BILLIONAIRE (Part 5)

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.