Page 10 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Lotta

A ide slips back in through the front gate as I’m ruminating.

He’s taken off his hoody and is holding it in front of him like a weird bundle.

It’s a bit odd, but I don’t think much about it because I’m far too busy ogling the fine, fine view that is him in his vest top and work pants.

He looks even hotter when he has his tool belt on, but I can handle him without it, too.

There’s a fine sheen of sweat on his skin.

It glistens on his arms, enhancing the sculptural beauty of his delts and biceps and making it hard for me to think about anything except licking a trail through it.

He turns to look at me, and the cross so perfectly nestled against that dusting of chest hair glints in the sunlight.

Maybe God’s reminding me not to have carnal thoughts about this poor man. My nonna would definitely say so.

Now might be a good time to confess I’ve been taking as many photos as I can for Venus’ social media, mainly fly-on-the-wall shots, and would you know, a lot of them have turned out to be of Aide?

Aide wielding a power drill.

Aide handing out breakfast bags. (I didn’t snap the kids. I’m not that awful.)

Aide’s muscles flexing as he helps carry the enormous old industrial oven out of the kitchen.

I may or may not have spent over an hour studying the Aide-porn at home last night, a glass of chilled and well-earned Gavi in hand.

‘We were just telling Lotta about our escapades at school, mate,’ Gaz informs him now.

Aide raises an eyebrow. ‘None of it’s true,’ he tells me with a straight face.

‘Shame,’ I say, ‘because you’ve definitely gone up in my estimation in the last ten minutes.’

He rakes his sweat-dampened hair off his face, and I swoon a little. ‘How so?’

‘It sounds like you were a lot more fun in those days,’ I say archly.

‘I was a lot more fucked up, that’s what I was.’ There’s an ominous undercurrent to his tone.

‘That’s what I said,’ Judy says. ‘And look at you now. We’re all so proud of you.’

‘Thanks, Jude,’ he says, shooting her a small smile. He makes as if to leave us to it, but Gaz stops him.

‘Mate. Remember when we stuck the plastic forks all over Mr Hell’s pitch?’

Aide’s smile turns real in an instant, and his entire face lights up. ‘Fuck, yeah. That was the highlight of my academic career. Jesus, he was such a wanker.’

‘He didn’t have an issue with you,’ Judy reminds him.

‘He treated Gaz like shit, though, so that’s all that counts,’ Aide says.

‘Because I was fat as fuck and crap at sports,’ Gaz says.

‘Doesn’t matter. He made your life a living hell, and he needed some of his own medicine. Oh my God—remember the Rice Krispies?’

He claps his free hand to his mouth, still clutching his bundled hoodie like it’s a newborn baby with the other. Gaz gasps and shakes out his wrist.

‘Fucking hell, mate. That was magic. ’

‘I lied about the forks,’ Aide says. ‘The Rice Krispies were the best moment of my life.’ He turns to me, his expression animated.

‘So Mr Hell used to make us play sports in all weather, yeah? Even when it was pissing it down. He was such a twat. But he’d always bring this massive golf umbrella along to keep himself nice and dry. ’

He shakes his head at the memory, and I smile despite myself.

I love seeing him like this. Lit up from within.

‘God, that used to piss us off no end. What a tool. So, one day we had rugby training, and the weather was shite, and we knew, right, we just knew Hell would make us get out there and play. Jesus, the pitch was totally churned up—it was like something out of The Battle of the Somme. I think it was double PE after lunch. Did we sneak into his office at lunch, Gaz?’

Gaz nods, looking pleased. ‘Yes we did, my friend, yes we did.’

Judy presses her lips together and shakes her head primly, like she wants to be disgusted but, in fact, knows she will be tickled pink by this retelling.

‘So we find his umbrella,’ Aide says, hitting his stride, ‘and we open it up and empty in a whole box of Rice Krispies.’

He’s beaming now, while Gaz has already lost it. He’s bent over double in his chair, shaking with laughter. I giggle.

‘We close it back up and fasten it nice and tight, right,’ Aide says, miming the action, ‘and we leave it. So then, after lunch, we’re all filing outside for rugby and it’s fucking horrible—like, seriously pissing it down—and Gaz and I are just watching.

And waiting. And sure enough, Mr Hell puts his umbrella out, all self-important and smug, and opens it. ’

He pauses for effect, and the rest of us wait for the punchline. Everyone except Gaz, that is, because he’s still laughing uncontrollably against his thighs.

Aide gestures with his hand. ‘And they go fucking. Everywhere. All over him. All over the ground. He starts screaming, and he kind of shakes out the brolly, and kids start shrieking as they get hit with Rice Krispies. But it’s chucking it down, right?

So the ones all over his head and shoulders go instantly soggy.

’ He chuckles like he’s recounting his favourite childhood Christmas.

‘And they all stick to him. He’s covered in all these soggy things that look like warts.

Hundreds of them. It was, hands down, the best thing I have ever seen. ’

‘Oh my God,’ I say, shuddering and laughing because that is just grim beyond belief. ‘They must have gone down his top, too.’

‘They did,’ Aide agrees cheerily. ‘They went everywhere. He had to go and have a shower, and he called his wife to bring in some fresh clothes for him.’

‘Did you guys get caught?’

‘Nope.’ He winks at me conspiratorially, and the earth stills on its axis for a moment. ‘I mean, he knew exactly who it was, but he could never prove anything.’

‘Best prank I’ve ever heard,’ I tell him, earning myself another devastating smile. Let me tell you, when this guy lets go and enjoys himself, it’s truly beautiful.

I wish he’d do it more often.

As if he can read my mind, his smile vanishes, and it’s as instantly chilly as if the sun’s just gone in.

‘I need a quick word.’ He jerks his head towards the building.

‘Okay,’ I say, unfolding myself from my chair. Uh oh. Aide avoids me like the plague, so if he wants to talk to me then he probably has a gripe.

‘Good times, mate, good times,’ a barely recovered Gaz says to him as he passes. Gaz holds out his hand, and they high-five before gripping each other hard.

I follow Aide inside and into the small office next to the kitchen.

We’ve made good progress these past couple of days.

The main interior already looks airier without that dreadful yellowed pine panelling.

The floor in the big hall is wooden and in good shape, so it’s staying.

Painting and decorating will make up the bulk of the next week’s labour.

We may even finish up early. Weirdly, the thought depresses me, mainly because I won’t be able to ogle this arse when I’m back in my office.

Not that I’ll miss his personality.

‘What’s up?’ I ask as he closes the door behind us.

He burrows under his bundled-up hoodie and thrusts something into my hands that I realise after a second is a small Harrods carrier bag.

‘I got you something and I need you to wear it tomorrow,’ he says. ‘It doesn’t have to be a big deal, so don’t make it one.’

I stare at him, gobsmacked, then down at the bag. ‘Okay,’ I say slowly.

Aide has bought me something to wear.

From Harrods .

My mind is racing. So’s my heart rate. I have no idea what it could be or what I’m supposed to do with this new information.

He nods curtly at the bag. ‘Go on.’

I peek in and see only tissue paper. Carefully, I pull the package out and put the bag on the counter so I can use both hands to unwrap the tissue. It’s really light. I open it.

It’s a bra.

A bra that may be the ugliest, most industrial-level undergarment I’ve ever seen.

I gape at in confusion and then up at him. He’s quiet, those pale blue eyes watchful.

I fling it at him. ‘What the fuck is this?’

‘It’s a bra,’ he says, attempting to put it back in my hands, but I hold them up in a back off gesture. ‘It’s for you.’

He’s lost the plot. He’s actually insane.

‘It’s hideous, and you have no place buying me a bra. This is totally inappropriate. And also, you know, really creepy.’

‘I need you to wear it,’ he says, and I’m amazed to hear the pleading tone in his voice. ‘Seriously, Carlotta, I need you to put your fucking tits away, properly, in a proper fucking bra, once and for all. Or I’ll?—’

‘You’ll what?’ I say. My voice is shaking, which is no surprise, because my entire body is also shaking. I’m trembling with rage, and shock, and the intimate, affronting and totally bizarre nature of this interlude with a man I do not know and yet feel uncomfortably attracted to.

He lets those eyes of his drift closed for a second.

When he opens them, he looks straight at me.

They’re as pale as ever. As beautiful. But instead of their usual ice I see heat.

‘I’ll be in very grave danger of doing something so fucking inappropriate that this, right here, will seem about as tame as a royal garden party. ’

I swallow and press my thighs together. We’re so close. We’re a foot apart, max, and in these damn trainers I’m several inches shorter than him. I can smell him—sunshine, and sweat, and a kind of earthiness, and good, honest laundry liquid. I bet he shuns cologne, but he doesn’t need it, anyway.

He smells incredible just like this.

‘What would you call fucking inappropriate? ’ I ask in a small voice.

He shrugs, but there’s nothing offhand about his voice when he speaks. If anything, he sounds hungry. Starving.

His gaze flicks from my eyes to my mouth to my boobs and back up again.

‘I’d stick a chair under the door handle and sit you up on that desk,’ he says, ‘and I’d pull off that stupid top.

And then I’d slide that fucking useless sports bra off you, and I’d feast on your beautiful, beautiful tits.

I’d go to fucking town on them. I’d lick those mind-blowing nipples of yours, and I’d suck them, and pull at them till you came just from that.

Because I know you could. I have no doubt I could make you come. ’

Our eyes are locked. My boobs and my clit are growing heavy, achy, at the mere thought of Aide ministering to them like that, with so much hunger and desperation. At the thought of sitting there, bare-breasted, while he devours me. Ravages me. Of taking everything he has to give me.

His voice is lower and rougher than I’ve ever heard it, and yet it feels like a caress. Hearing this stoic, gruff man put graphic, sensual language to the dark attentions he’s dreamt about lavishing on me is too much.

I can feel his mouth on me.

I can sense the wet warmth of his tongue, his lips, on my nipples. The pulls of his fingertips on my sensitive skin.

I can imagine the noises both of us would make.

I know just how it would be between us.

But even better than the picture he’s painted is the knowledge that I’ve driven him to this.

Me.

This guy gives nothing away. He’s as closed off as they come, from what I’ve seen. But, somehow, my boobs and I have worked him up so much in the past three days that we’ve driven him to go to a department store, buy me an actual—if revolting—bra, and express his darkest fantasies to me.

That’s almost headier than what he’s threatening to do to me if I don’t wear the bra. And yeah, it’s definitely a threat, not a promise.

Unfortunately.

I stare at him. He’s breathing hard through flared nostrils, and we’re so close I can feel the faint warmth of his breath on my face.

I wish I could reach up and drag my fingers through that dark, neatly clipped beard. Rake them through his hair. Pull his head down to mine and tug that full bottom lip between my teeth.

But he’s made it clear that, for whatever reason, he is intent on not pursuing anything akin to that scenario with me.

Probably because, aside from my tits and my looks, he finds me utterly dreadful.

Although none of the above means I feel remotely compelled to play fair. So I open my mouth to say what I want to say, because we’ve pole-vaulted way over the line of appropriate now.

‘I have no doubt you could, either,’ I tell him. ‘And if you made me come like that, I’d definitely let you jizz all over them afterwards.’

His face contorts as if I’ve actually kneed him in the balls.

‘Fuuuuuck,’ he grits out, and it’s so anguished that my pussy echoes its pain.

I arch what I’m aware is a perfectly groomed brow at him. ‘I bet you’d like that,’ I whisper seductively. ‘Wouldn’t you? Imagine shooting your load all over my amazing tits. Imagine your cum dripping off my nipples.’

Yeah.

I’m mean.

More than mean. Evil.

But he can’t just pull me into a room, and order me to wear a grotesque bra while describing in graphic detail how he wants to make me come by sucking on my boobs if I don’t wear it, and not expect me to fight back.

Hard.

He has no idea who he’s messing with here.

I give as good as I get.

Also, it’s just plain annoying. Because in the time it’s taken for us to have this pointless argument and unsuccessful, unwelcome gift-giving attempt, we could probably both have made each other come.

Those gorgeous black-lashed eyes drop to my boobs again, and he groans. He stuffs the bra and its nest of tissue back into my hands and waves a finger in my face.

‘And that is precisely why you need to wear the fucking bra,’ he barks, before wrenching open the door and storming out of the room.

I’m not sure if he realises he’s just given me the best pitch of all time on why I shouldn’t wear the fucking bra.