Taken by the Billionaire (15 page)

Peter was just worried that I’d fall for his brother
, interjected the voice in my head.

The joke was on Peter if he was really worried about that, I thought as I stared coldly at Sergei. My hand, acting by its own will, reached into the bowl of cashews and then bounced one off Sergei’s nose.

I ran back inside, half-scared and half-embarrassed, and I slammed the door in his face. My heart was pounding in my chest. Was he really asking me on a date? I didn’t want this! I wanted nothing to do with that crazy family! Did I seriously just bounce a cashew off his nose?

The doorbell rang again, and I took a deep breath and looked through the peephole. Sergei was leaning against the railing as if nothing had happened… as if I hadn’t just bounced a nut off his face and slammed the door on him.

I took a deep breath and then opened the door.

“Hi Sergei. Cut to the chase: what do you want?”

“Honestly? I want a date,” he answered. “I want to invite you out to dinner, chat with you a bit, and actually meet you away from my ridiculous family in-fighting.”

“No. Go away, leave me alone, and let me move on with my life,” I answered bluntly. “I don’t want anything to do with your family’s problems.”

“Exactly! I want to get to know you
outside
those stupid problems. I hate them too, and I’d love to leave that shit behind,” said Sergei enthusiastically, expertly shoving the conversation back to the date.

He held out the bouquet—a mix of white, pink, and red roses—again and asked, “How does seven o’clock sound for Le Bernardin?”

“No! I’m not going on a… wait, did you say Le Bernardin?” I asked, interrupting my own tirade. Le Bernardin, depending on which restaurant critic you asked, was the best restaurant in all of New York and easily one of the best in the world.

“How the fuck did you even get a reservation to—oh why am I asking? You’ve got millions; of course you can get a reservation.”

“Yep, and I treat my dates to only the finest!” he answered with a grin, and he laughed. “Are you really going to say no to the promise of the best food in New York?”

“Absolutely I’m saying no,” I answered, and I closed the door in his smug face.

“Alright, let me know if you change your mind!” he called through the door. I ignored him and headed back to the dining room table.

The phone rang just as I was about to sit down, and I groaned and ran back to the kitchen to answer it.

“Changed your mind yet?” piped Sergei’s voice over the line.

“You aren’t going to leave me alone until I say yes, are you?” I asked with a groan. I had to give him credit; he might be pushy, but he was downright cinematic about it.

“Nope!”

I looked over at my miserable little dinner on the dining room table. I’d been so excited about eating a simple tuna wrap with peppers chopped into it, but now it seemed so dismal at the prospect of Le Bernardin. But… Sergei. Was I really going to invite the Ibramovic lunacy back into my life after only a few hours?

I sighed loudly just to make sure he heard it before answering him.

“Alright, but I don’t even know where Le Bernardin is. Give me an address.”

“Don’t worry about it! I’ll have a limo pick you up at six-thirty!”

“Wait, you don’t…”

The phone clicked as he hung up, and I shook my head and sighed as I put the receiver back on its hook. Sergei and his brother certainly had one thing in common: neither of them took ‘no’ for an answer.

I needed to change. I couldn’t go to the best restaurant in the city dressed like this!

I ran to my room, rifled through my closet, and pulled out a black dinner dress—plainly decorated apart from a few sequins and nowhere near as decadent as that beautiful dress I’d worn in Vela Luka—and I grabbed a matching bra and pair of underwear. Nothing fancy—I had no intention of doing anything beyond the most basic of dates—but I couldn’t just waltz into Le Bernardin in jeans and a turtleneck.

You need a shower, too
, piped up my annoying inner voice.
You smell like an airport.

I didn’t exactly know what I meant by that, but I
did
need a shower.

****

The shower filled the bathroom with the soothing sound of falling water as I ran to the dryer to grab a towel. By the time I made it back to the bathroom, warm steam was drifting through the air and the bathroom mirror was starting to fog up.

God, I needed a shower. Not just for cleanliness, either—I needed to unwind and de-stress, and there was nothing quite like a hot shower for that. I tossed the green fuzzy towel on the counter, closed the bathroom door, and took a deep breath of the warm steam. I could feel the muscles in my face relaxing already.

My jeans found their way to the floor first, followed by my purple turtleneck, and finally the scant essentials joined the pile as I hopped into the shower.

I closed my eyes, sighed deeply and couldn’t help but smile as the hot water poured down on my head and ran down my back.

Soap. Shampoo. Fingernails giving my scalp a glorious massage. This was heaven.

Well, no… it was at least
close
to heaven, I thought.

Heaven was when Peter took me for himself two nights ago.

My mind did a little dance as I remembered him blindfolding me, the feeling of anticipation, the glorious feelings shooting through my body as he made me his… something about it had satisfied fantasies I barely knew I had and dragged out new and exciting urges into the front of my psyche.

I leaned back against the cool, tile wall of the shower, crossed my arms, and let the hot water run down my chest. It pooled and trickled down between my breasts as it made its way down my body.

Every night with Peter had been amazing, I thought, daydreaming with closed eyes as I cupped my breasts in my hands and fondled myself gently. Even my first time with him back in the conference room—as shocked and even a little terrified as I’d been—had blown my mind.

I reached up and took the showerhead out of its holder and pulled it down close to me. Its long, faux-brass hose trailed along after it as I ran the strong, soothing stream of water up and down my body.

With two clicks of a button, the showerhead switched from a smooth, light rainfall to three intense, pulsing streams. The high pressure felt amazing against my shoulders—almost like a massage—and I groaned happily as I felt my stress melt away.

I’d loved Peter’s strength and passion when we were together, and the gentleness he’d shown when he let his guard down. It was like having the best of both worlds, getting to have the finest of cake and eat it too. The metaphor fell apart if I took it any further than that, though, as I’d never really wanted to fuck a cake before.

God, what could have been! He was so perfectly right for me, and so horribly wrong all at once!

I sighed happily as I slowly lowered the pulsing stream of the showerhead down my chest, down below my slender waist, and then in between my legs. A shiver of delight ran through my body, partly because of the sudden memory bursting to life in my mind of Peter pushing me up against the wall and yanking that slinky, gorgeous black and gold dress down my body, and partially from the sensation of the water against my most sensitive of places.

The dress practically flew off my body in my mind, but I knew better. In real life, Peter had taken his time getting it off of me. He’d slipped it slowly down body, savoring every minute and giving me a chance to savor it too in spite of his animal desires, and it had driven me wild.

I moaned in pleasure at the memory of him pinning my hands above my head against the wall, and I raised one hand above my head as I pressed the showerhead to my sensitive lips with the other. His hands were all over my body, exploring me, tracing along the edges of my wet folds, pressing between them and sending even more powerful sensations through my body than what even the showerhead was doing right now.

My legs started to tremble as the warm, steamy powers of the showerhead sent waves of delight up my spine. I pressed it in against my lips with a slow, even rhythm, matching the pace of Peter’s fingers in my mind. I gasped in ecstasy as a particularly delightful surge of electricity shot through my body. The strong, pulsing water was working wonders on me, and I could feel a sheen of sweat forming on my skin as my pulse pounded in my ears.

He was pulling me down onto the carpet. God, I remembered this! He had to have me—he just couldn’t wait any longer—and now the dress was completely off of me and in a pile on the floor. Was I naked under the dress? No, I couldn’t have been—not while attending a fancy dinner—but I certainly was in my mind’s eye. I cried out in pleasure as he held my legs apart and penetrated deep into me, a look of unbearable desire on his face, and I frantically pressed the showerhead hard against me. The pulsing torrent set my skin on fire and beads of sweat ran down my skin, mingling with the burning shower water and leaving a salty taste on my lips. It was getting harder to breathe as the steam built up in the bathroom, and my mind was starting to spin in the most wonderful of ways. My entire body was burning up, and the hot water only added more kindling to the flames.

My legs shook uncontrollably as a tower of ecstasy built up inside me, brick by glorious, fiery brick, and I could hardly stay on my feet as Peter grabbed my arms and held me down against the carpet. I held the showerhead close to my body and matched Peter’s rhythm in my mind as he took me again and again and again, faster and faster with each pounding stroke of his shaft and each inward push of my wrist, and I screamed in pleasure as my orgasm surged up my body.

The glorious feelings squeezed the air out of my lungs and sent unbelievable, incredible contractions through my body. I slowly slid down the wall as I cried out over and over in delirious ecstasy. My legs couldn’t support me anymore; they felt as weak as jelly as my orgasm siphoned off all the energy in my body and funneled it instead into heavenly screams of pleasure.

I let go of the showerhead and collapsed into the tub with a contented smile on my face and a foggy euphoria clouding my mind.

“God, I needed that,” I whispered happily.

It wasn’t as good as any of them had been with Peter, I thought as I struggled to stand up again, but I damned well needed that. I shakily reached for the faucet, and soon cool, refreshing water bubbled through the showerhead and began cooling off my burning skin.

I grabbed the soap with a huge, relaxed smile on my face. Now that I was done with my wonderfully dirty shower, I needed to clean up before my date.

W
hen Sergei’s limousine dropped me off out front Le Bernardin, I almost laughed at how stereotypically over the top my entry was going to be. Here I was getting out of a gleaming white limo, my black sequined dress sparkling in two conveniently-placed spotlights on either side of me, and as I stepped out and onto the sidewalk, I felt the plush, red carpet beneath my feet. Rows and rows of tiny, decorative hedges, each trimmed differently from the one before it, led me up to the door.

This is completely unreal,
I thought as the doorman greeted me and held open the tall brass-trimmed doors for me. How in the flying fuck was I walking up to the door of the most renowned restaurant in Manhattan? Even if I could afford to eat here—and I damned well couldn’t—the reservation list was three months long for this place!

A waiter standing behind a polished mahogany podium bowed politely to me and gestured for me to follow him. He apparently already knew I was coming, because he led me straight to Sergei’s table. It was a small table for two in the middle of the left dining room. All the photographs I’d seen of the restaurant made it look like a small, old-fashioned building with dark wood paneling and expensive paneling, but it was surprisingly expansive and airy. Instead of dark wood, artistically-gleaming steel and aluminum walls greeted me. Someone had really gone to town trying to liven up the atmosphere. If not for the fine china and sparkling silverware on the table, I’d have guessed I was in a Brighton Beach club instead of the finest restaurant in the city.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I realized that our table was directly in the middle of the room, and even better, that the room was—as expected—completely packed. There was not an empty table in the house, which meant that I was safe. Nothing could possibly happen in a place as high profile as Le Bernardin.

Nothing’s going to happen anyway
, shouted my brain,
because Peter’s just jealous of his brother! Sergei’s not going to do anything!

Did I really believe that? Was Sergei actually safe? I caught his eye as the waiter led me to the table, and his eyes lit up excitedly at the sight of me. He seemed safe enough.

He waved happily to me, leapt to his feet with a wide smile, and pulled out the chair for me in a gentlemanly manner.

Eh, I can trust him for tonight,
I thought, and I smiled graciously as I sat down.

Why did I have to try so hard to reassure myself?

“You look fantastic, Sarah,” gushed Sergei, and I smiled back to him.

“Thanks. You look pretty nice yourself,” I answered.

He actually did look pretty good. Not as good as Peter, mind you, but certainly good enough for a date. His black suit was neatly pressed and well-fitted, and his silver and gray tie perfectly matched both the suit coat and his crisp, white shirt. His pale skin was a bit off-putting in the suit, but I could hardly fault him for that.

All in all, Sergei blended perfectly into the Wall Street crowd around us, I thought.

“No seriously,” he continued. “You look absolutely fantastic, like you’re a model or something.”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.

“Yeah, that was a bit over the top, wasn’t it? My bad,” he said with a goofy grin, and I laughed. My nervousness was starting to melt away. This could be fun, I thought.

The waiter stopped by with two menus—price fixe—and I shrugged and made a few selections from the decadent list of dishes. I’d never even
heard
of some of the dishes on the menu!