Borrowed Billionaire #4 Under the Sea

Description:
Lexie's going on vacation with her best friends ... and sexy billionaire Luthor Thorne. They meet at a resort in Indonesia, where they dive below the sea, and enjoy each other. Danger threatens to tear them apart, or bring them closer together.
Length:
13,700 words, or 55 book pages long. This is the fourth of a 5-part series.
Spice Level:
Erotic romance. This story contains super-hot sex, M/F. For adults, 18+ only.

What did I do after Luthor Thorne left me in the pitch-black restaurant's private room, with coffee all down my shirt? I got out my cell phone and used the flashlight app as a night light. The room wasn't even painted, can you believe it? There was primer on the walls, by the look of it, but you could see all the seams from the sheetrock. And I had to wait in that ugly room for five minutes.

After four minutes and fifty-nine seconds of glaring at the shoddy décor inside the room, I was out the door. People yelled at me for having my phone on, lighting up their dark dinner, but I didn't care. I wanted out. Now.

Instead of going home, I gave the taxi driver Suzanne's address, and I went there.

Her husband opened the townhouse door, took one look at me, and decided he was going to stay in the den watching TV.

I had bits of food and coffee all down the front of me, my skirt was wrinkled up, and I looked like hell. Suzanne dabbed her finger on my blouse, smelled her finger, and said, “Chocolate. And something else. Pear?”

“Pretty much,” I said, taking a seat on a stool at her kitchen island.

She put on the kettle for tea and said, “You're dressed up fancy. Don't even try to pass this off as the pool boy. There's no way you'd let a pool boy—” she waved her hand up and down me “—do
this
to you.”

“Luthor Thorne.”

She blinked, and then, slowly, she nodded. “The walk-in closet. Yes. I knew I shouldn't have sent you on that job. That woman who works for him, Grace, she was asking the strangest questions. Even had me email her a photo of you.”

“That witch!”

Suzanne shuddered and rubbed her arms. She was not a very big girl, and with her small frame and dyed-red hair, she looked like a little doll in her oversized kitchen. “I feel dirty,” she said, then whispered, “I gave that man
phone sex
.”

I pointed to the dessert I was wearing. “Yes, Suzanne, clearly you're the party who's been wronged. Tell me, Suzanne, what can I do to make you feel better.”

“Shit.” She grabbed the whistling kettle and poured the tea. “I'm sorry. Tell me what happened. Some sort of food fight? You don't seem drunk. How did this happen?”

So I told her everything, from our unconventional meet-cute at the mansion, to Mr. Luthor Thorne telling me about the strange bet he'd made with his assistant, which had him unable to see a woman for months. I continued the lurid tale, right up to our date earlier that evening. We'd had dinner at the dark restaurant, which he owned, and then sex, also in the restaurant, then he'd left me there to find my way home.

Suzanne said, “And then you showed up on my doorstep.”

“I need help, and it was either you or my mother.”

“Your mother would have been an expensive cab ride.”

I smiled. “Exactly.”

Suzanne grabbed the milk and sugar and took a seat beside me. “Here's what you're gonna do,” she said.

I left Suzanne's feeling a little better. Suzanne was only slightly older than me, but she was married, so that made her an expert. She was also a really good friend, and she made me feel better just by being my friend. By my calculations, I had to be pretty special to deserve a pal like her.

On Monday, I was back to my regular job, my regular life, which didn't involve dating billionaires, but organizing the junk of millionaires.

I was at Mrs. Chong's helping sort the woman's collectibles when Suzanne called me on my cell. Mrs. Chong made a comment about young people and their phones, but she let me take a break.

“He called,” Suzanne said, sounding excited. “He tried to book you for an organizing job on a yacht. I told him you refused to work for him and offered to send someone else.”

“Suzanne!” I yelled. “A yacht? I've never been on a yacht.”

“Lexie, we never discussed a yacht scenario! I did as we agreed and told him no. Now, don't be weak. What would your mother tell you to do?”

I sighed. “
Let him come to me
.”

“Exactly. She used to tell me the same thing. That's how I got my proposal. The thing is, I'd already given up and started putting together an online dating profile—”

“Stop! For the love of clean towels, Suzanne, I adore you, but I don't want to hear your proposal story again.”

“Oh.”

“Wound. Salt. Single girl here. Single and horny.”

“Why
are
you always so horny all the time?”

I clicked the door shut on the bathroom I was hiding in to take the call. “I'm probably a nympho.”

“Nobody says nympho anymore. It's called sex addiction, and you can go to rehab for it now. Like David Duchovny.”

My pussy was aching. It must have been the idea of the yacht. Of being on a yacht, out on the ocean, with Mr. Luthor Thorne bringing me margaritas and then pulling off my white yacht trousers. We'd be on the deck of the boat, bathed in sunshine glaring off the white surface, and I'd sip my margarita as he licked the salt from my body, hands moving up, tongue moving down …

And David Duchovny would be there, looking all hot and kinda old but still sexy, and he'd say something sarcastic, and then Mr. Thorne would invite him to take over. Then Mr. Thorne would be watching, a giant bulge in his white yacht trousers, as the handsome movie star dove between my legs and …

A woman's voice said, “Lexie. Are you even listening?”

I snapped out of my daydream. The phone was still at my ear, held up with my shoulder, and I had both hands down the front of my jeans.

“I'm not a sex addict,” I snapped as I pulled out my hands. “Sex is a natural urge. You don't call someone a food addict just because they get hungry now and then.”

“Do you want me to call Mr. Thorne back and tell him you'll go meet him on his yacht?”

“Yes.”

“Congratulations, you're a sex addict.”

“Eat a dirty butt,” I said, and I hung up.

A few minutes later, I sent her a text message:
Sorry for losing my cool. Thanks for looking out for me.

Ten minutes later, when I was elbow-deep in Mrs. Chong's collection of Royal Family memorabilia, being strangely aroused by an 80s-era plate with a dashing Prince Charles on the surface, Suzanne wrote back:
I'm currently negotiating a better offer from Mr. Thorne. I've thought it through and you can use the money. I'll set aside a portion of my commission to pay for sex addiction treatment for you after.

Me:
WHAT? AFTER WHAT???

Suzanne:
Can't talk. Busy. Will let you know.

After a long, grueling day organizing other people's things, I returned home. Suzanne hadn't returned my calls, and my condo seemed to be holding its breath, waiting. Everything was still. The rooms all seemed an inch smaller, and older.

The intercom buzzed.

I ran to it excitedly, answered breathlessly. “Yes?”

“Alexis, this is Mrs. O'Hara. I seem to have forgotten my keys.”

Of course. I guess I'd been expecting Mr. Thorne, or a delivery from him, like when he'd sent me the dinner invitation. As I took the elevator down to help my elderly neighbor, I considered how time plays tricks on memories. After I'd been ditched at the restaurant, having been
rode hard and put away wet
(in Grace's equestrian terms), I'd been so pissed at Mr. Thorne. But now, thinking he could have been downstairs pressing my buzzer, my passionflower had blossomed in my panties, just at the possibility.

Indeed, talking to Mrs. O'Hara while I was walking her groceries into her condo, hyper-aware of my engorged labia rubbing deliciously against each other, was a mix of pleasure and annoyance.

She showed me the cyst she'd had lanced, and still, I couldn't get turned back off again. I kept thinking about Mr. Thorne and that sexy body of his. He wasn't as thick and muscled as my friend Jacob, the fireman, but he was graceful. The man knew how to move.

When he'd been behind me in the dark restaurant, thrusting in and out, I'd tilted up, opening myself more to him. I wanted him deep inside me. I wanted to see his face as he came, make him say my name, kiss me, forget everything in the world but me.

Dear old Mrs. O'Hara knew something was up. She chided me for trying to put her crackers in the fridge and took them from my hand. “Man trouble?”

“Sorta. It's fine. Just the usual.” I was reluctant to discuss my love life issues with her, as she'd only lost her husband a year earlier, and I didn't want to bring up painful memories.

She opened a box of cookies and offered me one. “The technology has changed, but the heartbreak, the nerves, the anxieties, that hasn't changed at all. So, what's the issue? Is he dating multiple girls or just commitment phobic?”

“He's very rich.”