Mr. Black's Proposal (Part Two: A Billionaire Erotic Romance) (5 page)

But I’d fucked her silly, and I still felt like it wasn’t enough. What the hell was wrong with me?

“Lucas? Hello?”

“Huh?” I said, snapping back to reality.

“How about a double date tomorrow?” Jake asked. “You, me, Steph and Lacey.”

“What about me?” Clint said.

“You’re not allowed,” I said automatically. “You always bring your groupies, and they’re always dumb as hell.”

“But they’re cute,” Clint said.

“No,” I said. “And I don’t think Steph wants to date me.”

“You could marry her,” Jake said.

“Would you listen to this guy!” Clint said. “Marry her!”

“You think I should listen to him?” I joked.

“No!” Clint said. “As soon as he gets engaged, he wants everyone to get handcuffed along with him.”

“Handcuffs? I don’t need to know these details of your sex life,” I said.

“I’ve never seen you so worked up about a girl,” Jake said.

“Me?” I was aware that my voice was rising, but I couldn’t stop it. “I’m not worked up!”

“So worked up,” Clint said. “Would she even want to marry you?”

“Marry me? Who said anything about me getting married? Why are we talking about this all of a sudden?” I stood up, feeling the blood rush to my head.

“Your mom can’t stop talking about it,” Jake said. “You want to settle down sometime, right?”

“No! I don’t want to get married! Stop talking like you’re a group of teenage girls!” Even as I said it, though, I couldn’t stop my mind from unspooling a reel of images: Steph taking my hand just to hold it; Steph curled up against me, naked and sleepy; Steph in a wedding dress; me taking off Steph’s wedding dress…

I shook my head. It was impossible.

But Clint only laughed.

“Come on. It’s not like you have to stop sleeping around. Having a wife will be the perfect way to get your mom off your back. You can still have chicks on the side if you want. Belle will always be around if you need a quick fuck. And that other girl, I forget her name…”

While Clint’s voice trailed off, I swallowed back the lump in my throat. The thought of being with Belle again—or any other woman, for that matter— “I don’t think that’s Lucas’s problem,” Jake said.

“Oh?” I snapped back. “What’s my problem?”

“Your problem,” Jake said, “is that you can’t get her out of your head.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Otis nudged my hand and I took the tennis ball, throwing it absentmindedly. It went splashing into the pool and Otis went splashing right after it.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I bet you a million dollars you can’t get that girl to marry you, anyway,” Clint said.

“I’d take that bet,” Jake said. “I think he could do it.”

“Why are you even betting on this?!” I said. “It’s not going to happen!”

“Chicken,” Clint said.

“Goddammit, stop talking about marriage proposals,” I said. I threw Otis’s ball again. It bounced off the far wall and landed on top of the lifting cage. Otis ran over and sat whining at the bottom of the cage. I sighed. “I’m not going to ask her.”

“A million dollars, dude,” Clint said. “Take the bet.”

“No.” I pressed my lips together and tried not to think about Steph.

“You don’t even have to go through with getting married. Just the proposal. Just—”

“”No bet! Just shut up about it, alright?”

I jumped up and grabbed Otis’s tennis ball from the top of the machine.

“Man, he really is worked up over this girl,” Clint said. Jake nodded sagely.

“I’m not,” I grumbled.

“I think he might be falling in love,” Jake said.

“I’m not!”

I curled my palms around the bar and squatted. It was the most weight I’d ever lifted, but I didn’t even feel it. My teeth were gritted hard as I did another rep.

I wasn’t falling in love.

And I
definitely
wasn’t falling in love with the only woman in New York City who didn’t want anything to do with me.

The next day I had a photography shoot. Normally, doing a shoot would calm me down. The day to day business of Black Media Enterprises was boring, all meetings and paperwork. Photo shoots were my one creative outlet. I loved looking at skimpily-clad models through a photo lens.

Or, at least, I used to love it. Now, I stared at the slim brunette laying on a tiger skin rug in her lingerie with a feeling of dread. I took picture after picture, but it wasn’t inspiring.

“Arms over your head,” I told her. She obeyed, her lips plumping seductively as she stared into the camera.

Click.

“Okay, now arms down,” I said.

Click.

“Push your tits together a bit more,” I said, squinting through the lens. She obeyed, but on her small frame there was not much to work with. I put the camera down.

“Can we get some more cleavage here?” I asked impatiently.

One of the makeup assistants ran over and began dabbing furiously at the poor girl’s chest. I sighed. There wasn’t anything to do here. I just wanted to be looking at Steph, not this girl.

“Is this better?” the model asked. Her eyelashes fluttered at me.

“Sure,” I said, not sure at all if anything had changed. I raised the camera back up to my eyes. Nope.

Click.

“Okay, now on your knees,” I said, not bothering to keep the boredom out of my voice. I’d done a thousand photo shoots just like this one. They had always been fun. I had always enjoyed taking artfully designed photos of beautiful women.

I remembered how Steph had looked up at me from on her knees. Her eyes, wide and sweet. Her tongue, peeking out at the corner of her mouth. What would it be like to marry a woman like that, to wake up every day next to those eyes, that tongue? I sighed.

“Mr. Black?”

It was the model. I blinked and looked down. I hadn’t been taking any photos, I realized.

“Would you marry me?” I asked.

The model froze, her eyebrows arched in shock. I’d already forgotten her name.

“Are you serious? You’re asking me to marry you?”

I shook my head.

“No, I’m asking you if you would marry me. As a hypothetical.”

“Oh.”

She looked disappointed.

“Would you?”

“I mean, yes. But you’re not asking for real?” Her voice sounded hopeful.

“Just a hypothetical,” I explained. Okay, so at least someone would marry me. That gave me a bit of hope.

No! What was I thinking? Hope? I wasn’t going to marry anyone anytime soon, if ever. Anyway, Steph seemed like the kind of girl who might not ever want to get married. She was so proud of being independent, after all. I wondered what she would say if I asked her. Maybe she would slap me. Or maybe she would say— “Mr. Black?”

It wasn’t the model. I knew that voice. I spun around to see Steph standing with a clipboard in her hand. Her eyes dragged over the thin model in front of me, her hands splayed over the tiger skin rug, and her brows arched.

“Steph!”

I stood up, letting my camera fall to my chest and hang by the strap. The air in the room seemed to grow five degrees warmer.

“Hi, Steph,” I said, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. If she had come by to see me, I wanted to play it cool. Play it cool— “Your secretary said I should bring this invoice by for you to sign.”

Oh. That’s why she was here.

“Take five,” I said to the model. “I need to deal with some business.”

The model got up and strutted off in her five-inch high heels. The studio door clicked shut, echoing through the empty room. Steph waited patiently. She was wearing a white blouse with something frilly on the sleeves, and a navy blue skirt that made her hips look incredible.

“You look good,” I said. “Very, ah—”

“Very professional?”

“Exactly. You’re so professional.”

“Thanks. Here’s the first payment invoice for the cupcakes,” she said, sticking the clipboard out in front of her. “I just need your signature to be able to order all the materials. I think you mentioned your mom liked licorice, so I want to get some special ingredients… ”

She went on, but I was too busy looking at the curve of her ass to really pay attention. Then she coughed.

“Hello?”

“What?”

“I said, would you sign this?”

She looked so deliciously irritated. I raised my camera and snapped a photo. Her lips pursed.

Click.

“Lucas, this isn’t funny. I just need a signature.”

“Call me Mr. Black,” I said. “If we’re being professional.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Sure, whatever. Mr. Black. I need you to sign this page.”

I really liked the way she said
Mr. Black.
It rolled off her tongue like honey.

“I’ll sign it in exchange for a few photos.”

Click.

“No. The answer is no. Just sign the damn thing.”

“Do you know what I charge for professional portraits?” I asked. “I’ll do yours for free. Come on.”

“Lucas—”

“Mr. Black.”

“Fine.”

She stood with her arms crossed in front of me.

“You look angry,” I said, snapping photos as I stepped back to frame her in the shot.

“Excellent observational skills,” she said. “It might be because I came here for a signature on an invoice, and instead you’re acting like I’m on a photo shoot for Glamour.”

I winced.

“Ugh, don’t say that. Glamour has the worst photographers. Anyway, we’re being professional. Think of it as a photo shoot for Fortune magazine instead.”

“Really?”

“Just a few photos and I’ll sign it. I promise.”

She huffed but let her arms drop to her side.

“Smile for me.”

She smiled, but it was a tense smile.

“What did the fish say when he ran into a wall?” I asked.

“What?”

“Dam!”

She groaned at the stupid joke, but not before I got a photo of her with a hint of a real smile.

“Great,” I said, snapping away. “Perfect.”

“How should I stand?”

“Here, here. Kneel down right there, so the backdrop is behind you.”

Steph knelt down carefully on the tiger skin rug. She had her hands clasped together, looking completely self-conscious. This wasn’t the brash, sassy Stephanie I knew. This Stephanie was way too timid. I stepped closer to her and tilted her chin sideways slightly, letting my fingers graze the line of her cheek.

“Mr. Black…”

“Chin forward and down,” I said, posing her like my other models. She obeyed meekly. I reached back and pulled off her ponytail.

She squealed and jerked back.

“We need some hair to frame your face,” I said, teasing a few strands forward and taking another shot. She pursed her lips together but said nothing.

“Beautiful,” I said. “Perfect. Now toss your hair back like you’re on the bow of the Titanic and Leonardo DiCaprio has you around the waist.”

She laughed and shook her head, tousling her hair. I was taking shots continuously as I adjusted the angle.

“Perfect, perfect. Now act like a tiger,” I said.

She hooked her fingers like claws and shook her blonde hair.

“There! Like you just killed an antelope!”

She growled, giggling through the growl.

“Wilder!”

“
RARRRR!”

She was still giggling when I reached forward and unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. Her eyes widened, and her hands went up to cover her chest.

Click. Click.

“Perfect. So sexy.”

“Okay, that’s enough—”

I pretended to drop the lens cap from my camera. It rolled across the rug.

“Whoops!” I said, still clicking away.

God, she was perfect. Her navy blue skirt stretched around her hips as she twisted away from me to pick up the cap. As she bent over, I sat back and took a photo of her ass, round and perfect. She heard the click and whirled around, the lens cap in her hand.

“Lucas! What are you doing?”

“You know exactly what I’m doing,” I said in my best Austin Powers voice, shooting away. “Work it, baby! Yeah baby, yeah!”

“Lucas!”

She stood up in a huff, tugging her skirt down to her knees.

“Alright,” she said. “That’s enough.”

“Aw. We were just getting to the good stuff.”

“I think you have plenty of other models here to shoot good stuff with,” she said.