Borrowed Billionaire #3 Return to Mr. Thorne

Description:
Billionaire Luthor Thorne asks to meet with Lexie Ross, but he won't actually see her. They'll be meeting in a restaurant that serves food in the dark. It's a very different date from the ones she's been having with her special friend, sexy fireman Jacob.
Length:
13,000 words, or 53 book pages long. This is #3 in a 5-part series.
Spice Level:
Erotic. This story contains super-hot sex, M/F. For adults, 18+ only.

Mr. Luthor Thorne phoned me and demanded sex while I was having lunch. I was at a lovely cafe with my friend and business partner/boss Suzanne.

Suzanne pulled a slice of cucumber from her iced water with mint and cucumber then nibbled it while studying me. We were on the outdoor patio, next to the sidewalk, enjoying the late-summer sunshine.

I held the cell phone to my chest and hissed at her, “Don't you need to check messages on your own phone or something?”

“Nu-uh,” she said, then she put her elbows on the table, and, chin in hands, continued to study me. The lady was married, so my sex life was endlessly fascinating to her.

Up until my phone started vibrating, over and over, unrelentingly, we'd been having a great conversation about our favorite topic: sex. She wasn't taking her birth control pills, because they wreaked havoc on her skin and her moods, so she and her husband were using condoms, except for the fact that he didn't
like
condoms.

“Nobody likes condoms,” I'd said to her. Still, I used them most of the time, even though I'd been on the pill myself for about five years. “You don't want a baby yet, do you? Oh, Suze, be careful.”

“He mostly does me in the ass,” she said matter-of-factly.

I nearly choked on my tuna salad sandwich. “Since when did you start doing … you-know.”

She did that face where she squints one eye and rolls up the other one, looking like a cartoon version of herself, her dyed-to-match-her-hair red eyebrows exaggerating the expression. “Lexie Ross, if you can't even
say
anal sex, you'll never get to
do
it.”

“Duh.”

“There are so many nerve endings in your butt. Like, so many. Your butt's like your clit, but shaped like an O.”

“Bleh.” I finished chewing my mouthful of sandwich and said, “Not on my sensual tourism list.”

“Sensual tourism, what? Is this a real list? Like a
bucket
list? I'd like to see this sensual tourism list. I bet it's not very long, on account of all the things you won't do.” She counted off on her fingers and said, “You won't eat pussy, and you won't take it in the back door, and what else? Oh, right, you won't say
I love you
to anyone but your parents.”

“That's not true,” I said. “I love you, Suzanne, you saucy little fake-redheaded lambchop.”

That was when my phone rang for the tenth time in a row. Rather than let it go to voicemail, again, I decided to answer the damn thing before all the vibrating ran down the battery. (Don't you hate it when your vibrating things are down on battery life?)

Despite the blocked number, I knew by the voice that the caller was Mr. Thorne, as expected.

As Suzanne watched me intently, her chin on her hands, I said, into the phone, “Sorry, sir, Candy's not available. She's at lunch with her gorgeous girlfriend. Candy does have a
life
you know.”

He laughed from his side, lightly, as though this was all part of the foreplay to the phone sex he wanted and was sure I'd give him.

“This sounds to me like Candy,” he said.

“Nope.”

“You sound sexy. I bet you have a tight ass. What's your name?”

“I'm the receptionist. My name is Helga and I have ...” I tried to think of something gross, but I didn't want to say something revolting, because even though I wanted to get him off the phone, I didn't want him to imagine me in a gross way. Finally, I said, “I'm Helga and I was born without a vagina.”

He'd already seen my vag—been inside it, in fact, so that was a pretty safe lie.

“Transitioning, huh?” he said. “That's cool. Tell me more about yourself, about your ideal lover.”

I snorted. “Do you have all day?”

“I have a few minutes, and if you don't have a vagina, I'd like you to tell me about putting my cock into one of your
other
holes, whichever one's available.” He paused, and I imagined him licking his lips. “The mouth is always nice.”

I frowned at Suzanne, who was still watching and listening intently. She whispered, “You should do it. Give him the phone sex.”

I shook my head at her.

I'd given Mr. Luthor Thorne phone sex—oral phone sex, specifically—once before, and I'd vowed not to do it again. Technically, I'm not sure if it was phone sex or
real
sex, because I'd had my friend Jacob's cock in my mouth for most of it. I was basically multi-tasking.

And now Mr. Thorne wanted me to give him cell phone oral, or something like it, again.

No.

I wasn't getting paid per minute, not like actual phone sex girls, and there was no way I'd be satisfying Mr. Thorne again, not without so much as a nice date beforehand. I'd been doing some really filthy (but fun) things recently, but I did have
some
standards.

“Put me in your hot, sticky hole, Helga. Though I really want Candy,” he purred into the phone, and in response, I felt the pink lips I was sitting on ballooning, swelling in size, excited for his big, throbbing sex, even if it was only over the phone.

I snapped, “Candy's busy.”

Suzanne waved her hand at me and snapped her fingers. “Suzie can take this one,” she said.

I hadn't told Suzanne
who
it was who'd been calling me for days trying to get phone sex, as Mr. Thorne was a client of our professional organizing services, and I didn't want her to know I'd been fraternizing, but she did know that
someone
had been calling.

She said, wiggling in her chair, “Let me suck him off. Oh, I really want to.”

Some people walked past us on the sidewalk, and I was sure they heard her.

I shook my head.

She pouted. “But phone sex with a stranger is on
my
sensual tourism list! What about my needs? Share, Lexie.”

I held the phone to my cleavage to mute my voice. I was wearing the backless and expensive red dress, the one a sexy silver fox had purchased for me the week before. It was a little dressy for day wear, but I felt like a million bucks in the expensive fabric and fine stitching, so I'd been wearing it every chance I got. I didn't think of myself as a materialistic person, but high-quality garments got my motor running in a way that nothing but the sight of a big, gorgeous, naked man could.

“He's a sick one,” I said to Suzanne.

She shrugged. “I'm married. I could use a little thrill. This isn't technically adultery, is it?” She pulled her hand away momentarily, then answered her own question with, “Of course not! I'm just doing you a favor and giving myself a little sensual tourism thrill. Gimme the phone. Gimme, gimme.”

I held the phone to my ear. “Sir, Candy's not available, but would you like to speak to one of our other girls?”

He paused, then played along, “Who's available?”

I answered him by making up the sluttiest names I could think of on the spot, until at last he pounced on one: Mitzi.

I rolled my eyes. “Mitzi's right here,” I said. “Her tits keep popping out of her dress, though, so she may have a wardrobe malfunction on you.”

Suzanne/Mitzi made a startled face and covered her chest. She was wearing her yoga clothes—black pants and a pink zip-up jacket, and in no danger of popping out. She had a tiny, modest figure, but Mr. Thorne didn't need to know that.

His voice cold and business-like, he said, “Let me speak to her.”

“Your wish is my command. Yes, sir.” I handed Suzanne the cell phone.

The waiter came by to refill our chilled cucumber water and clear our plates in time to catch Suzanne describing herself as, “Petite, with red hair, and ample, natural breasts.”

For the first time, I saw Suzanne as the hot little piece of ass she was. The girl was petite, and though her red hair came from a bottle, she did have nice breasts. I wouldn't call them ample, but they were big enough. As she spoke on the phone, breathlessly, she unzipped her pink yoga jacket and ran her fingertips along the top of her form-fitting yoga top.

The waiter, a teenaged boy, blushed and quickly ran off, practically tripping over himself in his haste.

“You gave that poor boy a boner,” I said to Suzanne, but she snapped her fingers and waved at me to stop talking.

I crossed my arms and slunk in my chair.

Suzanne was grinning, enjoying herself immensely, and I was … not happy.

Why wasn't I happy?

I looked around, seeking an answer. Attractive people were walking up and down the busy street, and an expensive-looking car drove by—one of those bright yellow sports cars designed to attract attention.

That was it. I wanted
attention
from Mr. Thorne.

Suzanne had him now, and I was jealous.

She was describing to him a full-on fantasy scenario, taking a lot more time to set up the scene than I had when I'd spoken to him. Damn, she was good. She created a luxurious suite, complete with a baby grand piano inside the room.

My jealous mind imagined the scenario as she described it over the phone to him, in tantalizing detail. When she got to the strawberries, I ceased to be in the sunshine at a sidewalk cafe, but was transported by her words, watching the fantasy scene unfold.

It went like this:

Suzanne met Mr. Thorne at the place of his choosing, which was a luxurious hotel suite downtown. They ordered room service: champagne and ripe, red strawberries. They requested a room with a piano, and she played a song for him—a beautiful song. All those years of lessons had really paid off.

(Just a reminder: this is me, telling you what I imagined, based on what Suzanne was saying to Mr. Thorne over my cell phone. At times, my imagination filled in a lot more than what Suzanne was saying. My imagination is just like that.)

He wore casual clothes, with a knit shirt, like what you'd see on a golf course. His strong biceps bulged as he popped open the champagne, and Suzanne squealed.
(She wasn't Mitzi in my vision, but Suzanne, my dear friend.)

She got up from the piano stool, shy and nervous as a school girl, and stood in front of him, looking more petite than ever next to his imposing frame.

He picked out the biggest strawberry, stuck it in his mouth, and passed it to Suzanne with a passionate kiss.

She reached down with her manicured hand and stroked the crotch of his pants. He pushed her hand away and asked her to take it slow, not to rush. They were standing next to a table, in the middle of the luxurious open-plan suite. In addition to the piano, there was a sunken tub on one side and a King-sized bed on the other.

The sun was setting, and the curtains were open, revealing the city, all midnight blue sky and golden lights.

“You're all mine,” he said.

“I am.”

“You'll do as I say.”

She nodded obediently, and then he poured champagne for both of them, in tall, thin, crystal flutes.

“What shall we toast?” she asked.

“Eating strawberries,” he said. “I'm going to eat
your
strawberry.”

“I waxed it just for you.”

“Let me see.”

She trembled a little as he reached down with one thick finger and lifted the hem of her red dress. He caught a peek at her freshly-waxed and baby-powdered pussy. She arched her back, leaning her soft mound toward him, begging to be touched, but he only nodded, smiled, and dropped her hem.

He said, “You want me to touch you.”

Her voice shook as she said, “I really do.”

“Doesn't your husband touch you there?”

She shook her head, no.

“He doesn't know what he's missing. Let me see it again.”

She nodded and waited for him to look, but he didn't move.

“Go stand against that wall,” he said, gesturing to the side of the room, next to the bed.