Page 15 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Aide

I corner her after our now usual lunch feast of ginger and turmeric juices and chicken-pesto-avocado wraps. And by corner, I mean I drag her into the office with me and shut the door behind us.

Just like yesterday.

She swapped out her lurid sweatshirt earlier for her black Venus painting t-shirt, and now she’s standing in front of me in that and those fucking cutoffs, arms crossed. I lick my lips as I look down and take her in.

It would be a lie to say I’ve stopped thinking about her since we were in here yesterday. Don’t get me wrong; I am far from celibate. I do alright for myself. But it’s not every day I allow myself to get into any of the situations I’ve already found myself in with her.

And by found myself , I mean thrown myself into headfirst.

Except for yesterday, actually. That one I didn’t see coming. Didn’t expect her to strip for me from the waist up and challenge me to feast on her and forget my troubles among her spectacular curves.

I certainly didn’t expect to have the fucking nipples I’ve tormented myself over all week in my mouth.

It’s pretty clear we have little in common. Our bank balances may be more similar than she realises, but our outlooks on life, our lived experiences, are worlds apart.

Even in a paint-splattered t-shirt, she still screams high maintenance.

The fine gold bands still adorn her slender fingers.

Her ponytail is long and sleek and perfect.

Her makeup is light but perfectly applied, to my eyes, anyway.

It enhances her huge, dark eyes and kisses her high cheekbones with a rosy blush.

She was beautiful aged sixteen, when her dad invited me to join his family for dinner at their Holland Park mansion.

Such an honour—such a milestone —for a piss-poor twenty-year-old from a London council house, but, it would seem, not remotely memorable for her.

Obviously, I wasn’t going to repay Paul Montefiore-Charlton’s mentorship, his faith in me, by hitting on his barely legal daughter and the apple of his eye.

Not that she would have given me a second glance.

But if she was beautiful then, she’s exquisite now. Her features are finely wrought, her colouring perfect. And, much as it pains me to admit it, I quite like her cockiness. It’s growing on me. She’s a stunner, and she knows it. She’s not coy or falsely demure—that would piss me off.

She owns it all. Her looks. Her sexuality. Her attraction to me, and her certain knowledge of my attraction to her.

Let me tell you, that is very, very hot.

And on top of all that, she may be less of a blinkered princess than I’ve given her credit for.

I take a step towards her. ‘Know anything about a certain shepherd’s pie that found its way into a couple of hungry bellies last night?’ I ask in a low voice.

Her face flickers with surprise. She wasn’t expecting that.

‘Maybe.’ She leans against the door and narrows her eyes, assessing me.

‘How did you know?’ I ask.

‘I was there the other day when you were talking to them outside. Sylvie filled me in afterwards.’

‘So you sent them some food?’

She shifts. ‘Yeah. Well, I had Judy sort it out cos she said she couldn’t share their address. But yep.’

Her gaze drags over me, from my eyes to my mouth and down to my chest. I’m already covered in sawdust and grime.

My vest is damp with sweat and my trousers have all sorts of crap on them.

But she’s looking at me like it’s all good, like every stain is a mark of my masculinity.

Like the dirtier I get, the more I do it for her.

Like she wouldn’t mind me dirtying her up, either.

Which is ironic, because with most women I fuck I’m wondering whether they’re just after my money. It’s refreshing to be objectified by this princess purely for my body and whatever bad-boy, bit-of-rough kink she’s decided I can feed for her.

Even if I’m not quite the rough diamond she sees me as.

I plant a palm against the door, next to her ear. ‘Well, thank you,’ I tell her. I look her in the eyes so she knows I mean it. I’m not messing around. That those kids touched her heart enough to galvanise her into action really fucking touches me . ‘It means a lot.’

‘I didn’t do it to suck up to you,’ she says, a note of defiance in her voice. ‘I did it for them.’

‘I know.’ I nod. ‘Even better.’

We stare at each other.

‘You and I have unfinished business,’ I tell her gruffly, dropping my eyes to that pink, plump mouth.

She lets her head drop back against the door. ‘If by unfinished business you mean you owe me the orgasm you promised me, then that is correct.’

I allow myself a smirk at her lack of filter. ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

‘But if you’re looking for a peep show today, you’ll be disappointed,’ she says blithely, ‘because I’m wearing your bra and it’s hideous.’

A flush rolls over my skin at the prospect of her wearing something intimate that I bought her, even if its entire, though impossible, purpose is to render Carlotta as unappealing as possible.

‘Show me,’ I say.

She raises her eyebrows at me.

‘I don’t mean strip. Just take off this layer—you’ve got something on underneath, yeah?’

She shakes her head. ‘Nope. Too hot. Just the bra of doom. If you want to see it, you do the honours.’

I lick my lips before moving in closer, picking up the hem of her oversized t-shirt.

She nods again. ‘Go on,’ she says, her voice amused.

That does it. I tug the t-shirt straight up and yank it off over her head as she raises her arms for me.

She’s in just the bra and her cutoffs now, and I survey the picture.

Fuck, the bra is ugly—a shiny, depressing beige with sensible, supportive straps and not a nipple in sight.

Still, it has her tits practically on a platter and it gives her one hell of a cleavage.

When I drag my eyes downwards, the soft, tanned skin of her stomach draws me in.

‘Grim, isn’t it?’ she says.

‘There is nothing grim about you, Carlotta,’ I say. ‘Nice cleavage.’

She smirks. ‘You’ve sucked my boobs. I think you can call me Lotta.’

I ignore the invitation. It sounds too matey for my liking, and there’s something about saying her full name that gives me a kick.

Instead, I run my knuckles over the skin of her stomach. God, it’s soft. So soft. Up and down I go, and she shivers.

‘Unfinished business,’ I repeat, watching her face.

Her bravado’s gone, and in its place is watchfulness. Need.

‘Mm hmm,’ she agrees, looking dazed. ‘Here?’

I laugh. ‘Nope. Up against a door with Judy on the other side isn’t really my style.’

‘Really?’ She pouts. ‘That’s disappointing. I really thought it would be.’

‘Because that’s what happens in your bang a builder fantasy?’

‘Basically, yeah,’ she admits with refreshing honesty and a total lack of shame.

Turns out being objectified is absolutely fine with me.

I dip my head so my mouth is inches from hers. ‘I need you in a bed, Carlotta,’ I tell her. ‘Naked. I need hours with you to do all the things I want to do to you.’

Her eyelashes flutter as she skims her gaze back over my pecs again. ‘I can—we can find a bed.’ She sounds breathless. ‘I thought this would be—you’d be, you know—quick and dirty.’ She shakes her head. ‘But, yeah, a bed is good. Great.’

I grin. ‘It won’t be quick, sweetheart. Not at all. But it’ll be very, very dirty.’

LOTTA

Because Aide is one of those self-controlled sado-masochists, and also, possibly, because he’s a nice guy who knows how to look after his team, he insists on buying everyone an end-of-week drink at the local pub before he and I can abscond for our slow and dirty evening of sin.

‘These are long overdue,’ he says as he hands pints of lager around to Gaz, Frank, Jack and Marc.

Sylvie and I have opted for white wine, which seems high-risk in a place like this, and Judy’s on the Bailey’s.

Aide requests bags of crisps and dry roasted peanuts, which is great, because I’m starving, and extracts a wad of notes from his wallet before peeling off a few tenners for the server.

I smile to myself. Such a cliché—the builder who gets paid in cash.

We’re all covered in dust and paint and grime, but no one in here seems to care.

In fact, no one’s spared us a second glance except for the server, who’s been eye-fucking Aide so hard while she pulled his pints I’m amazed they didn’t all overflow.

He seems totally oblivious, though. And I can’t blame the poor woman.

He’s absolute perfection. Standing in this dreary old man’s pub, surrounded by us lot and a load of randoms, he looks like a film star.

Seriously.

He looks like he’s just wandered off the set of those Diet Coke ads Mamma used to love, or like he’s getting ready to do a remake of Die Hard.

He just needs a machine gun strapped to his back.

Move over, Bruce. This guy has brooding action hero written all over him.

Even filthy and sweaty and exhausted, he exudes this leading-man magnetism that makes my jaw drop and my panties threaten to drop and my legs weak.

It’s everything. The beard. The incredible eyes. The mop of dark, sweat-slicked hair. That vest showing off those insane guns.

It’s the way he holds himself. His natural unselfconsciousness, like he has no clue how much he draws the eye.

As I watch him pass the drinks around our little gang, I marvel at the fact that, in an hour or two, I will be attending to some serious unfinished business with this guy.

Sex.

Hot, languid, sweaty, athletic sex, where the intensity of having Aide’s body wrapped around mine, and his eyes on me, and his dick inside me, may actually finish me off.

The anticipation, the tension, has been building since he took my top off earlier this afternoon.

His attentions to me have been subtle, but they’ve given me goosebumps every time.

He brought me an espresso earlier—unheard of.

He defended me when I suggested to Frank that we could (unfortunately) get this job wrapped up a couple of days ahead of schedule next week.

And he keeps touching me whenever he can.

A hand on my lower back as he guided me through the doorway just now.

Knuckles grazing my arm earlier when no one was looking.

The lightest pinch on my waist through my t-shirt.

His fingers brushing mine as he hands me my wine glass, those eyes sweeping over my body.

It’s like he wants to remind me what’s coming. Not that I could forget for a second what I have in store tonight.

‘Cheers,’ he says when everyone has their drink. ‘To all of you. Thank you for making this project possible.’

‘To Gaz, for sacrificing a finger for the cause,’ Judy says, holding her Bailey’s aloft. ‘Stupid fucker.’

We all laugh, and Gaz holds up a hand. ‘Now, now, Judith. Where’s your Christian charity?’

‘I’ve used it all up on those poor kids,’ she retorts. ‘There’s none left for idiots who don’t know how to use a nail gun.’

‘Happens to the best of us, mate,’ Marv offers. ‘I’ve seen more nail gun accidents than anything else in my twenty years on the job.’

Gaz clanks his pint glass against Marv’s. ‘ Thank you , my friend. See that, Judith? Nobody likes a beeotch.'

Sylvie’s eyes go wide as she brings her glass to her lips. ‘Children,’ she says when she’s taken a sip. ‘Why don’t we try to be grownups for an hour? Especially in front of these nice people who’ve helped us out all week?’

‘Nah,’ Gaz says. He rests an elbow on Judy’s shoulder, which is not difficult for him to do given he has at least a foot on her. ‘I’m going to get Judy drunk and then her filter will really come off. That’s when the magic happens. Let’s you and I get on the whisky after this, Judith, my love.’

‘You’ll be absolutely twatted if you do that,’ Judy tells him, wriggling out from underneath him. ‘I can drink you under the table. I could drink anyone here under the table except for the mighty Aidan Duffy.’

Aidan raises his pint to her and smirks. Amusement and arrogance are written all over that gorgeous face, and it’s hot AF. ‘Happy to meet that challenge anytime, Jude. Just say the word.’

Everyone’s laughing, including me, but there’s the funniest feeling in my brain. I feel dizzy. Ungrounded. Like the earth just shifted beneath me.

Aidan Duffy.

Aidan Duffy.

That name is familiar.

My lightheadedness is growing. I put my wineglass down on the bar. ‘Mind that for me, will you?’ I ask Sylvie. ‘I just need to make a call.’

I make my way outside as fast as I can, tugging my phone out of my handbag and typing in Aidan Duffy.

Oh my God oh my God oh my God.

It’s fucking him .