The Billionaire's Assistant (Contemporary BWWM Interracial Romance) (The Billionaire's Proposition Book 1) (16 page)

H
er manner has changed
.

We are done with the Jacuzzi and are about to head back inside and toward the master bedroom.

She knows what’s coming—I am about to take her again.

She is still somewhat tremulous, however; I feel she is in her head, thinking deeply about something.

“I want to hear it,” I say to her, making her jump a little, jarring her out of her thoughts.

“It’s just that…” She is nervous and seems embarrassed. “I’m not on the pill, Richard—you must give me a chance to grab the morning-after—perhaps on my lunch break tomorrow?”

I must choose my words carefully.

It would probably scare her to know I am not concerned about the potential consequences of our naked abandon.

“Well, I was hoping to keep you here with me all day, but I suppose we can arrange something.” I pause. “How about this—since I want to take all opportunities to be with you since you might not take the job, I’ll have someone pick it up for you instead of you leaving. You have seventy-two hours to take it, correct?”

“Correct. And the sooner, the better, so…”

“I will send someone first thing in the morning.”

“Okay,” she says, looking relieved.

But a few seconds later, she says, “But what if it’s not enough?”

I suppress a tiny bit of dread.

Surely she doesn’t want me to say that I will arrange a termination for her? I cannot imagine obliterating my child—the child I want from her.

I cannot lie, but I will not agree to such a thing; I would like to begin my life with her in earnest.

“I will take care of it,” I say. “Do not worry your pretty little head about anything—just be here with me.”

She smiles at me warmly, and I think,
Line
, but her warm smile unexpectedly squeezes my heart.

I have, of course, already planned how the weekend will go, but I suddenly feel a greater urgency.

I must pull out all the stops and work my magic so that the morning-after pill will be a long-abandoned thought, and Cherise is on board with remaining here with me.

Over the next two days, I must assure Cherise she is safe.

I have two days to sweep her off her feet—make her fall for me and want to jump headlong into this wave. Two days of teasing her with power and influence, among other things. Two days to give her the opportunity of a lifetime to do something with that big heart of hers. Two days for the
Sinker
.

I
awaken to Richard’s morning wood pressed against my ass cheeks as I lay spooned against him on the soft, light blue sheets of his king-sized bed.

My cheeks flush with warmth at the memory of our intimacy yesterday and last night, and I can feel myself slowly getting revved up at the thought of becoming entwined with him again.

Last night, once we entered his room, he wasted no time tearing off my bathrobe and helping me out of my swimsuit before filling his mouth with my breasts, then later, my mound.

I was driven to return the favor, so instead of letting him plunge into me right away, I seized the opportunity to fill my mouth with him, and the groan of pleasure that escaped him filled me with joy and spurred me on.

His eyes almost looked worshipful as he watched me.

When he was on the brink, he shoved me onto my back on the bed and pushed his cock in deep, and we both cried out at the pleasure of having our bodies meet again.

He fucked me hard and hungrily, and I thrust against him desperately, just as starved for his movements inside me and the promise of climax against it.

I glance at the nearest clock. Seven thirteen a.m.

I rub my butt against his erection a bit and he lets out a groan.

He growls, “Do you know how long I’ve been lying here, waiting for you to get up?”

Then he lifts my leg up and tests my hot center with his fingers, learning what I already knew—I am wet and ready for him.

He adjusts our bodies so that he can slip his cock inside while we lie sideways, my leg bent back a little over his.

He quickly enters me, and as our bodies start slapping together, my butt cheeks against his pelvis, I hold on to his soft sheets, accepting his needy thrusts behind me.

He slides a hand to my front, and his fingers start playing with my pussy gently, making me moan at his gentle caresses.

Soon, a desperation for more starts to build, and he starts passing his fingers over my clit, increasing my neediness.

He works my pussy until I’m about to come against him.

As I begin to climax against his fingers, his cock still ramming me, he works me through it, then, while I’m still lost in orgasm, his hands move to my breasts, grabbing onto them while he starts pumping harder, his pelvis slapping against my ass even faster.

Soon, he goes rigid as he comes inside me hard, and we stay still for a few moments, lost in the pleasure-filled contractions of orgasm, pulsating against each other.

Once I start to get my eyesight and other senses back, it occurs to me again: I could get pregnant.

Sure, it’s a problem that can be solved with timely taking of a pill or other means, but the mere fact of its possibility is messing with me.

I don’t know this man, and I certainly can’t afford to take care of another life in my current stage—not that it would come to that. He’d probably take care of me as he said, but I don’t want to be some rich guy’s baby mama; I don’t want to be tied to someone just using me for my uterus.

But why am I even thinking this? I don’t have to think about a baby. We already addressed the whole thing, and he’s getting me the morning-after pill, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll take more drastic measures.

The thought of that sort of guts me.

The possibility of becoming pregnant has captured my imagination in an unexpected way, but Christ—a child!

I haven’t really had the time—no, the
luxury
—to think about it before since I can barely keep myself afloat, much less anyone else.

Even before I became alone again, it wasn’t a practical possibility with my last partner—before Richard, I’d only been with one man, and our sessions were infrequent and well-protected. I made sure to be on the pill, and he still used condoms for good measure—he already had a kid from his mid-teen years, and he didn’t want to risk having to pay more child support.

Until yesterday, I’d been celibate for a year and, at some point, simply stopped taking the pill because—well, what was the use during such a dry spell?

Plus I figured if I met someone I could get down and dirty with, it would help me to protect myself—not being on the pill would absolutely make me insist on condoms.

That plan obviously failed and Richard fried my brain so much that it didn’t even occur to me till it was too late all the risks I’d be taking.

This guy is filthy rich—my god, the number of women…

“Do not worry about your health, Cherise. As I said, I am a rather tidy man,” he says languidly from behind me.

There he goes again, reading my mind.

“But you risked having sex with
me
unprotected! You don’t know me from Adam…”

“Cherise, I know quite a lot about you.”

Maggie’s words suddenly come back to me:
“I guess he’s been stalking you?”

“What, have you been stalking me for months or something?” I ask with a smile in my voice, my eyes glancing over, but not seeing, the fancy furnishings of his bedroom.

He hesitates before answering, pricking my senses. “Something like that.”

“Hold up—to what extent?” I ask, turning to him and suffering the separation of our bodies as his cock leaves me.

His dark gaze meets mine steadily and calmly.

I try not to get distracted by his beautifully sculpted chest and the adorable way his thick dark hair has become ruffled.

“Cherise, I am very careful whom I date, so I do my research. Now let’s grab a shower. Or, if you prefer, we can play around in the Jacuzzi tub. Either way, breakfast should be ready for us by eight so we can get ready to begin work promptly at nine. Do you have any food preferences?” he asks as he begins to sit up.

“I thought you did your research?” I say dryly as I sit up too.

He gives me a small smile as if to say,
Touché
.

He raises an eyebrow at me while he waits for my response.

I rattle off some of my favorite breakfast foods—omelets and French toast and blueberry pancakes included.

“Wonderful—we will be well-supplied for your needs, plus there will be a few other things for you to try; many options will be available to you.”

He extends a hand to me and I place my hand in his and follow him to his ridiculously large bathroom.

N
o lies were told
about my options.

The breakfast bar is stacked with a beautiful display of bagels, muffins, fruit, and a few things I don’t recognize that Richard has to explain to me: caviar bites and an odd-looking quiche.

The food layout is bookended with drinks—fresh orange juice and water with lemon slices—and a chef stands near the stove, waiting to cook our omelets to our specifications.

I briefly wonder who else Richard is expecting—there is far too much food for just the two of us, although I am happy to be able to sample such a large variety.

By the time I choose all parts of my meal, I understand—it is wonderful simply to have the options.

Still, what a waste.

I couldn’t help wondering if the leftovers got dumped, and my mind flashes back to Derek—a homeless guy who hung out on the street a few blocks from my place. What a feast it would be for folks like him! Well, for anybody, really—it’s not like the food was days old.

“This would be fairly routine should you decide to work with me,” he reminds me, and amazingly, the job offer starts looking even more appealing.

At about a quarter to nine, Richard starts leading me away to begin our work day.

We take the stairs to the second floor and stop at a door several feet away from his bedroom.

When we enter the room, he directs me to sit in the chair in front of his desk while he goes to sit in the large, cushiony-looking leather chair behind it.

This room is very different from his bedroom and does not hint at play—it is a room of dark colors—mahogany and black—and it is filled with filing cabinets and books and folders. Unlike what I’ve seen so far, it is clearly for business only, his personal office.

He grabs a black folder and drops it on the table, then begins to pull papers out of it.

Handing me the first, he says, “Anton Robinson. Seventeen.”

I stare at the photo of the young, dark-skinned boy with the goofy smile.

“Foster care since eleven,” Richard continues. “About to age out. Honor roll throughout his various schools, and has shown a high propensity toward engineering.”

Before I can begin looking through the rest of the details underneath his photo, Richard hands me another sheet of paper.

This time, it is a photo of a light-skinned girl with lots of unkept-looking hair. She is not smiling in her photo.

“Catherine Davidson, nineteen. Ran away from home at fifteen, didn’t finish high school. Arrested for shoplifting and other petty crimes. Her psychological profile revealed a near-genius IQ.”

He hands me a few more sheets of paper, a mix of young faces.

“These are just two of the thousands of possibilities,” he says. “What you would be doing, should you accept my offer here, is helping me build a foundation. I want to establish a scholarship to help students in need. Perhaps both need- and merit-based—it is one of the things to be ironed out.”

He pushes the folder toward me.

“There are millions of kids in need of assistance, and obviously we can’t help them all—not even most—so we must decide on parameters. Do we simply choose from the applicant pool, rewarding those with the gumption to seek out and follow through an application process? Or do we search outstanding potential out, looking for those who don’t know what they don’t know when it comes to options? Do we target certain demographics, provide assistance to older candidates returning or just those fresh out of high school?”

He gets up and grabs another folder, and I am amazed to see this new side of him. He is completely in business mode.

Sitting back down and opening the new folder, he says, “Say we decide to award five million in scholarships per year—how much do we give, when, and what are the terms and conditions? Must the students maintain a 3.0 GPA or 3.5? When it comes down to the wire, why pick this person over that person? Who gets a free ride versus a little bit of help—perhaps just room and board? These are just a few of the questions we must answer. I want you to help me sort this out, Cherise, and we will have someone come in and train you on the nuts and bolts once we have begun the project in earnest.”

I flip through some of the other profiles and my heart is pounding incredibly fast.

I could have the opportunity to transform lives in gigantic ways—possibly change the course of their entire future!

I find myself incredibly energized.

My neurons are firing, and my brain is turned on perhaps even more than the way he turned on my body.

This man sure knows how to make me feel alive.

What he’s planning to do here—what
we
would be doing—would be a dream come true for me; I couldn’t think of a job more perfect.

At this point, I’m not sure what I’d be doing exactly, but there was no way I’d turn down the opportunity to learn.

“Let us begin,” he says before I can say anything. “I will take you through my process so far. I would love to hear any ideas you have, any insight you think you can give. I am afraid I’m fairly out-of-touch when it comes to a few things—that’s where you come in.”

I know I’m going to say yes to this job, but I don’t want to just yet; I can’t let my emotions rule with no consideration for the rest of the nitty-gritty details.

The hours pass quickly, and soon, it is lunchtime.

I don’t really want to stop, so Richard has food delivered to the room and we continue to work, bouncing ideas about while stuffing our faces.