Page 3 of The Reluctant Billionaire

You should know my competence kink is as real as my manual labourer kink.

I bet he drinks beer only in pint format and never out of bottles. I bet he goes to pubs instead of bars and washes that thick, dark hair with shower gel instead of shampoo and would have to shave twice a day if he wasn’t growing a beard and doesn’t believe in foreplay.

Because, you know, he doesn’t need to.

I bet no woman has ever left his bed unsatisfied.

If he even bothers to use a bed, that is. He strikes me as an up-against-the-wall guy. Or a bend-you-over-the-table guy, which, you know, also works well.

You'd think someone who runs a real, live property development company would be well used to seeing builders. And I am, of course.

But not builders who look like this.

I know what I don’t want in a man. Anymore, anyway. I don’t want a guy whose facial schedule is more gruelling than mine or who won’t fuck me because he ‘needs’ to spend time behind his LED mask like Hans, my most recent ex.

But I’m not sure I could have articulated exactly what Idowant in a man until this second.

This.

This is what I want.

Not as an actual boyfriend, you understand. That would be ridiculous, because I suspect our Venn diagrams of acceptable date venues or attire will never meet in the middle.

But as a hot-as-fuck fuck.

With eyes that have already melted my panties, because I swear to God I have never seen eyes like his.

I’ve been told by several adoring suitors that my eyes are mesmerising, and I’ve always been happy to believe it, but even I can admit I have nothing on this guy. Whereas my eyes are big and brown and usually heavily made up, his are the most unique colour I’ve ever, ever seen. They’re icy blue, but with improbable golden flecks, which sounds like it should be weird and is in reality perfection.

He’s coming towards me, and I stand there like a total muppet and gape. His hair and beard are so dark I’d say he’s either Irish or Mediterranean. Probably Irish, if that silver Celtic cross around his neck is anything to go by.

Those crazy, hypnotic eyes are so heavily lashed it’s just plainrude. All his hair is lustrous. Chest hair. Head hair. Beard. Eyelashes, for God’s sake. Eyebrows. Forearms. What does one ingest for follicular health? Is it carrots? Or omega three? I can never remember.

Whatever it is, Neanderthal Drill Man must be mainlining it.

He transfers his enormous power tool easily to his left hand and wipes his right hand down the centre of his man-vest before holding it out to me.

Update: I’m gaping even harder now. Especially at the new, sweaty trail his hand has left between pecs that need zero extra definition.

‘Carlotta?’ he asks in a low, gruff voice that honestly has me hurtling towards orgasm.

‘That’s me,’ I squeak. I extend mine and take his hand, which is huge and warm, allowing it to close over mine. Every part of my nervous system goes crazy with safety cues and danger cues at the same time which I didn’t even know was a thing but, it turns out, definitely is.

His face falls as though I’ve just confirmed his worst fears. Rude bastard.

‘Aide,’ he admits, gun-to-his-head style. Begrudging, much?

But also: Aide.

Ahhh.

Aide is aperson. Who knew? I have hazy memories of Khal briefing me in the car on the way to a site visit last week, but as he talked I was manically answering emails on my phone, trying to diffuse and delay and delegate my workload ahead of this unnecessary and time-sucking fortnight.

Also, Khal, bless him, is selfless to the core and super well-meaning and also way too earnest and too fond of using his MBA-speak and therefore boring as fuck. Which means I listened to approximately two percent of his briefing, and theAidething didn’t feature in that two percent.

Obviously, had Khal showed me a photo of this guy, I would have been all over him.

It, I mean. I would have been all overit.