Page 14 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Lotta

T he distance between the centre and my flat is half a mile.

Far too short to justify a cab, especially on a gorgeous evening like this.

Even if my legs are threatening to give out on me after the manliest, gruffest, most rugged, most enigmatic man I’ve ever met has just now almost brought me to orgasm with the decadence of his tongue and the fire in those dangerous eyes and the filthily ominous threats in his parting words.

I can’t quite believe we just did that.

That is to say, I can totally believe that I just ripped my top off in front of Aide and got my boobs out for him. I’ve never done anything quite that shameless or brave before, but it’s not a massive step out of character for me.

No.

What I really mean is that I can’t believe Aide let me.

Went along with it. And then some . He may have been full of warnings—or promises—yesterday of the things he wanted to do to me, but I wouldn’t have expected him to follow up on them.

Not because he wasn’t as desperate as I was, but because he’s seemed so stoic and sensible and repressed all this week.

He’s one of those guys who takes the weight of every last thing, and every last person, on his shoulders.

What I didn’t see coming was that when that weight got too great, he’d snap. Break.

And he’d let me comfort him. Or distract him, more accurately.

I was as good as my word. I told him I’d give him something else to obsess over aside from poor Gaz’s accident.

Judging from the smile I put on his face and the bulge I put in his pants, I succeeded.

If he hadn’t said what he said as he left the room, I’d probably be feeling, not insecure, exactly, but pissed off. Wistful that something so good had been nipped in the bud so quickly.

But his gorgeous, growly don’t think I’ve remotely finished with you will go down in history as the sexiest thing any man has ever said to me, and it makes me think tomorrow will definitely be worth showing up for.

I don’t even know the guy, I think as I meander dreamily down the chaos of Ladbroke Grove, side-stepping hoards of kids in uniform who I assume just got out of school.

And yet, being the sole focus of his attention after just a few days of being fascinated by him, horribly attracted to him, was like nothing I can describe.

I suspect anyone who knows me would say I like the limelight, that I’m an attention whore, but this wasn’t like that.

I didn’t crave Aide’s attention to make a point or give myself a cheap thrill.

I didn’t think I had the remotest shot at getting any of his attention, to be honest, except in the form of the begrudging desire and overt disapproval he’s been dishing out all week.

But just now was more… special than that. It felt like a distinct privilege to be there, alone with him in his arms. His hands and mouth on me, his dick hard for me, and that look of rapture and hunger on me that was so intoxicating it could have brought me to my knees.

Literally.

He’s got this weird gravitas about him I can’t explain.

A quiet authority. A way of making people sit up and pay attention.

He draws people to him—I’ve noticed we all want to be in his orbit.

He’s just a normal guy, doing a normal job, yet it’s not only me who feels it.

Gaz hero-worships him. Sylvie and Judy clearly adore him.

And I’ve known from the second I laid eyes on him that he’s someone you don’t forget. Someone special. I suppose the term I’m looking for is Big Dick Energy.

It’s not just his outrageous, ridiculous looks, or his size (generally speaking, not his dick size, though I have my suspicions on that front).

It’s him.

And for a few blissful minutes just now, I got to be the one he focused those icy, mesmerising eyes and that elusive approval on.

I got to be the one who nearly unravelled him. And I would have, if Sylvie hadn’t unwittingly cockblocked us.

I would have climbed that man like a tree.

I allow myself a cat-who-got-the-cream smile, even though I’m the opposite of satisfied. I’m turned on and frustrated, my erogenous zones throbbing and my head spinning with salacious fantasies about how it would have been with him if we hadn’t been interrupted.

My plans for this evening are now to spend serious quality time with my vibrators.

AIDE

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ I demand as Gaz breezes into the main hallway.

‘Try and keep me away, my friend,’ he says.

‘You’re injured. Go on, get out.’

He holds up a cartoon-style bandaged finger. ‘It’s amazing, but they say I’ll live.’

‘Ha fucking ha.’ I put down the skirting board I’m mitring so I can give him my full attention. ‘You’re a liability. Can’t have you on a building site when you’re injured, mate. You know that.’

He scoffs. ‘Come on. It’s not a building site—it’s a basic refurb. I’m fine.’

‘A basic refurb where you shot yourself with a nail gun, you incompetent twat.’

He has the grace to look embarrassed about his utter ineptitude.

‘I know. I’m a nob. But I’ve taken two weeks off work, haven’t I? Just give me a paintbrush or something. I can’t sit around at home.’

I sigh. Gaz has indeed taken two weeks’ holiday from driving lorries so he can help out. I know how dear he holds this place—just like we all do. And he can’t do that much damage with a paintbrush.

Can he?

‘Fine.’ I bark. ‘Painting and nothing else. If I see you going anywhere near a single power tool, there’ll be hell to pay.’

‘Got it,’ he says cheerfully. ‘I’ll hang out with the girls. They love my chat.’

By girls , I assume he means Carlotta and Judy. I glower at him, but before I can say anything, Carlotta’s upon us.

Speak of the devil.

‘Heyyy!’ she cries, throwing her arms around Gaz, who hugs her tightly and winks at me over her shoulder. ‘You’re back! How’s the finger?’

‘Pretty grim,’ he tells her as he releases her. ‘I actually fainted when they were stitching it up.’

‘You poor thing!’ she coos as I roll my eyes behind her back, because boy will Gaz milk this for all it’s worth. ‘I’m not surprised. How long were you in there for?’

‘Eight hours, all in. Fucking brutal. Judy was a doll. She bought me a couple of Toffee Crisps from the vending machine.’

‘Shouldn’t you be at home?’ Carlotta insists. So far she’s completely failed to acknowledge me, which would be bad enough if she hadn’t had her tits in my mouth last time I saw her.

‘I’d be bored shitless,’ he says. He jerks a thumb at me. ‘And Stalin here says I can stay if I stick to painting.’

‘Oh, goodie! You can paint with us,’ she says before turning and deigning to acknowledge me. ‘Morning, Aide.’ She flashes me a coquettish smile that I don’t return.

‘Carlotta.’ I nod curtly. She’s in a bright pink baggy sweatshirt made all the worse by a massive Versace logo printed all over the front of it.

At least she’s still got the cutoffs on.

I’m a big fan of those. The very brief encounter my fingers made with the soft underside of her arse cheek yesterday is emblazoned on my mind.

Among other things.

Suffice to say I did not get much sleep last night.

‘Who’ll put the skirtings on?’ Gaz insists with the confidence of one who’s too fucking stupid to understand when he’s pushing his luck.

‘I will,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Or one of the guys. They’ve pretty much finished the bathrooms.’

‘I can help,’ he says. ‘I mean, I can tell you where to put them.’

I give him my most exasperated glare. ‘I think I can manage. They’re skirting boards. It’s not rocket science.’

He shrugs. ‘You’re the genius. Go for it.’

‘Your blessing means the world to me,’ I tell him, and I sweep past them both towards the kitchen. I’ll never admit it, but that Nespresso machine is a godsend.

I find Judy bending Sylvie’s ear in the kitchen.

‘What’re you doing here?’ I ask her. ‘You should have slept in. What time did you get home—midnight?’

‘Something like that,’ she says. ‘But you know me, the older I get, the earlier I wake.’

I gather her up into my arms. She’s so tiny she barely comes up to my chest. ‘Thanks for staying with him,’ I say gruffly into her hair.

‘Now, now.’ She clasps me around my middle and pats me hard on the back. Judy gives excellent hugs. Always has. ‘He’s a good boy. You’re both good boys. All’s well that ends well.’

‘Was it bad?’ I ask, releasing her. ‘At the hospital?’

‘It was a total shitshow.’

‘Apparently it was an hour before they even triaged him,’ Sylvie says.

I shake my head. ‘Jesus.’ Our NHS gets stretched thinner and thinner every year. I don’t know how we’re still limping along. If ever I developed a serious masochistic streak, I’d go in and sort the whole circus out for them. It needs such a huge overhaul it’s not funny.

‘How are you finding the new kitchen, Sylv?’ Judy asks her as I amble towards the Nespresso machine and stick in a pod.

Sylv runs a loving hand over the stainless steel work surface. ‘It’s a dream come true. It makes everything so easy I could weep.’

I exhale as I watch the machine with bated breath. These fucking women. Asking for so little. Giving so much.

‘You two are the real deal, you know that?’ I say to my coffee cup. Carlotta even brought in a stack of those little glass Nespresso-branded espresso cups for us to use.

Course she did.

Sylv comes up behind me and slides her arms around my waist. Her head rests against my back. ‘And you’re our favourite secret softie, isn’t he, Jude?’

‘I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,’ Judy pronounces. ‘He’s a keeper.’

Sylv sighs into my back. ‘Marry me.’

‘Let’s do it,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve got expensive lawyers. I’m sure we can get around the bigamy thing.’

‘I’ll take Ray if he’s going spare,’ Judy says.

Ray is Sylvie’s husband of, I dunno, twenty-five, thirty years. He has a few inches on me and he’s built like a brick shithouse.

Sylv laughs. ‘I couldn’t do that to him. You’d eat him for breakfast.’

‘Don’t joke,’ Judy warns. ‘You know I’d eat that man for breakfast every morning. He’s delicious.’

I groan, but Judy’s words trigger something I’ve been meaning to ask Sylv.

‘Connor and Kate thanked me for their shepherd’s pie this morning,’ I say over my shoulder. ‘They said it was yum. I hadn’t a clue what they were talking about. Ring any bells?’

Connor and Kate Jones are basically carers for their mum, and I know they’re not eating anywhere near as regularly as they should. I sent them over some pizzas the other day, after they told me they couldn’t get here for dinner, but I haven’t sent them anything since.

She releases me, and I turn to face her. She’s eyeing me up thoughtfully, as if weighing her words.

‘What?’

‘I have a feeling I know where that shepherd’s pie came from,’ she says.

‘You?’

‘Nope.’ She shakes her head and purses her lips together. ‘I’d ask Carlotta.’

Carlotta?

What the hell does she have to do with it?