Page 92 of The Reluctant Billionaire

And on the rug.

We made it to the bed at after that first attempt and fucked twice more. I swear something shifted last night for both of us. Maybe it was being on our first official public engagement together. For me, seeing him up there on that stage, making everyone in that vast museum fall in love with him and his heart and his vision, was the best kind of turn-on.

Knowing a guy with Aide’s undeniable magnetic pull wants to come home to me, wants as much of me as he can get, wants me so badly he fucks me right there on the floor, is on a different level entirely. It makes my heart swell so much in my ribcage that I might burst.

Every day, it seems I uncover more of this man’s essence. He’s layered like no one else I’ve met. Nuanced. And a little damaged. But the parts of his soul that I know still hurt are the same parts that make him good and real, that give him depth and spur him on.

He still carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. Everyone can see how much good he does, but it’s never enough for him.

It’ll never be enough.

And if I’m someone who can help him forget those burdens, if he can find peace and relief and oblivion and ecstasy in my arms, then I am the luckiest, most privileged girl in the world.

Because whether he’s shooting his load inside me, or smiling down at me, or simply letting that dangerous mouth of his roam over my body, he’s choosing to see me as a safe place to lay down his worries and allow himself to indulge.

To be.

And there’s nothing on earth like knowing I can give him that.

I would give this man everything if I could.

Everything.

That gets clearer every day. I’m falling so hard for him. My feelings are a never-ending vortex, every layer he uncovers for me sending me deeper into this abyss of white-hot lust and adoration. I mean, the physical side is actually insane. Yeah, I’m a physical creature. I enjoy touch. I have a healthy sex drive.

But I’ve never been like this—so utterly addicted to another human being that I would crawl under his skin if I could, that I can barely function when he’s not inside me. I’ve never felt so clearly like heaven and earth are colliding as I do when I’m with Aide. In his orbit.

I’d say I’m in trouble, but it’s the best I’ve ever, ever felt. The happiest I’ve ever been. And, while we haven’t talked about our feelings outright, I’m growing quietly confident that he’s not immune, either. He doesn’t strike me as an emotionally slutty guy or someone who’d lead me on. On the contrary, he’s straight as a die. And he’s been doing an admirable job of not letting my shallow, extravagant lifestyle freak him out too much.

In fact, I bit the bullet and asked what I’ve been wanting to ask him for days now. The thing I was afraid would have him running for the hills, because it really, really could.

I asked him to be my date to Elle Hart and Josh Lander’s fabulous, star-studded wedding at Noah’s parents’ chateau in a couple of weeks.

Basically, I was asking him to do everything he hated. Put on a tux (again), hang out with wealthy, entitled people in their wealthy, entitled bubble, make small talk, deal with unwanted attention, and not freak out over the—in his eyes—excess he’ll bear witness to for the entire weekend, even if I know Elle and Josh will put on a classy and gorgeous and dreamy few days for us all.

I was also, it turns out, asking him to miss the kids’ party the community centre is throwing to celebrate the start of the summer holidays, which I feel awful about. The irony of asking my gorgeous and deserving, if reluctant, billionaire, to forgo an event that close to his heart to party with the rich and famous isn’t lost on me.

But you know what?

He said yes.

CHAPTER 35

Aide

‘There was an article about us in thePosttoday,’ Lotta says. ‘Did you see it?’

‘Nope.’ I put my finger in my cold war thriller and close the book over, twisting onto my side so I can give her my full attention. We’re sprawled next to each other on the huge sofa on my terrace, our stomachs full of Maggie’s excellent barbecued chicken and salad. I’ve been lying on my back, a few scatter cushions stuffed behind my head.

Lotts is on her front in a t-shirt and those obligatory cutoffs, bare feet up and waving in the air as she devours some mafia romance with a terrifying-looking guy on the cover. She told me the plot. It sounds fucking awful, except for the bit where she mentioned I’d make a brilliant mafia boss and that maybe we could do some role-play where I kidnap her and fuck her brains out.

I’m not sure what fucked-up part of me really likes the sound of that, but it does, and I’m game if she is. Shouldn’t be much of a hardship.

It’s a low-key Wednesday evening. We’ve had a quiet week socially so far, but we fly to Toulon on Friday for this bloody wedding, so I’ll take my quiet, intimate evenings while I can.Lotta is more excited than I’ve ever seen her about the wedding, and that’s saying something for a woman as naturally effusive as her.

Between the couture dress she’s had made for the ceremony, and the uni friends she’s looking forward to seeing, and the A-list celebrities who may or may not show up, she hasn’t stopped talking about it. While I love seeing her like this, I certainly can’t muster up much excitement about a celebrity wedding. It’s bound to be a total fucking circus. I just hope babysitting my sorry arse won’t be too much of a shag for Lotts.

I am, however, very much looking forward to escaping the circus on Sunday and absconding to an idyllic boutique hotel near St Maxime with my stunning girlfriend for twenty-four hours of, hopefully, nudity.