BILLIONAIRE

Part 5

by Juliette Jones

Copyright © 2013 Juliette Jones

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed or scanned in any electronic or printed form without

permission.

BILLIONAIRE is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual

persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

Cover art photo used under license from Shutterstock.com

First Edition: June 2013

BILLIONAIRE (Part 5)

Lila

A car picked us up directly from the steps of Alexander’s jet. Not a limousine, but an

equally-plush slightly less ostentatious European version. I had to take exactly twelve steps on the
tarmac between the plane and car. I counted. And I knew that if I’d asked Alexander to carry me, he
would have swept me into his burly arms without question or hesitation.

There was something deliciously decadent about this new luxury of having my tycoon Adonis

at my beck and call in every regard. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for me. I’d never had the
experience of being so well attended to. I loved that he was as needy as I was. His dark eyes
watched me all the time. Studying the shape of my face, the curve of my mouth, my body language and
my every movement. He was reading me and learning me, and reacting to every new piece of myself
I gave him. And I was basking in the extravagance of it all.

Not only that, but I felt genuinely touched by his concern. He was obsessive and obsessed; I

knew this and I didn’t exactly mind. But he was also unequivocally protective and it was this
bodyguard mentality I was almost enjoying most of all. That Alexander would do all in his power to
pleasure me was obvious enough; our bodies had barely disengaged the entire time we had so far
spent together. Alexander would also move heaven and earth to protect me, and if I’d felt like
dwelling on the extent of it, I might have been almost perturbed by how much I’d become addicted to
this relative safety of him, and of being with him. The Alexander experience was one that was
swathed in a buffer of opulent, shielding affluence. We were elevated, separated from the dreary and
the commonplace, warm and safe. I delighted in this cushion of ease, especially since it was
occupied by the most gorgeous, compelling, caring and well-endowed beefcake I had ever seen or
imagined. And he was all mine.

“We’ll see the sights soon enough,” he said. “First, we’re going to the hotel. You can sleep if

you want to. You didn’t get much sleep on the plane.”

Not surprisingly. It wasn’t just the excitement of the journey but the presence of Alexander’s

gargantuan and perpetual hard-on inside me that might have prevented any particularly restorative
REM. Not that I minded. Every orgasm Alexander bestowed imparted me with a inexplicable
power. A confidence. A new sense of myself. Like he was feeding me some kind of liquid
invincibility with each gift, each flooding burst of his pleasure and his essence.

I held his hand as we drove past the Eiffel Tower and he smiled at the look on my face,

kissing my lips even as I stared up at the vast, superb reality of it.

“I never dreamed I would ever see this place.”

“I felt the same way the first time I came to Paris,” Alexander said, with his hands on my

body. “It was my first trip abroad, too, and I decided then and there that I needed to start a magazine
here so I could come here whenever I wanted to. Paris is where I indulge myself.”

At this, I looked at his face. I was almost daunted by the admission. If he hadn’t been

indulging himself so far and planned to start right now, I knew I was in for a time of it. And I was
more than up for the challenge. He might have read my thoughts. “Yes,” he murmured. “I am
dedicating this entire week to indulging myself. But most of all I am dedicating this entire week to
indulging you.”

“I’m supposed to be starting my new job,” I reminded him. “When do we start working?”

Even to my own ears my question didn’t sound all that urgent. In fact I didn’t mind when or if we
ever started working. I was enjoying his company far too much. Work would mean meetings and
people and separations.

“When we’re ready,” was all he said about that.

“When’s the last time you took a week off to indulge yourself?” I asked him.

He kissed my mouth again, sucking on my bottom lip, dipping his tongue into my mouth like he

couldn’t resist the taste of me. A light groan escaped him. “I have never, ever taken a week off to
indulge myself.”

“So this is a special occasion,” I said, taking his plump lip between my teeth.

“Yes.”

“What is the occasion?” I asked. Just to hear him say it.

“You, my sweet Lila,” he said against my mouth, his fingers tugging gently on my nipple

through the thin fabric of yet another new top, “are the occasion. The sweetest little occasion in the
entire goddamn fucking universe.”

He kissed me deeply then, pushing his tongue into me like he did when he was inside me,

making love to my mouth with his as he pulled me onto his lap. I nestled my backside against his hard
length, fitting him between the curves of my ass, wiggling and willing. I was wearing a short blue
skirt that rode up easily under his wandering hands.

The car pulled to a stop.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath.

“We’re at the hotel,” I said helpfully. “Down, boy.”

He looked at me like he was considering locking the doors, holding me down and having his

wicked way with me, waiting chauffeur and honking traffic be damned. “I’ll down boy you, darlin’,
as soon as I have half the opportunity.” It wasn’t his comment that struck me but the hint of an accent.

And this wasn’t the first time I’d detected the slightest note of a southern drawl in the inflections of
his speech and it made me wonder about his history. His childhood. Aside from the obvious details
of his beauty and his wealth, it was true that I knew almost nothing else about Alexander. He had a
brother. He owned a number of companies. He’d gone to Princeton.

Maybe this week would give me an opportunity to mine for nuggets of information about his

backstory, which he seemed cagey about giving. This, I understood only too well.

I shimmied off of his lap, rearranging my clothing.

“Too many damn distractions,” he was muttering. “I’m going to lock you away for the entire

week and make love to you however and whenever I want. With no interruptions.”

“Sure you can, honey,” I teased him, laughing at the aroused, disheveled state of him. The

door was being opened by the oblivious driver, and I took my opportunity to step out onto the
sidewalk.

We had pulled up in front of a charming very-Parisian-looking hotel, with sculpted wrought

iron balconies. L’Etoile was scrawled across the pink awning in looping script. Star. How apt,
somehow. My French did not extend much beyond reading this word, introducing myself, and, in a
stretch, ordering a bottle of wine. For some reason, the name and the look of this enchanting haven
seemed perfect. It was cute and inviting and quaint, and I absolutely loved it.

Alexander, after a minute or two, climbed out of the car and stood next to me, huge and

exotically American. His black hair and white teeth and obvious prosperity made him stand out like a
sparkling, preppy pirate king amid a sea of stylish underlings. Everything about him, from his
impressive size to his superb, masculine shape, screamed alpha.

And this place. We were not far from the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, and its magnificence

and unequivocal romance cast its aura around the entirety of the scene. Along the streets in either
direction, there were cafés and bakeries with little al fresco tables congregated in colorful clusters.
People gathered and milled, and every single person looked like they might have just stepped off the
set of a fashion photography shoot. Across the street and beyond the merchants was the river Seine.

“Take these bags to my room,” Alexander was telling the bellboys. “And have a bottle of

your best champagne brought to the suite immediately.” His orders were somewhat gruff. He was
grumpy, maybe, from the fact that his erection was not being dutifully attended to.

I slid my fingers through his. “No ‘please’? Do you always speak to people like that?”

He looked down at me like a black-maned lion assessing its prey. “I only say please to you.”

“Well, I think you’re rude,” I told him.

“You don’t know the half of how rude I am,” he said, spinning the word to sound filthy, and

his lips curved in a smile that promised as much as I could handle. “Come with me.”

He led me through the lobby of L’Etoile, which was even more exquisite that the façade,

tasteful but still over-the-top with its pink and gold décor. “Monsieur Wolfe,” a well-dressed man
greeted us. “Mademoiselle …”

“Carmichael,” Alexander said. “My guest for the duration of our visit. Lila, meet Monsieur

Dumas. He’s the manager of the hotel.”

“Bienvenue,” the man said, taking my hand and kissing the back of my knuckles. “Enchanté.”

Oh, God, I loved this place. Everything was just so perfectly French.

I was led into the small elevator. Alexander punched the button for the top floor. “He seems

nice,” I commented, running my fingers along the pink velvet cladding of the elevator car.

“He does a good job,” Alexander replied, much more interested in the textures of my skin than

the topic we were discussing. His hands skimmed under my skirt, grasping the rounded curve of my
ass. His fingers roved, touching everywhere, lightly kneading the fleshy, swelling lips of my pussy,
claiming me once again as his own. The effects of his playful-yet-commanding contact funneled
deeper, moistening me, infusing me with the honey he so easily inspired. “I hired him last year.”

“You hired him?”

“I own the hotel.”

I shouldn’t have been surprised, of course. He might have owned the Eiffel Tower, too, as

well as the London Bridge, the Empire State Building and the goddamn pyramids of Egypt.

I felt so completely happy I could hardly stand it. I flitted out of the elevator as soon as the

doors opened, knowing full well that Alexander’s suite would not only be the penthouse, if Europe
even did penthouses, but also that it would be divine. Like everything else in his world.

And I was not disappointed.

Entering the suite, I wandered, aghast, and couldn’t help marveling at the incredible

extravagance of it. There was a large sitting room, with plush-looking couches, chairs and loveseats.
Open double French doors led to a balcony with a table and chairs that looked over the picturesque
scene of the river and its lively banks. On the other side of the river I could see Notre Dame. The
bedroom had a huge king-sized bed, mountains of pillows and duvets and another balcony, this one
affording a view of the Eiffel Tower itself. The bathroom had two toilets, an enormous clawfoot bath
and a state-of-the-art shower enclave. And throughout, the furnishings and decorative touches were
the most romantic and at the same time most luxurious than any I had ever seen.

Wow.

A man had uncorked the chilling champagne and was pouring it into two glasses, placing them

on the table. Alexander pulled a roll of American dollars from his pocket and handed the young man
a hundred-dollar bill. Then he handed the rest of the cash to the wide-eyed bellboy and said,

“Change the rest of this into francs and leave it at the front desk. I’ll pick it up later.”

“Oui, Monsieur Wolfe,” the man said, almost bowing. He hastily left the room, closing the

door behind him. Which Alexander proceeded to lock. He picked up the champagne flutes and
handed me one.

“I have never, ever seen any place as beautiful as this,” I said. “Thank you for bringing me

here.”

He clinked his glass against mine. “Thank you for coming with me. It is my pleasure to give

you anything and everything you want. I like having you in Paris with me. Paris is my sanctuary.”

Something passed between us as we sipped the bubbling, delectable drink. A connective,

visceral tenderness as I looked into his midnight eyes. The champagne tasted like starry magic. Just
a few sips of it gave me a beatific buzz. Probably because this was breakfast and all I’d had for
dinner was a few bites of filet mignon and some chocolate cake. I sipped again, but Alexander took
my glass.

“You can have more of this. But first I want you to go into the bathroom. Return to me once

there is nothing on you, or in you, that might present a barrier to me. Take as long as you need.”

I wrapped my fingers around his, lifting the glass to my lips and taking a long sip. Then I

obeyed him and retreated to the bathroom.

“But not too long,” he added.

Alexander had bought me several new travel bags – wildly expensive ones, of course – and

the smaller of the two had already been placed in the bathroom. I brushed my teeth then experimented
with what was not actually a second toilet but a bidet. I’d heard of these but had never seen one. A
clever invention, I decided.

When I opened the door to the bedroom, Alexander was standing on the balcony, looking at

the view. I went to him.

I was naked, but I joined him on the balcony anyway. I knew he would like this somehow: my

display. We were high enough that no one might notice. If they did, I hardly cared. My nakedness
was making me feel reckless. Free. The extreme luxury that buffered me from the outside world only
compounded the effect.

Alexander put his drink down. He stood in front of me, pulling me against the hard planes of

his body. “I’m going to take you out to breakfast, lunch and dinner every day, and feed you the most
delicious food you’ve ever had. But first I’m afraid I just can’t wait another minute, or even another
second. I’m going to ravage you, sweet Lila, until you can barely remember your own name.” He
kneeled down in front of me, holding me in place with his hands. He kissed the soft cove between my
legs, once, and again. His tongue burrowed to find my hidden clit, which he circled with his tongue,
drawing it out, sucking the tiny nub in hungry little pulls. The cocktail of lust, champagne and mild

sleep deprivation, not to mention jet lag, gave reality a sumptuous, luminous tint. I felt lucky and
playful and supremely alive. I squirmed from his hold. He grabbed for me, but I had the advantage of
surprise, and I darted in through the door, standing behind one of the large couches, ready to bolt.

“Lila,” he said, standing in the doorway. He was in no mood for games.

But I was.

He walked towards me, skirting the couch to get closer. But I moved, too, keeping just out of

reach. He was so aroused, the broad tip of his cock was visible, poking above the waistband of his
jeans. The sight of it, engorged and slick with pre-cum, was enough to slow my retreat. I wanted to
taste him, to put my mouth on all that bursting impressiveness. “Come here,” he said, “or I’ll have to
take you over my knee.”

I laughed at his heated, feral expression and I continued to evade him. He lunged over the

couch to grab at me, but I pulled back and he missed.

We circled, slowing to a stop.

I touched myself, fingering my nipples, pulling lightly and rolling them between my fingertips.

“Is this what you want, Alexander?” I cooed. “You want to suck on me?”

He went very still. Then he unzipped his jeans, taking his enormous cock in his hand. “You

know I do.”

I let my hands slide slowly down my stomach and across my hips as he watched me, slowly

stroking himself. My body made smooth little gyrating movements, almost unintentionally. Arching
my back, I swayed my hips in a slow, back-and-forth motion. I licked one of my fingers, touching it
then to my sex, swirling the moisture to open myself, to tease my clit. “Or is this what you want?” I
breathed, gasping a little as shards of pleasure rose under the touch of my own fingers. “You should
feel how hot and wet I am.”

He exhaled in a barely-spoken breath.

I swiveled my hips, turning my back to him, leaning forward to reveal myself from behind. I

slid my fingers across the lips of my pussy from the back, opening myself to his riveted gaze, dipping
a finger into the wetness. “Or do you want to spank me? For being naughty. For denying you what’s
yours.”

He didn’t speak. He seemed almost incapable of it. His eyes were darker than I’d ever seen

them. He looked mean and dangerously aroused.

But still, I wanted to push him. To ignite him. To play with my own power. To somehow

push him further than he’d ever been pushed. “Because you know this is all yours, don’t you,
Alexander?” I said softly. “This mouth is yours. These warm, sensitive nipples are yours. This tight,
wet pussy, all slick and ready for you. Yours.”

I walked over to the bed, leisurely, sliding onto all fours with my hips up. I wanted to tease

him but he was already there, and his thick cock speared into me from behind as his hands adjusted
my body into the position he demanded. He pushed my shoulders further down until my cheek was
pressed against the covers. He pulled my hips higher and shoved my knees further apart.
Alexander’s hands held me down in a vise- grip that felt on the verge of bruising me as he thrust into
me, thick and deep. I cried out at the unexpected ferocity of him. If I had attempted to push him past
some unknowable boundary, I’d succeeded. He’d never been this forceful with me before. His
massive, rigid cock drove roughly into me, again and again, reaching all the way to my womb with
each indomitable lunge. When I reached back to touch some part of him in an unspoken plea to slow
down, to be more gentle, he grabbed both my hands, clinching my wrists behind my back in one of his
big fists. The combined force of his depth, his thickness, his grip and the driving, vigorous pace was
too much. I was wet but still too-tight and sensitive, and the sliding friction was edged with pain. I’d
forgotten how unbelievably strong he was.

“Alexander!” I whimpered.

It took him a moment to slow, as though he was having difficulty pulling himself out of a

delirium of total, blind dominance. Then he did slow, pulling himself all the way out of me so only
the broad tip of his cock was inside me. He curled his body over mine, resting his chest against my
back, covering me. He kissed my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Don’t hurt me,” I whispered.

“I won’t. I’m sorry,” he said again. I could hear the remorse in his voice but also the

thrumming voltage of his need. He would go easier on me, but he would not be denied. I almost
wondered what would happen if I asked him to stop, now. Would he? I had the distinct feeling that
he wouldn’t. That he couldn’t. I wanted him to continue but this edge of doubt fed me a passing note
of unease. “You’re just so fucking gorgeous,” he said, kissing and biting my skin. “I want you so
much. I want to eat you and drink you and live inside you. I’m going crazy, sweet girl. I can’t handle
this. I can’t handle you. Do you want me, Lila? Do you want me?”

I did want him. So much. Too much.

He didn’t wait for my answer, and I didn’t expect him to. With measured, potent intention, he

slid himself in to the hilt, pressing his hips against me in a tender but very persuasive thrust. As he
did, he groaned loudly. Anguished: that’s how he sounded. Like he was lost. This time, the depth of
him rubbed a compelling, charged place inside me. He did this again, pulling slowly out, thrusting in,
seeking in the last inch of his drive an insanely intimate trigger. And finding it. A zinging flare began
to flower deep within me.

“Lila?” he whispered, thrusting again. His words were near-slurred with lust. “You okay,

honey girl?”

“Yes,” I moaned, not caring anymore about gentleness or boundaries. He was breaking me

open, casting light into darknesses, flooding my body and soul with hard beauty. I didn’t care if he
couldn’t stop himself. I couldn’t either. If he’d pulled himself away now I would die from his

absence. The physicality of our need had taken a turn. “Yes, Alexander. Yes, please, yes.”

He pulled back again, but not all the way, immediately pushing back in, stoking the fire. With

each plunge, he retreated a fraction less, until the cyclical glide was not a withdrawal at all, but one
dynamic, rolling thrust that stayed with me, not leaving the stroking contact of that deep, perfect
sweetspot. The pleasure grew, inflaming my body, and I was pushing my hips back against him as he
played this beautiful rhythm. My arms slid to the bed, giving me leverage to push back against him
more strongly, keeping him as deep as he could be. His fingers found my sex and skated across the
slippery center of sensation, and his other thumb was wet and sliding just barely into the secret
puckered cove of my ass, not entering me there but fondling and prodding gently.

The pleasure compounded, riding a silky wave, coasting then breaking with a force that sent a

flurry of liquid, bliss-laden stars through my brain and my body that I could feel in zapping surges all
the way to my fingertips and toes. I might have blacked out for a moment, riding some sweet, ultimate
high that ungrounded me. When my awareness returned, I was crying out, moaning and bucking back
against him. My pussy was drawing lusciously around his massive, pulsing cock until he groaned and
lay his body heavily over mine, coiling and gripping me as his climax racked through him.

After the beat of his upheaval had calmed, he rolled us to our sides so he was wrapped

around me, spooning me, still inside me. I had tears in my eyes and I wasn’t sure why. Was it
because he’d been so rough with me at the start? The pain had been overridden by pleasure, but I
remembered it. Or was I crying because I felt so close to this remarkable, complicated man that my
chest felt heavy with some kind of strange new longing? I didn’t understand my own emotions; they
were too raw, too vast. We lay like that for several minutes, catching our breath and recovering from
the sheer potency of our lovemaking.

“What’s my name again?” I whispered.

“Told you,” he murmured against my hair, stroking the long locks with careful, supplicating

tenderness. As though to make amends. “Sweet girl.”

I didn’t answer him, settling back against him. I’d already forgiven him, if that’s what this

required. I wasn’t sure and at that moment I didn’t care. I already knew I was in for a wild ride,
physically, emotionally, psychologically, existentially. All of it. Let’s not forget the icing on the
cake, I thought. Financially.

I pushed that thought out of my head. I just wanted to be as close to him as possible.

We were quiet then, touching, feeling. We dozed for a while, sated and spent, still

connected. I woke when I felt Alexander’s semi-softened shaft slide from my body. “Let’s have a
bath,” he said, walking into the bathroom to draw one.

He called me in when it was ready, and he was already submerged, leaning back, up to his

neck in bubbles, his jet-black hair flicked with frothy suds. Something about this big, CEO sex god
taking a bubble bath struck me as not only funny but ridiculously endearing. I smiled at the sight.

“Come here,” he said.

I climbed in, getting ready to recline towards the opposite end but he said, “I want you close

to me. Come lean against me.”

The water was almost too hot and felt heavenly against my sorenesses. I lay against

Alexander’s chest and he began to soap me, rubbing a soft sea sponge against my skin. Not lustily,
for once, but gently, just gliding the softness across my breasts and my body.

I listened to the light splashing sounds of the water and the muted sounds of the city outside

and down below. A European siren in the distance. Laughter. Music. I savored the feel of
Alexander’s hard chest and the tender caress of his hands.

“Where were you born?” he asked quietly.

So we were back to twenty questions. He’d caught me at a better moment this time. If I

wanted to find out more about him, it was only reasonable I begin to open up to him, too. Within
reason. “You first,” I said.

He seemed encouraged by this although there was a reserve in him that I recognized, only

because it was mirrored in me. “Texas,” he said.

“You grew up in Texas? I wouldn’t have picked you for Texas.” Although, come to think of

it, strong hints of that cowboy twang surfaced now and then. Mainly when he was lust-drunk. When
his guard was completely down.

“We moved to Florida when I was ten,” he said. “We lived there until I was seventeen.” The

comment was laced with all kinds of craziness: anger, regret, matter-of-fact grit. All that layered
emotion made me feel for him in a new, unchartered way. I could sense that Alexander’s road had not
been at all smooth. Something I could definitely relate to. I was curious but I didn’t want to push
him. I waited for him to continue but he said, “Your turn.”

“Virginia,” I said quietly. “A small town in the foothills of the Shenandoah mountains. I was

born in my mother’s house. I arrived so quickly she didn’t have time to drive to the hospital.” I was
a little amazed with myself. I’d never told that detail to anyone. Not that it was all that earth-
shattering, but still. And then I heard myself say, “She was alone.”

I waited for the obvious question and it wasn’t long before he asked it. “Where was your

father?”

I was far enough into the story that I figured I might as well answer him. “He was already

gone by then. He left a week before I was born. I never met him. He never came back. I never even
saw a picture of him. She burned them all.”

He was quiet for a few seconds, just gliding the sponge over my shoulder and down my arm.

“I’m sorry.”

I suddenly didn’t want to talk about any of this anymore. I didn’t want the darknesses of my

past to creep into the beauty of this present time and place. The past was behind me where it
belonged. “What’s your favorite color?” I asked him, glad already for the reprieve.

“Black.”

“Black?” I said, turning my head to look up at him. “Black’s not a color.”

“I still like it.”

“What’s your second favorite color?”

“Blue,” he said. “What’s yours?”

“Red. And pink. I have two.”

“Actually,” he said. “Pink is my favorite color, too.” He touched a wet finger to my lips.

“This pink.” His other hand slid lower, over my breast, where he swirled a finger around my soapy
nipple. “And this pink.” His touch wandered lower, down my stomach, finding the soft petals of my
pussy, not with possessive intention but with tender adoration. “And this pink.”

“What’s your favorite band? What kind of music do you like?”

“The Rolling Stones. And Mozart.”

Could this man be any more perfect? I looked up at him and he softly, softly kissed my lips.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “I’m going to tell you about myself. I’m going to tell you things

I’ve never told anyone. Because I want to. I want you to know who I am.”

“I want to know everything about you,” I whispered.

“And you’re going to tell me things, too,” he said. “About you. I want to know you. I want to

know what makes you tick. I want to know why you smile and what haunts you. I want to share your
heartbreak and ease every burden and hardship you’ve ever had. I want you to let me do that.”

We both had secrets; this was obvious enough. The thought of sharing with him, of opening

myself up to him emotionally as well as physically felt less daunting than it had only days ago.
Knowing that his scars were as painful for him as mine were for me made me feel like we were on
equal footing. It made it feel like this relationship was about more than just sex.

And the way he was expressing himself was somewhat uncharacteristic of my macho new

lover. His sincerity was bringing out his softer, more expressive romantic tendencies. After the
force of his lovemaking, the words sounded doubly sweet. First he’d broken me open with his lust
and now he was planting little loveseeds in the fresh dirt.

“I have very eclectic tastes in music,” I said, crossing some sort of divide. A warm, trickling

emotion was filling me. In my throat and in the low pit of my stomach. I loved him. Oh my God, I
fucking loved him. No, I couldn’t. I barely knew him. I sounded breathless when I continued,
babbling now. “I like the blues. I read widely. The goods and the greats, but also the cornerstones
of the modern American zeitgeist. I’m fascinated by pop culture.”

“I sometimes forget that you’re a scholar as well as a supermodel sex kitten,” he said, and he

kissed me again.

As he did, my stomach made a little growling sound.

“You’re hungry,” he said, as though mildly upset by this. “I haven’t been feeding you enough.

Something I intend to take care of immediately. I’m going to take you out to lunch at my favorite
restaurant. Then we’ll go to the Louvre, the most outstanding place in Paris. We’ll buy you a new
outfit. Then I’ll take you up the Eiffel Tower. We’ll come back here and make love. Then I’ll take
you out to dinner. Then we’ll come back here and I’ll make love to you again. And again. And
maybe once more.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” I said, ridiculously happy.

The setting was magical. The food was unbelievable. Over the next few days, we retreated
into an intimate bubble with Paris as our backdrop. We kissed at the top of the Eiffel Tower.
Alexander bought me a gold watch, new clothes, a pink silk Hermès scarf. We ate and we drank and
we made love.

He was gentle with me, almost entirely, but there were edges to him that, if I wasn’t so

immersed in the totality of all the extravagant pleasure he insisted on providing, I might have thought
about in more detail. It ghosted at the fringes. Off-hand remarks that could be easily overlooked
amid the Moët and the limousine rides and the shopping sprees and the full-body orgasms. You’re not
going anywhere alone. You’re mine. I’m never letting you out of my sight.

It was true that he hadn’t let me out of his sight since the day we’d met. That faraway gilded

moment when I’d first seen his exquisite face, and been swept off my feet by his rock-my-world
sexuality. I knew his obsession was bordering on the extreme. Yet I couldn’t quite bring myself to
worry about this. If I was going to fault him for his sudden and complete dedication to me, I could
have been equally critical of my own response. More than not, I basked in his adoration. I welcomed
it and encouraged it by teasing him and inviting him at every opportunity I got.

It was early afternoon of our fifth day in Paris. We were back at the Louvre, where we

wandered for several hours each day. Alexander was right: it was the most outstanding place in all
of Paris and I couldn’t get enough of the art I’d spent a lifetime admiring from the pages of books.
This had become something of a ritual for us during the past few days: spending the morning in bed,
satisfying our primal urges so voraciously we might have challenged some sexual frequency world
record. Then we’d shower together, an act that usually involved at least one more orgasm, before I

would dress for Alexander in an outfit of his choosing. After this, we’d eat at one of Alexander’s
favorite cafés or restaurants, shopping as we walked the iconic streets, making our way past the glass
pyramid and into the grand, cavernous halls of the Louvre, where the rich, timeless windows of art
had a transformative effect on both of us.

Something happened to us under the paintings’ influence. The oily romance and the brutal

tragedy spoke to our inner demons. Our barriers loosened. We talked more freely, like we had
nothing to hide. And on this fifth day, holding his hand, high on some perfect cocktail of endorphins
and champagne, his questions began to burrow deeper, as every other aspect of him had. I felt giddy
and young. Happy and beautiful. Alexander, all male energy and tall, lean, pirate perfection, had
never looked more dazzling. His silk-black hair touched the collar of his shirt in glinting flicks,
adding to his billionaire rogue appeal.

“How come you know so much about art?” he asked. “You know all the paintings in here.”

“I minored in Art History at Princeton,” I said. “I’ve always loved looking at the pictures.

The colors and the scenes always seemed so faraway and decadent and so …” I balked at using the
word, but blurted it out anyway, “… rich. I used to spend a lot of time at the library in my
hometown. It was quiet and clean. And warm. Warmer than …”

He looked at me, corraling his surprise at my spontaneous offering. After a brief pause, he

repeated, “Warmer than …?”

“My house. We couldn’t afford electricity sometimes. It used to get cold. So, so cold.”

He paused before saying, “We couldn’t either. But in Florida, and it didn’t get cold. I used to

hate having to read with a weak flashlight all the time, though. Jake and I didn’t have baths for about
two years. We just swam in the sea.”

And so it began. A surrender of sorts. An admission that we were growing closer. That we

were beginning to trust.

“What about your parents?” I asked, even though I suspected he wouldn’t go there. Already,

we were treading into unusually personal territory.

But there, under the painted, bloody agony of a Delacroix, Alexander shocked me with his

raw honesty. “My mother died when I was eight. Jake was two. He doesn’t remember her. My
father was a millionaire businessman with interests in both oil and insider trading. He made a couple
of bad deals and big mistakes that completely ruined him. He killed himself when he lost his fortune.
Shot himself with a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun. I was ten years old. I found him.”

My hand fluttered to my mouth, covering it unsteadily. I sat on a green couch in the middle of

the huge room, and he sat with me. “Alexander,” I finally said. “I’m so sorry.”

“We got sent to my uncle’s place in Florida,” he continued matter-of-factly. “He lived alone.

He had a small practically-derelict house with an even smaller cabin out the back of it. Jake and I

moved in and lived in that cabin for six years. It was on low stilts and when the storms hit, it used to
flood us out now and then. But we had nothing worth saving except the clothes on our backs and a
couple of surfboards.”

His hands were on his knees, gripping lightly. His black hair framed his face artfully, touched

by the reflected purple shade of the painted walls. And he kept talking. “Our uncle was a lowlife. A
real fucking scumbag. A drunk. He worked odd jobs but he didn’t have enough money to feed us. So
we stole, to begin with. I got a job in a surf shop waxing boards, which I could do after school and
on the weekends. I kept Jake with me a lot of the time but he was so little. He was a hell-raiser even
then. I tried my hardest to keep him out of trouble. The job brought in enough to keep us from
starving, but only just. Not even close to enough to get the electricity hooked up. Just enough for
batteries, sometimes, so we could read, and I could help Jake with his homework. I knew school was
our only out. So I was cutthroat about it. We had a few off years at the beginning. Jake never cared
for the academics much, but I forced him through it. And I forced myself. I worked my way up. It
took a while, but by high school, I started hitting the honor roll. I kept working, blind to everything
except the drive of getting us out of there.”

“I used to read in the dark, too,” I said softly, amazed at our common ground. “By

candlelight.” He waited, and I could sense he was eager to hear whatever I would give him. “I told
you my father left the week before I was born, and we never saw him again. My mother never
recovered from that. She loved him. She was completely heartbroken, and scared, I guess. All alone
with a baby like that. My grandmother moved in with us and she took care of me. My mother was …
it was like she was broken. She started drinking and never stopped. When my grandmother died, I
was seven years old. By then my mama was … pretty far gone. She just couldn’t cope. It was like
he took part of her along with him when he left us. Everything about her just drifted away, or got
drowned in that bottle.”

Here, I faltered. There were people around us, so far outside our scope they might as well

have been characters milling around in the rococo gardens or the dusky painted slave-trading halls, or
clinging helplessly to the sinking raft on a framed and windswept sea. We were on a roll now, and
Alexander spoke again. His fists were clenched now. “It was only a few weeks into my junior year
that I came home after work one day. My uncle … he was in our cabin. With Jake. Doing God
knows what to my little brother. I completely lost my shit. I went crazy. I nearly killed the fucker. I
thought I did kill the fucker. I meant to. I took Jake and the two hundred dollars I’d saved and got us
the hell out of there. We went to Houston because I knew a guy there, and we ended up staying for a
few years. I worked and worked and studied my ass off and got a full scholarship to Princeton. Just
like you did.”

“Yeah, I did.” Certain things were starting to make sense to me. About him. About his

overdeveloped sense of protectiveness. “You spent all those years taking care of him.”

“I tried to. Sometimes I think I fucked him up more than I helped him. Like he might have

been better off in foster care. But I just couldn’t do that to him. Hand him over to some stranger who
could’ve been as bad as what we’d escaped from. I was all he had. His only family. I just couldn’t
give up on him like that. I had to try to make it work.” He paused here, as though debating whether or
not to continue. “But Jake … he’s … missing something, I think. He’s missing an element of

compassion that most people have that just never had a chance to take hold in him because of the way
he grew up. I worry about him sometimes. He’s been in trouble a couple of times. He’s been
accused of things. But never convicted. By that time I had enough money to settle out of court. But I
worry about the way he uses women. He lacks remorse in a way that pisses me off sometimes. He’s
got a real … dark side. He doesn’t think of consequences. And he’s still a hell-raiser.”

“And you’re still helping him.”

“Giving him a job is the least I can do for him. He’s pretty good at making money when he

puts his mind to it. He can charm people easily enough. But there’s a hole in him that I … I don’t
know. It’s just there.”

“I understand that hole,” I said, without overthinking my reply. Just going with it. This was

the most personal and exposed conversation I had ever had with anyone – bar none – about my past. I
knew without asking that it was equally groundbreaking for Alexander. Right here, out in the open, in
a lavender-walled room in the Louvre, of all places. I spoke quietly and Alexander leaned closer.
“There were men that visited my mother,” I began. “She was pretty, even then. Even when it got
bad. She was lonely. Even as a child of nine or ten I was barely ever home. Already I was
determined to do well in school and – like you – dig my way out of that … life. Already I knew that
graduating with good grades was my ticket, if only I could achieve it. I wasn’t sure I could. I had to
work so hard. It didn’t come easily at first. I had to teach myself. I practically lived at school and in
the bookstores and libraries. Sometimes, when I got a little older, I would take a bus to
Charlottesville to the university there. I sat in the classrooms when they were empty. I touched the
books, I don’t know, … like I wanted to absorb what was in them through osmosis or something. The
students were everything I aspired to be, with their cars and their backpacks, their shiny hair and their
laughter. That’s what I wanted. A future. A fun, bright, happy future. I could almost feel like I was
a part of it when I was around them. But then I’d have to go home again.”

This next part was harder to talk about, but I kept going. I could feel the therapeutic purge of

emotion even before I spoke. “There was one man in particular who spent time with my mother. He
lived with us for almost a year. When I was thirteen.” My voice had grown raspy and Alexander’s
face showed the beginnings of anger. He was anticipating what I was about to say. I liked that anger
there. I imagined I could use it to fend off the anxiety, as a shield where before there’d been nothing.
No protection. No hope of escape. I kept the description simple but the husked edge to my voice
hinted at the depth of my buried sorrow. “He used to come into my room. He would … touch me.
He would make me touch him. He never took it … all the way. He never took my virginity, but he
did … other things. Lots of things. All the time. Every night. My mother was so out of it. So
unaware. He used all that complacency and all that grief to his full advantage.” I paused and
Alexander let me. He waited for me to continue, which I did. “It was relentless. And it made me
feel so dirty. Every night after my mother had passed out he would come to me. He didn’t physically
beat me but the pain of it all was … just so awful. The hole grew bigger. Darker and deeper.”

Alexander reached for my hand and held it. “Jesus, Lila. You didn’t tell anyone? You didn’t

tell your mother?”

“I thought about it. I thought about telling her. But he could read that. He threatened to kill

her. He could tell I was getting close. So he killed my pet rabbit. As a warning. I was devastated. I
just couldn’t take it anymore. I finally ran away. I lived under a bridge for a while. I slept in a barn.
I hid in the library and got locked in for the night. I loved the sound of that lock clicking into place. It
meant no one could get me. No one could get in. I slept in a chicken coop, once. But I always went
to school, if I could. I kept my hiding places close enough to get there. No matter what. My teachers
noticed, eventually, and I was returned home. By then he was gone. The police realized the squalor
of our living conditions. My mother was put into a rehab facility, but she never got better. She died
when I was a sophomore in college. I was placed in foster care, with a single woman who was kind
enough but distant. She needed the money. I was grateful for the roof over my head. The electricity.
The food. But we were both relieved when I left for Princeton.”

“Christ,” Alexander said, his rage muted by a compassion that was so full of understanding it

undid me. The memories didn’t make me cry. Not even the relief that my life had changed so
profoundly from those horrific dark days. It was Alexander’s grasp of my damages that coiled right
into my heart like a soulful, jagged knife, spilling fear and grief and loss along with my blood.
Releasing all those pent-up secrets.

Confessing all that felt more than restorative.

It felt like solace. It felt like life. It felt like trust.

It felt like love.

Alexander put his arm around me and stood slowly, guiding me along with him with careful

reverence. As though I was made of glass. His eyes never left me. “I’m taking you back to the hotel.
I’m canceling our meeting with Etienne. We can do that another day.”

He had made a dinner meeting with the editor-in-chief of the French edition of his magazine.

I’d been looking forward to it. After all, it wasn’t every day a person dined with a billionaire and a
Parisian editor of one of the world’s trendiest publications. And it would be the first time Alexander
and I had socialized with someone other than each other since we’d arrived in Paris. “No, don’t
cancel it,” I said. There were lingering tears in my eyes but I didn’t feel distraught. I felt comforted,
if anything. I felt surprisingly calm, and light. “I want to go out.”

“You’re not feeling up to it.”

“Alexander, I’ve been living with these secrets for seven years. The only thing that’s changed

is that now you know what haunts me. You said you wanted to know and now you do. I’m over all
that. I escaped it. And now I’m with you.”

Alexander stopped walking and stood, facing me. His hands were on my shoulders. He

seemed touched by something I’d said. After several moments of staring, dazzled, into my eyes, he

kissed me. The kiss was so tender it almost brought fresh tears to my eyes. “Yeah,” he said, and his
voice had gone all husky. “You’re with me. And I’m going take such good fucking care of you,
you’re going to forget all that other stuff once and for all.”

“I already have.”

He studied my face, not entirely convinced. “Are you sure you don’t want to go back to our

hotel room? It’s a lot to confess. I know that wasn’t easy to do. I can meet with Etienne tomorrow.
Or the next day.”

“No. I’m fine.” More studious concern. But I felt unusually sanguine in the aftermath of my

confession. I had never told anyone what I’d just told Alexander and the burden did feel lighter. Like
it had happened to another person. Not entirely, but just a little. Just enough. “I want to go out. I
want to eat with you. You should meet with your editor. Don’t worry about me. Rehashing old
wrongs isn’t going to make them right. I just want to forget about my past and live my present.” I felt
slightly more vulnerable than I was letting on, but that was nothing new. Most of my existence had
been conducted through a veil of feigned courage. And in Alexander’s company, my imagined
staunchness felt more empowered – more real – than it ever had. “Bring it on.”

This brought a half-smile to his lips. He kissed me again, this time allowing some of that

wildcat eroticism to creep back into his protective concern. “Bring it on,” he whispered, repeating
my words against my lips. “All right, then, honey girl. Have you had enough of Delacroix for
today?”

I nodded, and he lightly squeezed my hand, leading me out of one masterpiece-loaded gallery

room and into another. He was about to ask me a question; I could tell by the little crinkle between
his dark eyebrows. Already, I was learning his little idiosyncrasies and for some reason this pleased
me immensely.

“Seven years,” he said. “And you were thirteen.”

“I don’t really want to talk about that anymore.”

“No. I’m not. I’m just doing some basic math over here.”

Ah. He’d figured out one of the details I’d yet to share with him. “And how’s that going for

you?”

He gave me a sideways glance. Damn, he was gorgeous. With his white cotton shirt,

exquisitely made but worn to the point of being visibly-comfortable, the rich shine of his ink-black
hair, the seraphic beauty of his absurdly-stunning tanned face, he was outshining the art. “You’re
twenty?”

“Nicely done, professor,” I said. “Now I get why you’re the CEO.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re not even old enough to legally drink?”

“I am in France.”

“Good point.”

“And I’ll be twenty-one in two weeks.”

He shook his head in disbelief, but he was smiling. “I know you got your degree in three

years, but that would make you –”

“I also skipped seventh grade,” I said.

“All that library time,” he smiled gently.

“Yeah. And the osmosis.”

“I’m glad you told me.” His comment was quiet, almost off-hand, like he didn’t want to kick

up any regret.

“And I’m glad you told me,” I said, finding, oddly, that I was. On both fronts. I felt closer to

the elusive billionaire Alexander Wolfe than I’d ever felt to anyone in my entire life. I didn’t know
what that said about me, or him, and I didn’t particularly care. All I knew was that I was glad I’d
survived all those dark days and terrifying nights, all that work and struggle and desperation.
Because it had all brought me to this one moment of such glittering magnificence that it almost felt
worth it.

We sat at a cozy but very expensive restaurant on the Champs d’Elysee, in a corner table by

the front window. The restaurant was busy but our little enclave felt secluded. We were early for
our appointment, so Alexander ordered a bottle of champagne and some hors d’oevres. His
command of French, like so many things about him, was impressive. He must have taught himself a
couple of languages, somewhere between working those odd jobs, raising Jake, and clawing his way
onto the honor roll. It felt different now that we knew each other’s secrets. Connective. Our pasts
were both riddled with deprivation; we had that in common. That we now knew this about each other
seemed to hinge us in a more profound way. Like the broken pieces of us somehow fit together.

Our bond had begun with a rampant sexual attraction that had seen us forsake every

consequence. And now it was blooming into something else altogether. Something equally as
powerful and just as urgent.

Studded now with the effect of our confessions, our sexual attraction was more relentless than

ever. By this point, it had been many hours since we’d left the plush haven of our bed in Alexander’s
hotel suite. In our ten days together – and this seemed astounding to me, that we’d only known each
other for just under two weeks – we’d made love so frequently that our bodies had become
accustomed to a certain timetable. Our need for each other was so ridiculously intense that this long

stretch of hours of constant contact had driven us to a sort of fever pitch of foreplay and anticipation.

I was wearing a black plunging V-neck silk-knit top, a short, flouncy black skirt, my new pink

scarf and my Balenciaga boots. And nothing else.

As we were waiting for our food to arrive, I got up to go and check my face after my gushing

tell-all in the Louvre. I probably looked like a train wreck. Oddly, when I went to check my
reflection in the mirror, I found I didn’t look stricken or shattered. My face was flushed along my
cheekbones. My eyes were barely bloodshot, but the slight, fading redness gave my green irises an
almost neon brilliance. The platinum streaks of my hair were artfully unruly.

This newfound cocktail of love, lust, leisure and the Louvre was having an unexpected effect

on my both my appearance and my outlook. I felt like I’d just lost ten pounds of existential weight.
And the effect of my emotional purge apparently had left me more empowered and more courageous
than ever. Like I’d just eaten a big meal of genius and it was still not only churning around in my
psyche but manifesting itself into my look.

I reapplied my mascara and lipstick, the way Eva had taught me only weeks ago. And I

decided to make the most of my night.

On my way back to the table, a gang of loud men were entering the restaurant. They were tall

and Europeanly sporty, exuding youthful energy like they’d been playing soccer all afternoon in the
heat. Their group parted for me, surrounding me as I walked through their ranks. Every single one of
them stared at me with ravenous eyes. I still wasn’t used to this kind of reaction from men. I’d gone
virtually unnoticed my entire life. Unfashionable glasses, tied-back hair, baggy clothes and a timid
demeanor were as good as an invisibility cloak, which was exactly the effect I’d hoped for. But my
makeover was now complete. The superficial dressing up was only half the transformation; my
awakened sexuality radiated from me, and I could feel it.

So, apparently, could they. I couldn’t understand what they were saying but from their leering,

appreciative tone, I got the gist of their commentary. One of them touched my hair. Another smiled at
me and blocked my path back to the table. I stepped around him, ignoring their banter, making my
way back to Alexander, who was getting up from his seat.

I’d never seen that kind of look on his face. Of pure, savage fury. I went crazy. I nearly

killed the fucker. I thought I did kill the fucker. I meant to. He looked capable of that right then.
Jesus, I thought. Obsessed and possessive doesn’t even begin to cover it. He’s gone mad. His fists
were balled and he was taking a step in the direction of Équipe de France. There was no way I could
let him to that. Alexander was a big, burly brute of a man but he was no match for ten Euro-yobs. I
cupped his fist between my palms. “No,” I said.

“Did you hear what they were saying to you?” he growled.

“Yes. Luckily, though, I couldn’t understand a word of it. I don’t speak French. Now sit

down.”

“I’m gonna knock that asshole’s teeth in, that’s what I’m going to do. He fucking touched

you.”

I stood in front of him, blocking him. He was at least a head taller than me and probably

outweighed me two and a half to one but I stood my ground. “Sit down,” I said again. If I’d paused
to consider what was going on here – Alexander, my cool, sophisticated billionaire CEO boyfriend,
had reverted to knuckle-dragging mode and was on the verge of starting some kind of testosterone-
fueled brawl – I might have felt disconcerted by the extent of his rage over such a trivial thing as
having a rugby thug’s fingertips graze an end strand of my hair as I passed him by. It was a good
thing, then, that I didn’t pause to consider what was going on here. I wasn’t sure what it was but the
day’s events (and lack thereof, since approximately noon) were conspiring in one forward direction.

Madman or no, Alexander’s he-man act was turning me on big time.

Something in the husked tone of my command got his attention. He looked down at me.

Shooting one last lethal glare at the raucous men, who were now being led by the maître d’ to a large
circular table in the middle area of the restaurant, he obeyed me. As he sat, he pulled me onto his
lap. He scooched us further along the rounded booth, hiding the lower halves of our bodies from
public view. My skirt splayed out over us, covering us. And as he moved under me, I could feel the
hard outline of his burgeoning desire rubbing against my bare skin.

“I can’t stand this,” he rasped.

“Can’t stand what?” I said.

“Them. Seeing you. Thinking about what they want to do to you.”

“What do you want to do to me, Alexander? I’m yours, remember? It’s you I want. Only

you.” I wriggled lightly on his lap, stroking myself with the hard length of his cock.

“Christ,” he breathed. “What are you doing to me?”

I felt reckless. I wanted to please him. And I was already wet with anticipation. I could feel

the throb of excitement in my juicy depths. I’d never had sex in a public place before and I was
surprisingly turned on by the thought. No one would know. I’d be innocently sitting on Alexander’s
lap, sipping my champagne, kissing him, talking. With him deeply, thickly inside me. As the men,
and others, watched me from across the room, unaware.

The restaurant was dimly, romantically lit. I kissed him lightly. A fond, demure kiss

appropriate for a crowded restaurant in Paris. I lifted myself, adjusting. With one hand I took a sip
of my champagne. With the other, I reached down to unzip Alexander’s pants. I took his heavy length
in my fist, squeezing gently. He groaned, the quiet sound both erotic and pained.

“Hush,” I warned softly, squeezing him more tightly as though to scold him. He was

incredibly hard, like silk-covered stone. That scent of him, so distinctive to me, infused me with
need, as though the cloud of his pheromones were drugging me. “Look at me. Tell me, very quietly,

what I want to hear.”

“I love you,” he said.

This, in fact, I was not expecting. I went still, stunned by his brazen declaration.

Before I could fully recover, he pulled me down onto him as he murmured into my ear, “Yes.

I love you, honey girl. I want you. I need you. You’re all I can fucking think about. I love the way
you taste. You drive me crazy. I love the way you feel. You haunt my dreams and you inspire my
days. I love your mouth, your skin, your eyes, your lips. Is that what you want to hear?” The head of
his huge, hot cock parted the folds of my pussy and pressed into my slippery entrance. I was
definitely no longer a virgin, but I was still exceedingly tight. His thickness slid insistently into me,
filling me and stretching me in a total, sensual invasion. “I love the way your tight, luscious little
pussy grips me, like you can’t get enough of me.”

Oh, hell. This might have been a bad idea. I didn’t know if I could suppress the moans that

rose in my throat. He was so big, so deep inside me I went instantly wet around his rigid bulk. I
shifted very subtly from side to side, adjusting to the slight discomfort of his substantial invasion. He
smoothed my skirt and the tablecloth to cover us. One of his large hands gripped my hip, pulling me
closer as he reared deeper into me with understated insistence. “Or is this what you want to hear?”
he whispered, his voice low and darkly graveled. “I want to take care of you. In every way I know
how. I want to pamper you and pleasure you. I want to give you everything you want. Everything
you’ve ever dreamed of. I want to keep you safe and use all my power and money to protect you.”
He nipped at the lobe of my ear. Very, very quietly, he added, “And possess you.”

If it was music to my ears, there were one or two notes that had the encroaching potential to

be off-key: a thought that held then faded before it was fully formed.

“Don’t look now, sweetheart,” he said, “but here comes the waiter.”

Oh, Jesus Christ. My inner muscles clutched involuntarily around him as I sat up straight, as

though primly poised on Alexander’s lap, the picture of innocence. I turned as the waiter approached
our table with several of the entrées Alexander had ordered. The waiter took the chilling champagne
from its ice bucket and topped up our glasses. “How is everything, Monsieur Wolfe?” he asked, in
perfect English.

“Everything is perfect. Absolutely perfect. Thank you.”

My body didn’t seem to care that Alexander was too big. That in this position, his possession

was both nearly uncomfortable and practically divine. That we were having sex in a crowded
restaurant while holding a conversation with an attentive waiter. I was rippling around him, wetly
combusting, quivering on the very verge of orgasm. If Alexander had touched me with his fingers, I
would have come right then and there. But he didn’t. He held my glass of champagne to my lips and I
took a sip of the bubbling liquid. The waiter left us to it.

Alexander held me in the locked gravity of his gaze. He was beautiful, all that virile,

darkhorse splendor rousing me even further. I wished I could straddle him and ride him into the
sunset like a slowride rodeo hero. I wanted to bite him and suck on any part of him. It took all the
self-control I had but, instead, I kissed him very lightly, while squeezing him in tiny, rhythmic pulls
with my clenching core.

There was something so wildly carnal about the way we were fully clothed except the most

intimate parts of our bodies, which were lusciously connected, joined in a secret, fluttering
communion.

I couldn’t help it. I had to move. I was so close. Too close. Too close to be cautious or

restrained. But when I lifted myself up in a careful attempt to gain some of that slippery friction that
might give me release, he clamped his hand tighter at my hip, holding me in place. “No,” he said with
authoritative bite that stoked my lust to fever pitch.

“Alexander,” I whispered so quietly he was watching my mouth with a glazed, lust-drowsed

expression, as though reading my lips. “It’s so good. You’re so beautiful. I want to pulse around you
as you look into my eyes. Right now. I want you to come so hard it blows your mind. Right here at
the table.”

“Ah, fuck,” he groaned quietly. Out of the corner of his eye, something caught his attention.

“Ah, fuck,” he said again. “He’s here. It’s Etienne. I just saw him walk past the window.

Oh, God.

Alexander gently lifted me off him, adjusting himself and his clothing quickly as I slid back to

the seat next to him. I felt ragged, bereft, and so intensely aroused I thought I might do something
crazy. Like pin him down or drag him back to the hotel, bigshot editor-in-chief be damned.

Etienne appeared at the table, flanked by two young, pretty, exceptionally French-looking

women. They had short boyish haircuts and wore matching skimpy outfits of very-short shorts, high
heels, sequined tops and whimsical scarves, like they’d dressed for the evening together, coordinating
their looks. Etienne himself was tall and handsome in a familyman kind of way. I guessed him to be
around thirty-five. His hair was longish and stylishly unkempt and he wore John Lennon eyeglasses
and one of those scarves you usually associate with the Middle East, wrapped bulkily around his
neck. He gave the first impression of being creative and eccentric, but also keenly intelligent.

Introductions were made as Etienne sat next to Alexander and the two young women sat next

to me. I hoped that we weren’t showing any outward signs of our very-recent activities. Alexander’s
lap was partially covered by the table cloth and my skirt was appropriately rearranged. But the
throbbing, juicy memory of his big, thick cock inside me made me feel half-mad with desire and ready
for anything.

“This is Monique Junot,” Etienne said. “She writes a column for the magazine, and she runs

her own business. And our mutual friend Mia Bellamy. A very talented masseuse who runs a
successful establishment of her own.”

“This is Lila Carmichael,” Alexander said, to which both Etienne and the women began to

spout what I thought might be along the lines of ‘enchanté’ but taken to the extreme degree of
flattering enthusiasm. Their French was a whirl of lilting expressiveness, all of which was almost
entirely incomprehensible to me. I now wished I’d paid more attention to foreign language study
when I was scrabbling my way up the academic ladder. At the time, I’d never thought I’d travel, or
do anything beyond camping out in stuffy (warm) east coast libraries until I could secure my place in
an upper middle class existence. It also did not escape my notice that Alexander didn’t bother to
follow up his introduction with my title. Maybe now that he’d not only thoroughly consummated his
lust for me but also confessed his love for me, he didn’t want me to be his assistant anymore. I,
however, still wanted to be his assistant. Badly. I could be his lover without being merely his toy, I
thought, and my own defiance on the subject surprised me.

“I’m Alexander’s new assistant at Skyscraper in New York,” I added.

This inspired a new raft of gushing admiration which extended, on the part of the girls at least,

to touching my hands and my hair. “You’re so pretty,” said the one named Mia, whose eyes were a
distinct shade of sky blue. Her full lips had been painted fire-engine red. I thought the colors of her
were somewhat outstanding: the blue and the red against the pale white of her face and the flags of
pink across her cheeks. The touch of their hands was reminding me of my unrequited lust, which still
pulsed in a lingering echo.

“You’re pretty, too. Both of you.”

Both girls had dark hair, but Monique’s was jet-black, and shiny. Her features were petite,

pixie-like. They seemed good as a team, satelliting off each other with their lipstick, their thin,
elegant arms and their flicky schoolboy haircuts. And their enthusiasm bounced off each others’,
compounding the effect of youthful, sexy frivolity. They were very tactile, touching me often, running
their hands along my arms as they spoke and tracing the neckline of my top. I wondered if it was a
French thing, if getting a literal feel for someone was a part of getting to know a new acquaintance. I
didn’t mind this at all. As Alexander was now deep in discussion with Etienne, I was enjoying their
company. It had been a while since I’d had a girlish conversation. The past two weeks had been
intense, to say the least, and wonderful, but it was nice to take a break from all that heavy masculinity
for an hour or two and savor the soft, lively company of these women, who weren’t much older than I
was.

They spoke English well but with an accent heavy with z sounds. I got the impression, from

their manner and their touchy-feely coquettishness that was somehow laced with deeper intention, that
they might bat for both teams. Or at least dabble in the occasion round of unbiased sexual
experimentation.

“What kind of business do you run, Monique?” I asked.

She smiled at Mia, and leaned closer to me, as though to share a private joke. “I design sex

toys.”

I felt my eyebrows rise.

“She writes a column about her new designs in the magazine,” Mia said. “What’s hot, and

what’s even more hot. That kind of thing.”

“Oh,” I heard myself say. “Wow.”

“Would you like to see my newest design?” Monique said. “It’s going to be featured in next

month’s edition. It moves in a number of new, innovative ways, and the vibrations are rhythmic.”
She reached into a small shopping bag and pulled out a box with a clear front, showcasing a pearl-
colored vibrator. “Have you ever used one?”

“A vibrator? Uh, once.” I remembered it well. The night of the poker game. At the time,

Alexander had gone easy on me.

The girls tittered at my obvious inexpertise. “Would you like to try it again?” Monique said.

“This model is worth trying, trust me.”

“Sure,” I said, feeling the blaze of heat on my cheeks.

Mia smoothed the back of her cool hand along my cheekbone. “You are very beautiful, cheri.

Your hair is so golden.” Her hand glided down my neck, to the upper curve of my breast, then back to
my shoulder, which she kneaded gently.

“You should let Mia give you a massage, Lila,” Monique said. “She is very good at it.”

“Monique’s good at it too,” Mia said, smiling coyly.

“I’ve never had a massage before.” That wasn’t precisely true. Alexander was somewhat

creative with his hands. “Not a professional one, at least.”

“Oh, you must let me,” Mia said. “Tonight.”

“Tonight?” These girls were offering more than a massage. With the lingering warmth of

Alexander’s public possession still moistening my deepest depths, and my nipples now beading from
Mia’s gentle touch, the suggestion intrigued me. I was curious. More than a little tipsy from the diet
of champagne I’d been living on, newly administered, I was as horny as I had ever been. Not only
that but I was reborn, after all, in so many ways it was difficult to negotiate all that new emotional
terrain. I felt loose, reckless and up for some experimentation. Slightly surprised at myself, I found I
wanted to feel the soft glide of these girls’ fingers, as Alexander watched. “Yes,” I said. “Tonight.”

Alexander

The girls were playful. A little bit drunk. Lila had invited them back to our hotel for a drink

after Etienne had left, which I had no problem with. She seemed to be enjoying their company and at
this point, I was powerless to deny her anything she asked of me. The one named Mia had offered to
give her a massage, she said, and she was excited. I had a feeling there was more at play here than
that, which was intriguing, to say the fucking least. All I could think about was finishing what we’d
started in the restaurant, and if Lila wanted these girls to join in, then I was hardly averse to the idea.

They circled Lila, feathering their small, soft hands over the low-cut fitted silk of her dress.

I took a seat and watched.

“I am going to massage you, Lila. But first, can I kiss you?” Mia cooed. “I’ve been wanting

to kiss your lips. They’re so perfect, like pink rose petals. And your teeth are so white. Can I kiss
her, Alexander?”

“That’s up to Lila,” I said, as my cock roared to full attention. “Whatever Lila wants, Lila

gets.”

“I’ve never kissed a girl before,” Lila said, looking at me. But she was curious, I could tell.

“Try it,” I said. “See if you like it.”

“It’s fun kissing girls,” Mia urged softly, touching her fingertips to Lila’s lips, parting them.

“I kiss Monique all the time. It’s nice. Different to kissing a man. So soft and delicate. Let me show
you.”

Monique was fingering the neckline of Lila’s dress. She was easing the fabric off Lila’s

smooth shoulders. “I want to see your breasts, Lila,” she teased, all sultry and hot. “They’re so full
and so rounded. Can I see?”

“I –” Lila paused, as though this wasn’t exactly what she was expecting. “All right,” she

finally said softly.

Mia touched her lips to Lila’s at the same time Monique eased the fabric of the dress over the

swell of Lila’s breasts.

Christ.

Lila’s nipples were unbelievably rosy and gorgeous, tightening visibly as they were exposed

to the air and to the adoration. Monique let Lila’s dress fall to the floor. Lila stood naked in her
high-heeled sandals. She knew she was beautiful. She could feel her own sensuality. I could tell this
from the way she stood, with her languid, long-limbed stance, all coquettish and falsely demure. Her
breast were perfectly shaped, with that plump, graceful curve. Her little ass was rounded and golden,
her back barely arched to accentuate every shadow and every hollow. And her pussy was blushing

and lightly swollen, glossy with the beginnings of her arousal.

Mia gently kissed Lila’s lips, making little mewing sounds as she fed on Lila’s moist, plum

mouth.

“Look at your body, Lila,” Monique gasped. “You’re gorgeous. Your Alexander is a very

lucky man.”

“And Lila is lucky, too,” giggled Mia, who looked over at me. Lila followed her gaze. “I

think Alexander likes watching me kiss you, Lila. He’s getting excited.” That was the understatement
of the fucking century. My cock was so painfully erect it was rubbing uncomfortably against the
zipper and button of my jeans, all the way to my belt buckle. “Alexander wants to watch me kiss you
some more, don’t you, Alexander?”

I didn’t bother answering and Mia didn’t wait for it. She licked lightly at Lila’s lips, for my

benefit.

Monique was undressing Mia. Unbuttoning her top and peeling it off her shoulders.

Unlatching her lacy bra. Pulling off her little shorts, which Mia stepped out of without stopping the
little wet kisses she was giving Lila’s mouth. Mia’s body was petite and cute, but far less slimly
voluptuous than Lila’s. Then again, every woman’s body was less slimly voluptuous than Lila’s.

“Mia, rub your nipples against Lila’s,” Monique coaxed, unbuttoning her own dress. “So

Alexander can see. You’ll like this, Lila. It feels so good.”

“Oh, Lila,” Mia said. “Your breasts are so full, so lovely. Do you want me to touch you?

You do, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Lila said shyly. Then she looked at me, as though unsure about how I felt about all

this. “Alexander?”

“He’s fine,” Mia giggled again. “Go unzip him, Monique. He’s going to burst out of his jeans

when he sees this.”

“No,” said Lila.

Monique laughed and touched a finger to Lila’s nipple, rotating a tiny circle. Then she

pinched gently, causing Lila’s mouth to open into a round little O. “Don’t worry, cheri. He’s all for
you. We won’t touch him. Not much. We just want you to see how turned on he gets watching us.
Please? It’ll be fun.”

Lila was placated enough to let Monique walk over to where I sat. She reached for my belt

buckle and I let her unfasten it. She pulled on it. “Stand up,” Monique said and I did, watching Lila’s
eyes. “I’m just going to undress you,” Monique said. The bossy type. I didn’t mind. As long as Lila
was cool with it, the little French mistress could boss me right over the edge. “Then you can watch
until we’re ready for you. All right, Lila? You want to see his big, muscled body, don’t you? You
want to see his cock getting even harder as we massage you and kiss you and get you ready for him?

He’s all yours. Only yours.” Monique was unbuttoning my shirt, pulling it off and I let her. “I’m not
touching him, see? I’m unzipping his jeans and pulling them down for you. Mon dieu, he’s so big!”

“And so hard,” Mia said. “For you, Lila. All for you. Watch this, Alexander.” Mia touched

her nipples to Lila’s, rubbing in small, rotating circles against Lila’s full breasts.

Fuck.

“Oo, you feel so good, Lila,” Mia said. “Your breasts are so beautiful. I want to suck them.

Can I taste you a little? Just a little.”

I was fully undressed now and Monique guided me with her small, cool hands back into the

chair. “Wait here,” she said. “We’re going to get her very, very ready for you.”

Mia leaned in and took one of Lila’s nipples into her mouth, swirling it with her tongue. Lila

moaned softly and closed her eyes. When Mia pulled her mouth away, Lila’s nipple was wet and
glistening. “You taste so good, Lila. So sweet and fresh and young.” Mia swirled the moistened
nipple between her fingers, squeezing the hard nub as she sucked the other. Lila barely swayed on
her feet.

Monique, who had now stepped out of her dress, took Lila’s hand. Monique’s body was slim,

almost boyish. “Let’s move her to the bed, Mia. You’re making her knees weak. Come, Lila, we’ll
arrange you so Alexander can see you. All of you. We’re going to massage you. Would you like
that? Mia is very good at it.”

The girls led Lila to the bed and she followed willingly. I could see that her pussy was

already very wet, swelling and opening in that flowery way it had. She seemed a little disoriented
and she looked over at me as she crawled onto the bed. I was holding my cock in my hand, rubbing
lightly but without intent. “Alexander?” she cooed.

“Right here, honey girl.”

“We’ll bring him over soon,” Monique said. “First we’ll make you comfortable. Lie on your

stomach, and spread your legs a little.” The girls arranged Lila’s body, smoothing their hands over
her skin. Very gently, they spread her legs, arranging her for me.

“He wants to see you, Lila,” Mia purred in that accent. “He wants to see your pussy getting

silky and wet as we rub you with oil. He wants to imagine how it’s going to feel when he pushes his
big cock into you.”

Oh, fuck. I could barely take this any more.

“Don’t look now, Lila,” said Monique. “Keep your eyes closed. I can tell you that he is very,

very ready. For you. He likes the way you look. He likes the way you are relaxing and opening to
him. I’m going to pour some warm oil on you now. It will feel nice.”

Monique drizzled oil onto Lila’s legs, onto her ass and on her back. The girls began to use

their hands, rubbing the oil onto Lila’s creamy skin until her body was slick and glistening. They
moved to her legs, each rubbing slowly, sensuously, sliding their palms up the inside of Lila’s thighs,
kneading the tender flesh. They didn’t touch her pussy, but their fingers roved close, rubbing her ass
in cyclical strokes, spreading her so I could see the tiny puckered cove. The pink lips of her pussy
were soft and puffy. A gleam of wetness shone at her sweet opening as the girls’ hands continued to
work her ass gently.

“I’m going to touch you very intimately now, Lila,” said Mia. “I’m going to put some oil on

you to get you ready for Alexander. Would you like me to touch you, Lila? Would you like me to put
my fingers on you?”

Lila moaned quietly.

I took my cock in my hand and began to slide my loose fist up the length. There was no way I

was going to get myself off like this, not with the nirvana in front of me, oily and slick, but I was
starting to feel restless, almost insanely horny.

Mia dripped some more oil onto her fingers. Monique rubbed the cheeks of Lila’s ass,

holding them gently spread as Mia touched the slippery liquid to the little cove, circling and
pressing. “I’m going to enter you a tiny bit, Lila,” Mia cooed. “Just a little. I’m just going to touch
you and rub you like this so you can see how good it feels. We want you to feel so good, Lila. You
are so beautiful, so soft. Alexander can’t wait to touch you. I can see he’s going to want to touch you
very soon.”

Just hearing the girls talk like that made me gush with a small spill of pre-cum.

Monique laughed coquettishly. “His big cock is ready to burst already, Lila,” she said. “And

we haven’t even started to get your pussy ready for him. Are you wet, Lila? I’m going to touch you
now to see if you are, just a little, can I?” Monique’s fingers dipped lower, circling the lips of Lila’s
pussy but not yet touching. “Do you want me to gently caress your pussy, Lila?”

Lila moaned her soft agreement.

“Lift your hips just a little bit,” crooned Monique, and Lila obeyed, arching her back and

opening her legs wider. Her hot pussy was shiny with moisture. The sight of her almost blew my
mind, and she was only making it worse by swiveling her hips in tiny, lazy movements, like she
couldn’t keep herself still. “That’s perfect,” Monique observed. “Let Alexander watch me touch you,
very gently, just like this.” Monique’s fingers slid across the lips of Lila’s sex, circling and gently
opening her. “You’re so slippery, Lila. You love how this feels, don’t you?” With two fingers,
Monique dipped into Lila’s saturated core, pushing gently in a slow, in-out movement. With her other
hand, her fingers formed a little cage, teasing Lila’s clit in a pinching embrace.

Lila’s hips began to sway in a gyrating plea and she moaned again. My name.

“You want him, Lila?” Monique said. “You want him here, where my fingers push into you?”

“Yes,” Lila whimpered. “Please. Yes.”

Monique continued. “My fingers are small compared to him. He’s very big. Very hard and

thick. He’s touching all that now, getting ready to come to you. He’s going to slide his big cock all
the way inside you now, is that what you want?”

“Yes,” Lila breathed.

“Or do you want him here?” Mia murmured, rubbing and tantalizing Lila’s ass, poking into the

oiled softness.

“That will come next,” scolded Monique. “First here, so she’s soft and ready. Let’s turn her

over. That’s it. Gently. Oo la la, you’re so ripe and sexy, Lila.” The girls turned Lila’s body so she
was lying on her back with her legs parted. Mia poured more oil over Lila’s breasts and she began to
rub her hands over the glorious mounds, squeezing and pulling at Lila’s nipples until they were
blushed and elongated. Monique circled Lila’s swollen sex with her nimble fingers, arranging and
opening Lila’s pussy lips, exposing the tiny nub of her clit as Lila moaned and writhed softly.

“Alexander,” Monique summoned, her voice low and sultry. “Come here. Let us kiss you and

suck you to get you nice and wet.”

“No,” whined Lila. “He’s mine.”

“Oh, she’s so greedy, Alexander. She wants you all to herself.” Monique was walking

towards me. “I’m just going to bring him to you, Lila, that’s all.”

“Anyway, he’s already wet,” laughed Mia. “Look at him. He’s beginning to spill.”

It was fucking true. I wasn’t coming but I was riding some sort of pre-cum eruption. I was

literally dripping with lust.

“That’s because Lila is so beautiful,” said Monique. “Her body is heavenly. Look at that

pussy. So ready for him. Come on, Alexander. Give her some of that.”

Monique reached down and slid her fingers around my insanely-engorged cock. Oh fucking

damn it all to hell. I could barely hold on. “Stand,” she ordered. She tugged gently, leading me, like
this, to the bed. Each step brought me closer and closer to orgasm, from the bossy squeeze of
Monique’s fist to the close-up sight of Mia’s girlish hands touching and teasing Lila’s glossy, slippery
body.

“Oh, Alexander,” purred Mia. “You are such a masculine beast. All those big muscles. And

that cock, my God. Lila, you lucky girl.”

“Here he comes, Lila,” cooed Monique, guiding the head of my cock between Lila’s open,

wriggling thighs to the dewy, rose-colored center of my universe. I willed myself to keep control but
my shaft was on fire, brimming with excruciating anticipation. “Hold still for him, Lila. Here he is.
He’s not going to last long, and neither are you. Feel him touch you.”

I groaned when I touched Lila’s hot, slick entrance. The contact ignited a sweet ache that

leached up my cock as Monique squeezed her fist around me, allowing her grip to retreat as she
channeled me into the slick embrace of Lila’s pussy. Even as wet as Lila was I had to force my way
into that luscious beauty, thrusting in, and in. Fuck, she was tight. Fuck, she was gorgeous. I was
diving and driving deeper and deeper into all-out fucking heaven. And I was in. Fuck was I in. In
and in.

“Oh, Lila,” Mia whispered, repeating, “You lucky, lucky girl. He’s all the way inside now,

so thick and so deep. Oh, and here he’s pulling back a little, and pushing even deeper. You should
see how slippery you’ve made him. God, he’s so big and so lusty.” Damn, these girls were good at
this. I was about to come but Mia’s soothing litany slowed me down. I wanted to listen. I wanted
Lila to listen. “Look at him, taking you so good, sliding his glorious cock into you. He’s beautifully
made, and so aggressive. So manly. He wants you so much. He looks at you like you’re a wanton
little angel that breaks his heart.”

I was coherent enough to comprehend that the girls were following my lead, working my

rhythm with their hands and their fingers, urging and nudging. Mia’s hands were playing with Lila’s
clit and subtly rubbing against my cock as I slid in and out. Monique’s fingers were cupping me and
pressing and stroking in all kinds of crazy places.

I was holding Lila’s hips and she was arching up against me, lifting her hips from the bed,

wanting more, and more. “Oh, God, I’m going to come,” she gasped.

Mia encouraged her. “Come on, Lila. Come. Let your whole body come.”

“It’s so much,” Lila cried in a low, husked moan. “It’s too much . Oh, God, I’m coming, I’m

coming.”

I could feel it, the tightening, the undulating joy that palpitated in firm, grasping squeezes.

“Alexander’s coming, too,” Monique purred, squeezing tighter.

Yes I was. My own upheaval burst out of me in time with the ecstatic tugs of Lila’s pussy. I

could tell she was coming hard because the spasms made her whole body lurch in transcendental little
flutters. My own release was as close to enlightenment as I’d ever come. I existed, for what might
have been a full minute, in a blind haze in which the only sensation was the otherworldly pleasure
spooling out of my euphoric, gushing manhood.

Lila was calming now, the ripples slowing. I leaned over her, feeling protective, holding her

hair in fistfuls, kissing the skin of her neck.

“Mon dieu,” commented Mia. Or Monique. I couldn’t remember. The one who was still

holding my balls. Monique, I think. “What magnificent fireworks between our lovely lovers.” Her
hands fondled me, naughty yet patient. Her other hand smoothed over Lila’s breasts, caressing
gently. She was playing us both, readying us for more. At the thought, I felt a faint stirring in my
cock, which was still wedged deep inside Lila.

Damn. Unprecedented revival. I’d transformed into some sort of superhuman stud under the

influence of the delightful Lila Carmichael and her attendants.

“Are you ready for more, Lila?” Mia said softly.

Lila began to stir. She moaned a soft purr.

Mia had moved away, riffling through the shopping bag they’d brought. “Oh, yes. There’s

more. Two’s better than one,” she giggled. “And the second one is always better than the first.
You’re in France, now, cheri. We never stop at one.”

“I’m going to pull Alexander out of you now, Lila,” Monique said. “Then we’ll rearrange.

You’re in for a treat. Just sit back and relax. We’ll do everything. Well, not everything. Alexander
will do his part, of course.”

Monique, the little minx, did exactly as she had generously informed us, sliding my semi-hard

cock out of Lila’s body. I had no idea how I could possibly have been semi-hard after the supernova
climax I’d just experienced, but there it was. Monique’s hand caressed my slippery length.

Lila seemed almost drugged from her pleasure. Her lashes lifted and she saw Monique’s

hand on me. “Give him to me,” she ordered.

Monique tittered an apology and reluctantly disengaged. “He’s just so hard to resist, cheri.”

God. Lila’s breasts jiggled gently with her movement. Her legs were apart and I could see

my own cum trickling from her pink pussy. My half-cocked erection gained surging momentum as she
slid her fingers around me possessively. The jolt of happiness I felt as she took hold of me was
ludicrous. Yes, I thought. I’m where I belong. She feels so damn good. She’s so fucking beautiful .
I leaned over her and kissed her soft lips.

“Oo, he wants more. Much more,” Mia purred. She sat next to us on the bed. In her hands

she was holding a smooth, realistically-shaped vibrator. “Can I touch you with this, Lila? Let me
show you how it works.” She flicked a small switch and the vibrator began to hum. When she
flicked a second switch, pearl-colored beads under the surface of the vibrator began to move and
swirl. “It’s specially-designed for maximum pleasure. Can I show you? Let me show you. I’ll just
touch you here,” Mia soothed, barely touching a finger to Lila’s clit, “very, very gently.”

Lila exhaled a soft moan.

“Alexander, you lie on the bed,” Monique said. “On your back. Let Lila lie on top of you.

With her back against your chest. Like this.” The girls guided us. Their hands were unbelievably
intimate. I lay back on the bed and they helped Lila lie on top of me, but not before taking my cock
and sliding it between the cheeks of Lila’s ass so I was wedged snugly against her. The girls guided
the oiled head of my cock into the tight, delicate cove between Lila’s cheeks, stroking and prodding
her, with me. Fuck, it felt good. “Do you want him here, Lila? Have you ever had him this way?”

Lila was panting. She was either scared or fraught with nervous excitement. I held her head

against my jaw and smoothed her hair. I wasn’t going to force this. In fact I wasn’t sure if I should
continue. It was Lila’s decision, although if we took things too much further, I doubted I’d be able to
control another torrential gush, wherever my cock happened to be placed. All these hands. All this
slippery skin and deep heat and lust-soaked femininity were beyond a turn-on. I felt like some sort of
superpowered satyr who’d stumbled across a party of bathing, needy beauties all intent on provoking
severe, prolonged multiple orgasms from me. And succeeding. They were gliding their hands with
fluid intent, pulling and teasing and wanting me deeper.

Lila liked the feel of my semi-hard-on against her. She wriggled her ass against me. Taking

more. The head of my cock barely penetrated into the slick snugness. “Alexander,” she moaned.
“More.”

Holy fucking hell.

“Oh, you want him so much, Lila,” purred Monique. She took the bottle of oil and poured a

small pool into her palm. “Let me touch him, cheri. I’m going to help ease him into you. He’s
getting very big again. Mia will pleasure you with the new toy. It will feel very, very good.”

The girls both had their hands on us. They were guiding me into her, positioning my well-

oiled cock into the ridiculously tight embrace of her ass. As soon I began to enter her like this, my
cock became instantly harder than it might ever have been in my goddamn fucking life and the
squeezing tightness was very nearly fucking painful. I wasn’t even halfway in and I wasn’t sure she
could take any more. I moved to ease the constriction, subtle in-out movements that were fluid and
tight and unbelievable. We both groaned.

Mia touched the vibrator to Lila’s pussy, working the lips of Lila’s sex gently as she bent

down to kiss Lila’s clit. As all this was happening, Monique began sucking on Lila’s nipples.

“Oh my God,” moaned Lila, and from the way she said it, I could tell she wasn’t protesting.

She writhed against me in a gyrating arch, taking me deeper. Rotating and insistent. Deeper. Deeper.
Until I was all the way inside her.

“Good girl,” whispered Monique. “Now lie back and feel how full you are. How good it

feels.”

“Your pussy is so pretty, Lila,” cooed Mia. “I’m going to push the vibrator deeper into you

now. Against a very sensitive place inside you. Doesn’t it feel amazing, the way it hums and coils
and moves? Feel it sliding into you as I suck you very, very gently. Just like this.”

Holy fucking shit, I could feel it, that soft vibrating buzz inside Lila. Her ecstatic moans

were non-stop. Here we were, all over her and in her, worshippers at the altar of the sublime,
transcendent beauty that was Lila. We were feeding on her pleasure. Her plush youth, slim yet plump
in all the right places. Her moans and her movements, wriggling and whimpering in mewling gasps.
“Alexander. Alexander. Alexander .” Fucking gorgeous girl. Chanting my name. I was holding her
and kissing her and fucking her. Loving her and owning her. Riding the buzzing wave. I moved with
her. With them. We were all working a rolling, insinuating rhythm that was moving in one forward

motion. Higher and harder. Fully, totally miraculous. Nirvana was beginning to uncoil. My cock
was beginning to explode with convulsive, spastic mania.

“Are you coming, Alexander?” Lila breathed. “ I’m going to come so hard. Right now. I’m

going to die, it’s so much, so good, too much. Oh. Oh God. Come with me, Alexander. Come with
me. I need you to. Oh, please. Oh, please, oh, please.”

Somewhere in the middle of her breathy monologue, the intensity of my rooted pleasure began

to overflow. I was already there. She was squirming with blind rapture and I stayed with her, using
every twist and every wriggle to get closer and deeper into that agonizing ecstasy. “I’m here, darlin’,”
I groaned. “Right here. Right now. Oh fucking yeah.” The throbbing and the squeezing and the
writhing were pulling my orgasm out of me in pulsing rushes the likes of which I had never known.
This was a different kind of pleasure. Sharp and ragged. Pain-flicked and dire. Excruciating.

We spun out for what could have been a couple of minutes. It felt, in a way, endless. Like

time had taken on a new elasticity that disconnected reality to this place and this scene. I was vaguely
aware that the others had disengaged. We were alone in our embrace now. I felt dazed and depleted,
and Lila wasn’t moving either. We were locked, bound and somehow changed. This change was
remote and unreadable, like it meant something but I had no clue as to what. Carefully, I pulled
myself from her body and held her close, hugging her against my chest, wrapping my arms around her.

I heard giggling and looked up to see the French girls kissing each other. I’d almost forgotten

they were here. Somewhere outside the scope of what mattered, it occurred to me that they hadn’t
gotten off. I didn’t care about this. I suddenly wanted them gone.

“Girls,” I said. “It’s been fun. It’s time for you to go.”

They looked up at me, all wide eyes and short haircuts and small, hard nipples. “Alexander,”

said one of them. “We can do more if you want.”

“Go,” I said, managing to temper my abruptness with a forced, stern smile. “Maybe another

time.”

“I’ll leave my card,” said the other. “Call us if you want more. Anything you want.”

“Thanks.”

I waited for them to dress and leave, then I picked Lila up and carried her to the shower. She

was silent, her green eyes bright. I was horrified to see them filling with fat tears that pooled and
spilled, inking shiny trails down her pale, perfect face.

“No,” I murmured, placing her on the cedar shower bench and sitting next to her. We were

surrounded by humid clouds of mist in the large glass shower room. She seemed so small next to me,
so impossibly young. I took her face in my hands and wiped her tears away. “Don’t cry, sweet girl.
I’m sorry. I said I wouldn’t hurt you and I have. Again and again.”

In my remorse, I felt like the big bad fucking wolf who’d stormed into her life and destroyed it

one fuck at a time. All I’d wanted to do was protect her and possess her and in that moment I realized
couldn’t do both. That the two were mutually exclusive. That was the change I’d felt: my full-blown
obsession was testing her limits. Our limits. But I had no idea how to calm myself the fuck down.

“You didn’t hurt me, Alexander,” she said softly. “You didn’t. I wanted you to do everything

you did. I asked you to. It’s okay. I don’t know why I’m crying.”

He shoulders shook gently as she sobbed. The sight of her cut me up completely. Those thin,

angular shoulders. The beading moisture dripping from her breasts like milk. The mussed ropes of
her wet hair gathered damply against her skin. I held her and soothed her and let her cry it all out.

It seemed impossible that I’d only known this girl for less than two weeks. She was more

important than anything else in my life. And I resolved right then and there to figure out a way to keep
her. Without breaking her. By stepping back a little and allowing this new yet exceedingly-intense
relationship to grow. Without forcing her to accept my fanatical guardianship and infatuated
ownership of her time, her laughter, her smile.

Her body.

In all honesty, I didn’t know if I could let go enough to do that. My obsession was closing in

around me, around us, like a steel cage. And there was nothing I could do to stop it.

eBooks now available on Amazon:

BILLIONAIRE (Part 1) by Juliette Jones

BILLIONAIRE (Part 2) by Juliette Jones

BILLIONAIRE (Part 3 & Part 4) by Juliette Jones

BILLIONAIRE (Part 5) by Juliette Jones

BILLIONAIRE (Part 6) by Juliette Jones

Coming soon to Amazon:

BILLIONAIRE (Part 7) by Juliette Jones