Page 27 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Lotta

I t’s clear from the moment Aide’s driver, Andy, steers us up his driveway that this is more than a home for him.

It’s a sanctuary.

Okay, so it may be the polar opposite of my opulent, over-decorated flat (I am my mother’s daughter, after all) and not to my usual taste, but I can see exactly why he’s gone for the aesthetic, the vibe, he has.

I’m beginning to understand that this success, and the lifestyle and demands that come with it, don’t sit well with Aide. He seems naturally introverted, so it makes sense that he’d build himself a refuge.

In fact, it makes me feel better just knowing he has this place to escape to.

The weird thing is how familiar everything about Aide’s home is before I even step foot in it.

I recognise the signature of Venus’ architectural team everywhere.

In the seamless bank of Crittall and glass doors to one side.

In the shallow gables. The impeccable finish whose very simplicity screams quality.

I feel a stab of pride at the beauty around us.

It never gets old, seeing our work. Dad may have built his company from ones and zeroes, but I like things.

I like having something concrete to show for my efforts.

And what’s better than buildings that house all manner of human experiences and stand the test of time far long after we’ve passed?

Aide’s house may scream Venus , but the look and feel he’s gone for is all him. The way the structure interacts with the softly landscaped grounds in which it stands feels far more organic than most of the intimidating steel-and-glass blocks of flats we tend to build back in the city.

We usually like our creations to stand out, but this masterpiece’s success rests on it fitting into its surroundings.

Our hallmarks are even more apparent when we head inside.

I take a few steps into the airy, double-height entrance hall he ushers me into, an instant and overwhelming sense of peace hitting me.

It’s in the light. The tinkle of running water.

The abundance of plants. The way he’s left the space alone and unfurnished to just be .

The polished concrete floor is spectacular. The curved wooden banister of the stairs has a lustre so beautiful I want to run my palm over it.

This man may still be mostly a mystery to me. But it’s obvious that he’s exactly where he belongs. That he’s built a home whose authenticity, and serenity, and understated profundity reflect the same qualities in him.

Most notably, it’s rock solid.

Just like him.

‘Shower?’ he asks me now as we stand side by side. ‘Or swim?’ There’s a hint of shyness masquerading as offhandedness in his voice, and it strikes me that he probably doesn’t bring too many people here—especially women he doesn’t know all that well (in the non-Shakespearean sense, anyway).

I lean into him, twisting my face up to his so I can smile coquettishly. ‘I didn’t bring a bikini.’

‘You won’t need one.’ He grazes my lips with his before looping his hand around my waist and leading me through the majestic living space into the huge kitchen. He’s been like this since we left the community centre. Attentive. Affectionate. He held my hand the whole way here in the car.

‘I want a full tour, too,’ I tell him, looking around curiously. I’m itching to check out every inch of our handiwork.

‘Sure,’ he says, ‘but maybe after we’ve eaten, because I know once I get you in my room I won’t let you escape easily.’

The kitchen’s gorgeous. Again, I recognise Venus’ signature touches, but this room has a more organic feel to it than most of our kitchens, which tend to be shiny and attention-grabbing and heavy on the appliance porn.

I suspect a few of our clients never actually cook in their own kitchens—the spaces are often showpieces.

Aide’s version, meanwhile, has vaulted ceilings and off-black handle-less cupboards.

The work surfaces are gorgeous slabs of poured concrete, and above the main island hangs a wooden shelf, suspended on chains from the vaulted ceiling and bearing a riot of greenery whose tendrils cascade over its sides.

The overall effect, once again, is of bringing the outside in.

He opens a cupboard door concealing a giant fridge and grabs two bottles—a beer and a white wine.

‘Greco di Tufo okay?’ he asks, and I hide a smile. I wonder if it’s a coincidence that he has his fridge stocked with Italian wine.

‘Wonderful,’ I say airily, leaning my elbows on the island as he deftly uncorks the wine and pours me a generous glass. He cracks open his beer and clinks it against my glass before leading the way through one of the open French doors.

The trees and plants in the garden still have a way to go before reaching maturity.

This must only be their second or third summer.

That said, the garden is gorgeous. There’s a massive weeping willow that must’ve preceded the house by decades.

The lawns aren’t overly manicured, and the flowerbeds are a jumble of heavenly purples, blues and whites.

I spy hydrangeas, delphiniums, anemones. There are fruit trees galore.

It feels like a proper English country garden that’s miles and miles from London. My blood pressure is dropping just by being here.

The pool is tucked away behind a fence concealed by a laurel hedge.

‘Were you not tempted to have it nearer the house?’ I ask, thinking he’s missed a trick. It would be amazing to have it over by the kitchen terrace.

He unfastens the gate bolt and holds it open for me. ‘Not really. If I have kids, I want to know they’re a hundred percent safe when they’re running around outside. I couldn’t relax if there was a pool bang in the middle of the garden.’

‘Makes sense,’ I say, but my heart goes pitter-patter.

This man kills me. Of course Aide designed this place with a family, and the safety of his unborn children, in mind. That’s the kind of guy he is. I should have seen that coming.

He wants to look after everyone.

To keep them safe.

It’s his entire MO.

Hidden or not, the pool is spectacular. It’s lined in grey slate and surrounded by a flagstoned area featuring my favourite type of sun loungers - heavy and wooden, with deep white mattresses.

There’s a matching daybed at the far end, its huge mattress covered with scatter cushions and sheltered by billowing sheets of white muslin.

On every lounger is a perfectly placed rolled-up towel with thick slate-grey stripes.

A huge wicker basket neatly stacked with more matching, rolled-up towels sits next to the first lounger.

Beyond the flagstones lies a thick lawn, on the other side of which is a sizeable, bad-ass pool house. Built in the same brick as the main house, its front boasts a line of Crittall French doors similar in style to those leading from Aide’s kitchen.

So this was the structure that caused all those paperwork headaches for my colleagues.

Looks like it was worth it.

Next to it is an epic summer kitchen with a bar, an absolutely enormous barbecue, and a glass-fronted drinks fridge. I suppress a smile. It’s reassuring to know my ascetic fuck-buddy spends his money somewhere. Even Aide Duffy isn’t immune to the charms of boys’ toys.

‘I bet you have some good parties here,’ I observe, putting my wineglass down on one of the sturdy wooden tables dotted between the loungers.

He lowers his beer from his lips and rakes his eyes over my body before he answers. I’ve ditched my painting t-shirt and am instead in another pair of cutoffs, given the heat, and the same Barbie vest as earlier.

‘Mmm-hmm,’ he says, ‘but none as fun as the party you and I are about to have.’

Challenge accepted, darling.

I raise an eyebrow? ‘Is that so?’

‘Most of my parties don’t feature beautiful, naked women or happy endings,’ he says, strolling towards me.

He put his vest back on for the car journey home but is still in his football shorts.

It’s a testament to this guy’s Big Dick Energy that he can seem so powerful, so menacing, in such casual clothes.

‘That’s very presumptuous,’ I say, standing my ground.

He reaches me and wraps a strong arm around my waist, hauling me to him. I look up and smirk. He’s so fucking hot, with that strong, beard-covered jaw and those melting blue eyes. I don’t stand a chance.

‘I forgot to mention the happy ending’s for you ,’ he says in a low growl, dipping his head so his lips are millimetres from mine.

My breath hitches, and I allow myself to swoon a little, because come on. ‘Now you’re talking.’

‘I already had my happy ending. It’s your turn.’ He slides a finger under the strap of my vest and strokes my skin. ‘Now strip. ’

Before I can tell him the night is young and he most certainly has more happy endings coming his way, he’s releasing me and stepping backwards, a grin on his face that’s hungry and expectant and hot.

I salute him. ‘Yes, sir.’ And with that, I peel off my top to reveal my matching bra, and his grin turns even more wolfish.

‘It’s amazing how tolerant you are of my bras these past few days,’ I muse as I unbutton my shorts and slide them down my legs to reveal the bottom half of my very cute matching set.

‘Risk-reward,’ he mutters.

I pause with my fingers on my bra clasp. ‘Oh, yeah?’

‘Yeah. Lose the bra, Lotts.’

‘How so?’

‘The stakes have changed. Before, it was all downside for me, having to deal with those nipples in my fucking face all day.’

I unhook my bra and let it fall from my body. ‘These nipples?’

His eyes darken, and he shakes his head in defeat, his gaze riveted to my boobs. Basic as fuck. God bless him.

‘Yeah.’ He takes a step towards me. ‘But now I get to see your bras, and take them off your beautiful body, and suck on those tits whenever I like, and?—’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say whenever you like, but I take your point.’ I bat my eyelashes and hook my thumbs through the sides of my pink thong. ‘You were saying?’

I pause, and he blinks. ‘Huh?’

‘Something about risk-reward.’ I put the poor man out of his misery and slide my thong down my legs, stepping daintily out of it. I grab it with a finger and toss it to him.

‘Yeah. Um.’ He stares at my nearly bare pussy with its immaculate strip of hair as he balls my thong in his hands. ‘The risk-reward’s in my favour, now,’ he mutters. ‘So I can handle it.’

I beam at him and put a hand on my hip. ‘Spoken like a true entrepreneur. Your turn, Mister. Get them off.’

Instead, he looks down at my balled-up thong and brings it slowly, deliberately to his nose. He inhales deeply, unhurriedly, and my mouth falls open, because this dirty bastard is hot as fuck.

‘Mmm,’ he groans before lifting his head and tossing my thong on the nearest lounger.

Then he’s stripping off his vest and tugging down his shorts.

Merely watching him take his clothes off is a joy.

Skin coming into view, muscles flexing, abs contracting, dick hanging heavily between his legs. He’s already nursing a semi.

The man is a living work of art, and I am here to pay homage.

He’s on me with no warning, lifting me up against him.

I wrap my arms and legs around him and nuzzle into the crook of his neck, revelling in the skin-on-skin contact.

The air out here is far less sticky than it was after a day of trapped heat building in central London.

Here it’s heavenly: warm with a light breeze.

The perfect conditions for a skinny dip with my sex-on-a-stick hottie.