Page 17 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Lotta

A s I press my fingerprint against the lift button in my building, Aide’s hands snag on the sides of my waist. He follows me into the lift, shuffling behind me so he can bury his nose and lips in my neck.

The mirror shows me in a state of dishevelment and early arousal as a gorgeous specimen of a man kisses my skin, one hand sliding around to caress my stomach.

He’s already doing everything right.

And I’m already in danger of losing my head and succumbing to him completely.

‘Nice place,’ he observes neutrally from behind me as I open the door to my flat. Technically, Gabe lives here too. He’s staying with me while he recovers from his divorce, but he’s in Paris this week.

‘Thanks.’ I bend to untie my basic-bitch Nikes before toeing them off by the door. As I said, I feel a damn sight less awkward about Aidan Duffy seeing my palatial pad than I would have done about Aide seeing it a couple of hours ago.

He’s crouched down and is taking off his steel-capped work boots.

As he stands, those shocking pale eyes trained only on me, I have a weird flash of self-consciousness.

But then he’s pulling me into him, one big hand splayed across my back as the other fists my ponytail, tugging my head back, and I sag, squishing my boobs and their armoured bra against his hard chest as he lowers his face and his mouth finds mine.

This is real. The attraction between us.

The need. The wet heat of his mouth as he coaxes mine open with his tongue.

The scrape of his beard over my chin as he angles my face just how he wants it and deepens his access.

I wrap my arms around him and hold on tight as I drown in the smell of his sweat and the faint taste of beer on his tongue and the slick bulk of his muscles under my fingertips.

I despise myself for thinking it, but no matter who this enigmatic guy is beyond these walls, right now I’ve got him all to myself, and it’s magic.

He’s got me wrapped up in his enormous arms, and he’s doing things with his tongue that make me need it between my legs, like, yesterday, and he’s growing so divinely hard against me that my head is spinning.

For the next hour or two, this will be all that exists. Him and me. And if I give him everything, I’m bloody well going to take everything I can from him, too.

‘Any chance of a shower?’ he asks against my mouth. His voice already sounds husky, and it makes everything clench between my legs.

‘Solo or together?’ I ask. Together. Together.

‘What do you think?’ He plants a lingering kiss on my lips. ‘Lead the way.’

I wriggle free of him and sashay off to the master bedroom, which is spectacular, if I say so myself.

I’m sure Aide’s been in many a woman’s bedroom, a fact I have no desire to dwell on, but he may never have seen anything quite this girly.

He’s going to look like some oversized cartoon beast ravishing the princess in her enchanted palace.

Come to think of it, that’s not a bad analogy for this situation. Nor an unappealing one.

My carpet is white. My bed is four poster and epic.

And my walls are papered in hand-painted De Gournay panels whose palest green backdrop showcases perfect pink cherry blossoms and green-gold hummingbirds.

It’s a work of art. In the main part of the flat, I went for pale colours and bold artwork, but here, in my sanctuary I’ve gone ultra-feminine.

I’ve gone similarly indulgent in my bathroom.

I’m not a huge fan of the current penchant for minimalist wet rooms. I wanted my bagno to echo the most spectacular penthouse bathrooms I’ve ever stayed in.

Shitloads of marble. Shiny chrome. Gorgeous sconces on the walls and flattering mood lighting, given there’s no natural light.

‘Come on through,’ I say, uttering a silent prayer of thanks to Venus’ lighting engineers as I select the button for low-level, sultry lighting.

The wall sconces come on low as do the spotlights around the base of the bath.

I know from previous encounters that this setting will showcase every shadow of every one of Aide’s beautiful muscles to perfection.

I crank the lever—old school chrome—to turn the shower on.

A torrent of water immediately hits the tiles of the enormous, four-person enclosure.

From my position by the vanity I watch Aide approach me in the mirror.

He puts his hands on the marble surround, caging me in, and presses his erection against my bum.

I wiggle shamelessly against his hardness, because boy does it feel amazing. Like the best kind of promise.

He meets my gaze in the mirror as tugs the band off my ponytail. When my hair is loose, he reaches up and runs his fingers through it. I have a lot of hair, but it falls lightly, thanks to its excellent cut and the bouncy professional blow-dry I had last night.

Aide keeps me pinned against the vanity with his dick as he arches his top half back slightly and pulls off his vest before planting his hands either side of me again. He’s tall enough and bulky enough that I have a good view of his bare shoulders above mine.

The mass of his body around mine.

The tantalising Celtic cross around his neck.

I bet it’ll hit me in the chin when he ranges over me and fucks me, again and again.

God.

I watch as he slides his hands towards my waist and gets a grip of the hem of my top. Up he pulls it, up and over my head. I shake my hair out.

He grimaces as he eyes up the bra he gave me. ‘You can burn this,’ he says as he unhooks it. Those eyes darken as he slides it down my arms and sees my boobs come into view in the mirror.

‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him. ‘I plan to. I only wore it to make a point.’

‘Point made.’ He reaches around and cups me. The warmth and the friction of those big, rough hands palming my boobs is so divine I shiver.

Slowly, deliberately, he runs the calloused pads of his thumbs over my nipples. We both watch in fascination through the mirror as they stiffen even more under his touch. I suck in a breath through my teeth at the perfect abrasion, as well as what a compelling picture we make.

We’re both dark-haired.

Both olive-skinned.

Both topless.

Aide looks so fucking huge and commanding, and I look petite framed in his arms. Pliable. He may only be holding my boobs, but my entire body and soul are in his hands right now. Beside us, the water thunders against the floor of the shower.

‘Look at you,’ he groans in my ear. ‘So fucking beautiful.’

‘Mmm,’ I manage, leaning back further against him and relishing the brush of his soft hair against the back of my arms.

‘What do you like?’ he asks gruffly, kissing along my jawline.

Clearly, I’ve already lost several IQ points, and the man hasn’t even brought me to orgasm yet. I tilt my head, offering him better access to my neck. ‘Huh?’

‘What kind of sex do you like?’ he clarifies. ‘Want to give you what you want.’

Oh.

I’m suddenly alert. Not only is he physical perfection, but he’s asking me for input up front? Perhaps he offers a menu of services? This man could definitely ace the gigolo thing if his billions turn to ashes.

‘Um,’ I say. I’m not backward about articulating my desires, but he’s caught me off guard.

He rolls my nipples between his fingers, and I grind my bum against his dick. ‘Come on. Don’t be shy.’ I detect a teasing note in his voice. Could Bedroom Aide be playful? Curiouser and curiouser.

I meet his eyes in the mirror. ‘Put it this way. I’m sick of dating rich twats who can never undo their years of all-male public schools. I want a real man who’ll throw me down and give me a good seeing-to.’

He may be a rich twat, but I bet he can handle some throw-down.

He raises his eyebrows and smirks. I can tell I’ve surprised him. ‘I thought you’d want to take charge. You’re such a pain in the arse during the day.’

‘Hilarious,’ I say with as much archness as I can muster given the man is massaging my boobs. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I can give you a running commentary, but I’d much rather I didn’t have to. Think you can handle it?’