body aches with the afterglow.

He is still immobile next to her, deep in slumber. She
watches his steady breathing, not daring to touch him in any way lest he awake.
She knows that if she just ventures a hand forth, she would touch his smooth
back. Or his well-shaped buttocks.

Go to sleep, Sammie, she berates herself.

She finally does. But her dreams are filled with images of
Brian fucking her.

*

Brian wakes up sometime in the morning. The blackouts are
drawn close to keep the light out, but from the intensity of sunshine shining
through the slit in the curtains, he can tell that it’s late morning. Possibly
eleven o’ clock.

His body aches mildly from too much dancing. He smiles as
he remembers last night. He can’t recall having such a fabulous time in years.
The party had been in full swing, and he vividly remembers Sam’s hair tossing
here and there as she whips her head back and forth in Zumba dance moves. Sam
laughing delightedly. Caleb and Cassie having a wild time.

Sam’s warm body is splayed next to his and her hand is
unconsciously flung across his back. He turns slowly, displacing it. She does
not wake up.

Shit, but he’s got an incredible boner.

He watches her in the semi-dark for a while. Her shuttered
eyes. Her sweet face. The rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. The
blanket is down to her shoulders, and he glimpses the pretty negligee she is
wearing, all black lace and frilly patterns.

Now what the fuck is he going to do about his boner?

He can well visualize his hand reaching out to her warm
body to wake her. Then he would roll himself to straddle her, and he would kiss
her madly and get her worked up into an aroused state. And he would close his
mouth around her nipples, and press his erection against her wet, wet pussy.

And enter her oh-so-slowly.

He can almost feel her sweet, velvety walls closing around
his shaft.

But of course, they had made it clear that they were never
going to fuck each other.

He groans. Now what is he going to do about his stiffy?

The only thing he can, of course. Under the blanket, he
grasps his diamond hard column of flesh. It is so hard as to be almost painful.
He takes a deep breath and starts to polish it with firm, deep strokes. He
concentrates on the head, oscillating and jerking his hand back and forth. His
arm rapidly gains momentum. He starts to pant with the furious effort.

Ahhhhh.

He arches his back and tips his head against the pillow.
His mind is filled with visuals of him stabbing Sam with his prick. Grinding
his hips against hers while his mouth explores everywhere else within reach.

Sammie, oh, Sammie. You have no idea. Absolutely fucking no
clue of how hot you’re making me.

His hand is a blur of movement. Back, forth, back, forth.
God, how he misses jerking himself off. He used to do plenty of it when he was
fourteen. Back when he was still this pudgy little kid who hadn’t gotten laid.
After he was yanked out of school and put into a stricter missionary one
– where the boys practically had to shave their heads and do a punishing
hundred pushups before they start their lessons – he developed a body
that he could be proud of and which caught many an eye.

He never really had to jerk off much again.

He lets himself come explosively. He quickly whips back the
blanket to release his ejaculation. His cock jettisons his semen upward. How
high he will never know, because he has his eyes firmly closed and fixated on
his memory of Sam throwing her head back while being held in his arms … on
the dance floor.

His spurt of cum seems to go on forever.

When he opens his eyes, the blanket and sheets are stained
with glistening white patches. OK, maybe allowing himself to come on the bed
wasn’t a good idea, especially with Sam next to him. So she’s going to wake up,
look at all this gooey mess around her and say –

“What the hell are you doing?” She sits up, her hair mussed
and sexy. She wildly looks around. “What’s all this?”

He lies back on the bed. He can’t help it. He starts to
laugh.

His shoulders quake with laughter as tears spring into his
eyes. The situation is beyond ridiculous. Here he is, giving himself a hand job
while the woman he has been fantasizing about for the past three days –
yes, he admits that he has – wakes up in bed beside him and yells at him
for messing up the sheets.

He should just take her, press her down onto the bed and
fuck her. He’s certain that some part of her wants him at least. Otherwise, she
wouldn’t be giving herself so readily to his kisses.

But he doesn’t.

There’s no point really. They have had too much of a
history together, and most of it was bad. Besides, she’s only going to get all
angsty and miserable after he leaves. That is what comes of knowing someone
before fucking them. There are all sorts of weird emotions and expectations in
the mix, especially with women, and you never know when they are going to get
all weird on you – even though you’ve made it quite clear it’s just a
fuck.

That’s why he never gets to know anyone before he fucks
them. Too much fallout. Look at what happened to his mother and father. Relationships
and marriages are the pits.

She leaps out of bed, shrieking “Eww, eww, eww, eww.” He
bets she wouldn’t be saying that if it was all inside her instead.

She tears back the curtains. Bright light streams into the
room. Her hair is disheveled and her cheeks wear a high color. So she’s majorly
embarrassed, but she manages to look good anyway.

“Oh, stuff it,” she declares. “We’re going to have to go
anyway. I hope you’re happy, because the maid who’s going to clean up all this
mess won’t be.”

“So I’ll leave two hundred dollars by the lampstand as a
tip.” He gets up. “I’m going to need a shower, sweetheart. Last night was
incredible.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re gonna wish you had when you say goodbye.”

It’s automatic, this snark of his.

He can feel her eyes on his back and buttocks as he
vanishes into the shower, grinning. He hits the hot water, and his grin
dissipates when he realizes that he would never see her again after this.