Page 17 of The Reluctant Billionaire

Her irritatingly jaunty ponytail hides nothing.

Her front and back view are now even more affronting.

Killer figure in a skimpy, strappy vest and yoga pants? Check.

Nipples that look likely to tear through the fabric of said vest any moment now? Fuckingcheck.

Nightmare sports-yogi-whatever-bra peeking out with zero protection in the front and a zillion of the most alluring, impractical teeny straps criss-crossed over the tanned skin of her upper back in a way that would make anyone want to go full caveman?

Check.

Check.

Check.

I can’t do this. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, but I can’t be in the same building as her when she looks like that. I can barely even think straight.

Seestraight.

Mum would say I’m going blind from too much wanking.

She may not be wrong.

My dick is chafed from wanking in the shower. In bed. Even my outdoor ice bath hasn’t helped alleviate my frustration.

I turn on my heel and stomp back to the kitchen for my phone.

‘I need to run out for an hour,’ I growl at the guys. We’re on the clock here, but needs must. Besides, we’re nearly done in here. The Venus team workshard.

Twenty minutes and one hired Boris bike later, I’m dumping the bike in front of Harrods and running inside.

‘Women’s underwear?’ I ask the doorman, trying to catch my breath. He looks me up and down in a way that’s more confused than snotty.

‘First floor, sir,’ he says.

‘Ta.’ I take off at a peg and climb the escalator two steps at a time.

Once I’ve navigated the warren of seemingly endless rooms of women’s clothing, I find myself in the bowels of the store, surrounded by lingerie. A cursory glance tells me Carlotta would look fucking amazing in all of it, and none of it is what I need in my life, and I will be requiring some serious help.

I look around again and spot a sturdy-looking older woman wearing a tape measure around her neck and a name badge that readsAudrey. She’ll do nicely. I already have a feeling Audrey will take me in hand. Help me through my misery.

‘How can I help you, sir?’ she asks, graciously ignoring my dusty trousers. I’m sweating in my hoodie after that frantic bikeride, but I suspect grimy vests aren’t welcome in Harrods so I’ll keep it on till I get out of here.

‘I’m looking for a bra,’ I blurt out.

‘Ah.’

We stare at each other.

She presses her lips together then, when I’m not forthcoming with further detail, says, ‘And will that be for yourself, sir?’

‘Jesus, no!’ I practically shout.

She raises her eyebrows at me in a schoolmarmish manner.

‘No,’ I repeat, more quietly this time. ‘For a… friend.’

For a gorgeous prick-teasenon-friend with fantastic tits and porn-star nipples who’s quickly becoming the bane of my—and my cock’s—existence.