Virgin Wanted (BWWM Billionaire Romance) (2 page)

Marcus

“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr Whitelaw?”

I look up from my computer, realizing that Julia, my ditzy secretary, is
still
standing there, looking back hopefully at me with those big blue eyes of hers like she’s hoping I’ll just spin around in my chair, unzip my fly, and nod down at my cock, saying, “Well, there is
one more thing
you could take care of ...”

But instead, I simply shake my head and say, “That will be all, Julia,” feeling a wave of relief when she finally turns and heads out of the office, leaving me alone at my desk.

Even thought I know she’d fuck me in a
heartbeat
she’s just not quite my type. She’s scatterbrained – always messing up my appointments, or forgetting to write them into my schedule at all. Some days, I don’t know why I don’t just fire her. But then again, perhaps the reason I keep her on is because, well, I don’t find her too
distracting.

And the kind of girls I
do
go for?

Let’s just say that they need to be more than just ‘pretty’. They need to be something
special
, too.

I wait for the frosted glass door to swish closed behind her, completely sealing me off from the rest of the large bustling open plan office, and then I turn once more to my computer screen, feeling a small charge of excitement shoot through me at the thought that someone suitable might finally have answered my ad ...

I log into the totally private and secure email system and as it’s booting up, I take a leisurely sip of the gourmet coffee that I demand Julia brings me to start each morning, here at Whitelaw Enterprises.

The inbox loads – displaying the news that I have
seventeen
new applicants to the advertisement, and for a moment my heart does indeed leap with excitement.

But as I begin to open the email messages and actually
read
what these people have written, my hopes begin to sink again just as fast, just like always.

I should have learnt by now not to get my hopes up.

It’s just the usual mix: liars and crazies, all so obviously trying to sniff out a way to make an easy buck.

But as I’m reaching the second-to-last email I pause for a moment, reading and then
rereading
the simple, straightforward message on the giant screen of my iMac:

From:  [email protected]

Hi.

I read your advert. I’m not sure what you’re after exactly but I think I fit the bill. How do I apply?

Yours,

Alisha

I feel a quick flash of optimism, but at the same time try my hardest to ignore it. How many times have I been disappointed by now? Way too many to count ...

No, I need to remain calm. This girl’s probably just like all the rest – lying through her teeth. And anyway, I haven’t even
seen
her yet ...

I quickly click open a new tab on my computer screen, then log into the covert profile-searching software that I had to pay an absolute
fortune
to gain access to. I mean, this isn’t just some regular search engine. This stuff isn’t available to just anyone – this is top secret, Government-level stuff, and probably violating all kinds of privacy laws in the process.

Once I’ve got the software up and running, I enter as much information as I have on this girl – which is just her name, her email address – and then I hit the ‘search’ button, taking another sip of my coffee and sitting back for a moment in my chair as I wait for the software to do its stuff.

Within seconds, a high-resolution photograph has flashed up on my screen, along with a number of other personal details: where she works, how old she is, her employment history, her medical and criminal history, too (all squeaky clean), and her current address as well as all known previous addresses ...

But I can hardly draw my eye away from the photograph to pay attention to all this extra information.

It’s just a simple picture – probably taken by a friend on a sunny day out in a park. But it’s just perfect.
She’s
just perfect. Big brown eyes. Smooth chocolate skin. Glossy hair. Full sensuous lips. A cute button nose. And what looks like a
killer
body, too, from what I can see of it.

I lean in further towards the screen, feeling that all too familiar rush of blood – heading straight for my cock, which is already swelling and pressing painfully against the unforgivingly tight tailored suit of my pant leg.

Yes.

I think I’ve finally found her.

I think I’ve finally found my
something special ...

§

From: [email protected]

Hello Alisha,

Good to hear from you. I’d like to arrange an appointment. I want you to meet me at Friday at 5pm, at my office in New York. Please email me your cellphone number and I’ll have my assistant set it all up.

Marcus Whitelaw

§

From:  [email protected]

I’m sorry. I must have made an error.

You see, I saw this advert in the local paper here in Point Breeze, Philadelphia, where I live, and I
definitely
can’t afford a plane ticket to New York just to make a single interview. So for that reason, I’m afraid I will have to respectfully decline. Sorry to have wasted your time, Mr Whitelaw.

Yours sincerely,

Alisha Adams

§

From: [email protected]

Don’t worry, Alisha. Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough in my last email. My assistant will be in touch to arrange everything for you – including all flights, cars, and any accommodation you may require, all of which will be paid for by my company. You wont’ have to spend a cent. And I promise that if this works out, it will be
very
worth your while.

I look forward to meeting you on Friday.  Don’t disappoint me.

Marcus

 

Alisha

I hope I haven’t made a huge mistake.

Oh well, even if this meeting
doesn’t
work out and he turns out to be some sleazy horrible creep, I reassure myself, then at least I’ve gotten a free holiday out of it, right?

You see, this is the first time I’ve ever been to New York, and even just form the brief flashes of it I’ve seen so far, it’s everything I imagined it would be and more. It’s like being inside a film set: yellow cabs, honking horns, loud Bronx accents, and every type of person under the sun, all hustling and bustling about, as I watch it all from the wound-down window of my very own
private car
.

I know, right?

I still couldn’t quite believe it when I stepped off the flight, just a couple of hours ago, and there standing in the Arrival’s lounge was an immaculately dressed six foot white guy with a big cardboard sign, with
my name
written on it! It was like something out of a corny romantic comedy film, and that’s still how it feels right now, as I sit back and relax, as much as I’m able, on the plush leather seats, as the sleek, jet-black car glides effortlessly through the mid-afternoon traffic of downtown Manhattan.

As we drive, I check the hem of my skirt for any loose stitching. It’s not exactly like I had very long to throw this outfit together, and I’m hoping the edgy, modern design I settled on in the end will distract from any rushed sewing. After all, it’s not like I could afford to just go out and
buy
something new to wear, so a revamp of one of my tatty old work skirts will just have to do.

“Okay, Miss Adams,” the driver says in a soft, refined accent – treating me the same way as if I was some kind of freaking celebrity. “Here we are. If you head into the lobby and tell the receptionist you’re here for the appointment with Mr Whitelaw, she’ll make sure to do the rest ...”

“Thanks, um ... and what’s
your name?” I reply, sheepishly.

“Trent,” the driver smiles back at me, perhaps a little taken aback – like I’m the first person to ever actually talk to him like a regular human being before.

“Thanks so much, Trent,” I grin back at him, before stepping out of the car and heading towards the imposing building, set back from the busy street – the words Whitelaw Enterprises emblazoned on the tinted glass above its huge entrance.

I look up in awe at the crazy building – the daringly modern architecture, the way the tint of the glass lets on nothing about what might be going on inside it, not to mention the ambiguity of the name; because ‘Enterprises’ could mean almost anything, couldn’t it? – and then I think again about the wording of the advert, and in particular this time I think about the third line, the one that says:
You shall be
very
handsomely rewarded ...              

Could this finally be the lucky break I’ve been waiting for all my life?

§

Marcus

“Oh, come on!” Greg laughs, punching me on the shoulder. “I mean, when was the last time you let yourself blow off any steam. It’s just a few drinks, man. It’s just work, work, work with you. It’ll be fun. I mean, when was the last time you had any of
that
, right?”

Again, Greg explodes in laughter, and no matter how hard I try, I just can’t quite bring myself to join in. I just wish he’d
leave
my goddamn office.

If he wasn’t the son of one of my biggest investors, I’d fire him in a heartbeat. But no, I’ve got to keep his dad sweet, by employing this total imbecile.

I shoot a glance up at the clock. It’s nearly five o’ clock.

“Listen, Greg,” I say, “I’ve got a meeting at five. I’ll catch you on Monday ...”

“Don’t tell me you’re
still
pursuing Malchovic Finance?” he says incredulously. “Man, you don’t
ever
let anything go, do you?”

I shrug, letting him believe that my five o’ clock is business related.

“Well, old man, I guess I’ll leave you to it,” he adds, slapping me playfully on the back. “But if you change your mind, we’ll be at the Spearmint Lounge until late! Oh, and don’t forget – you’re
definitely
coming out for my birthday drinks next week. You already promised me that one, and I’m
not
letting you wriggle your way out of it, no matter what you say ...”

I give him the very briefest of nods, and then, finally, he leaves me alone in the sanctity of my office, with only minutes left to prepare before my meeting.

My meeting with
Alisha
.

I slip the contract I’ve had my private lawyer draw up out of the desk drawer by my thighs and give it a cursory glance – not that I need to.

By now, I know this contract by heart.

I just hope she lives up to my expectations.

Because I’ve got real
high hopes
for this girl ...

§

Alisha

I take a deep breath then walk as confidently as I can into the large lobby, which is just about as empty as the building I normally work in. I feel a twinge of guilt, as I think again about Monisha, sitting there behind the reception desk today on her own, probably bored out of her mind, believing that I’m currently home sick with food poisoning (which is the excuse I gave her when I called up first thing this morning). 

“Can I help you?” the girl on reception says as I step up to the counter. Her long blonde hair is immaculately almost impossibly straight and her icy blue eyes make no attempt whatsoever to hide the fact that she’s looking me up and down as if she’s never seen anyone like
me
in a high class place like this before, making no attempt whatsoever that she obviously thinks I’m
trash.

I push my shoulders back, take a deep breath, and say my name as loudly and confidently as I can. “I’m Alisha Adams,” I explain. “And I’m here for a five o’ clock appointment with Mr Whitelaw?”

“Oh,
you’re
Miss Adams?” she says, again making no attempt to mask her surprise. “You’re not exactly what I was expecting ... Well, anyway, take the elevator in the corner up to floor fifteen. Mr Whitelaw will be waiting for you in his office. It’s at the end of the corridor. I’ll call up now to let him know that you’re here.”

And with that, she turns her icy cold gaze away from me to the phone in front of her, picking it up and dialing through an internal call, her perfectly manicured glossy pink nails tapping and clicking against the plastic buttons of the phone, as I turn, somewhat shaken, make my way towards the elevators.

As I push the button and step inside, summoning floor fifteen, I wonder just what exactly she meant about me being
not what she was expecting
...

Does she mean she was surprised that I’m
black
? Or is there some other reason for her weird comment?

I look myself over in the mirrored wall of the elevator as it rockets me upward toward the fifteenth floor, hoping that I’ve not got some major wardrobe malfunction going on. But no. To my relief, my homemade outfit seems to be holding up okay.

And I’ve certainly chosen clothes to best show off my figure too – which, okay, might not be the most
curvy
or voluptuous you’ve ever seen, and if anything might be regarded as kind of skinny. But I’ve done the best with what I’ve got: the way I’ve re-sown this white silk blouse certainly shows off my small but pert breasts, and the cut of my redesigned skirt draws attention to my best asset, too: my ass.

I turn my focus to my face and hair, hoping to God that my makeup hasn’t smudged or my hair hasn’t decided to defy the straightening I put it through this morning and spring up at some crazy angle. But no, as far as I can see, everything is still remaining nicely in place – my hair staying straight and glossy, and my big brown eyes shown off pretty nicely with the cat-flick eyeliner technique I diligently followed to the letter this morning on YouTube...

Just then, the elevator pings loudly to announce that it’s reached its destination, and the brushed chrome doors glide open with a swish to reveal a long, empty corridor with a set of imposing frosted glass double doors waiting for me at the far end.

That must be Mr Whitelaw’s office
, I think nervously as I begin to walk slowly towards them. And as I walk, I wonder just what kind of a guy could want to spend a crazy amount of money on flying
virgins
in from all around the country just to interview them for ...
what
exactly?

I feel another sharp stab of worry, as it dawns on me all over again that I don’t even know what the hell he wants me for. I need to make sure I don’t get my hopes up here. Because he’s most likely gonna be some creepy, ugly old guy with more money than sense, who will no doubt will want me to do something really disgusting and gross ...

I’ve reached the set of doors by now – they’re just frosted enough that I can’t quite see through them, with a simple nameplate attached that reads:
Marcus Whitelaw, CEO.

I pause.

Do I knock?

Or do I just push them open and stride inside?

In the end, I decide on the first option, reaching out a shaky fist and knocking timidly, three times, on the cold hard glass.

“Come in,” a voice calls back – a surprisingly deep and sonorous voice, with just a hint of an accent that I can’t quite put my finger on.

I gather my nerves, my heart hammering hard in my chest now, as I push open the doors and step inside.

But even with every option I’ve considered so far, there’s one fact that I’m just not
at all
prepared for when I push open those doors ...