BILLIONAIRE (Part 5) (5 page)

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.”