Page 29 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Aide

D ark curls on my white pillowcase.

Smooth, tanned limbs against my sheets.

Slender, ring-adorned fingers interlocked with my thick, work-roughened ones.

I scarcely dare admit, even to myself, how good Carlotta Montefiore-Charlton looks in my enormous bed.

Or how good it feels to be lying next to her.

The evening is warm enough that the French doors to my terrace are open, the bedsheet draped low on our hips as we lie on our sides, two commas facing each other.

Athletic fucking after an equally hard day’s work has worn us out. I’m impressed I had the energy and the stamina to put in a decent performance after all those keepy uppies I did, but Lotta’s willing mouth and beautiful, dangerous body seem to galvanise a guy.

We cooled down from that unbelievable fuck with another dip in the pool, followed by dinner on the terrace. Maggie had left out an array of salads and tuna tartare that we ate while wrapped around each other on the huge, modular outdoor sofa.

The food recharged our batteries sufficiently that we managed another round just now, the glow of whose aftermath I am currently wallowing in like a spaniel in a puddle.

Contented is not the word. It’s as if a master masseur has spent the evening walking up and down my body. Every ache is gone. My muscles, usually aching after a day at the community centre, feel loose.

And best of all, my mind is clear.

If I behaved like a fucking animal on that daybed—literally, a fucking animal, unleashed on the most beautiful, captive prey I’d ever encountered, this last round was an exercise in restraint.

In taking it slow.

Letting Lotta open herself up to me while I enjoyed every inch of her body and fucked her so hard and slow that I had her screaming for me to put me out of her misery.

I liked that a lot.

If Lotta is the kind of woman it’s impossible to look away from at the best of times, then being the one she allows to see her come undone feels like an unfathomable privilege.

This time, I wedged a pillow under her arse and stayed above her, powering into her till I thought I’d go mad from the desire. But holding off was worth it, because seeing her come undone as I kissed her felt like a front-row seat to the greatest show on earth.

Now I drink her in as she brushes her knuckles down the cleft between my pecs.

She’s loose too. Relaxed. Her face is soft, those huge eyes limpid with fatigue and, I hope, satisfaction. Her hair is less immaculate than usual, thanks to our swim and, I hope, my manhandling of her. It makes her look younger. Less the worldly businesswoman she usually is.

Much as that version of her captivates me, this one entrances me just as much in ways that, frankly, scare me. Because when it’s like this, just the two of us in a bed, every last difference between us seems stripped away and all that remains is her and me, laid bare for each other.

And the problem with that , the reason it’s dangerous, is that then I forget exactly why she’s not the type of woman I can or should or will go for, my heart focusing instead on all the ways in which she’s perfect for me.

This, therefore, seems like the appropriate moment to remind myself that it’s not my heart doing any of the focusing.

Nope.

When my heart gets involved, it’s because those kids from the centre aren’t going to get fed tonight, or because Sylvie’s slaved away long enough in sub-par conditions and deserves a new kitchen, or my oldest and most extroverted friend is lonely as fuck driving those heavy goods vehicles day in, day out and could benefit from being included in a project.

Those are all excellent examples of me thinking with my heart.

Right now, I’m thinking with my dick. With my monkey brain that’s so orgasm-addled it can’t think straight. Lotta has dazzled me and the others from the get-go.

That’s what she does.

She waltzes in and blinds us all with the force of her beauty, and glamour, and fucking relentless good-naturedness, and her seeming and, honestly, irritating ability to see only the positives in life.

It’s an ability that’s only possible for someone who’s never been disappointed.

She is a wonderful, impressive, successful product of the privileged bubble she’s been raised in, and none of us stands a chance against it.

Against her.

If Gaz and the guys knew about me and her they’d have a field day. Sure, Gaz is smitten in a boyish-crush kind of way. He’d be tickled as fuck if he knew I was messing around with Lotts.

But come on.

I’ve already done enough. Moved on while trying to keep everything that makes me me intact.

Tried to always remember my roots. And for the most part, I’ve been semi-successful, except that I’ll never again know financial worries.

Even that feels like a betrayal of my family and friends.

Of the community and culture and values and moral codes I was brought up with. That form the backbone of who I am.

Lotta’s hand twists between my pecs, her fingertips running higher until she’s holding my crucifix.

‘Tell me about the cross,’ she whispers. Her eyelashes cast shadows across her cheekbones, and for a moment I’m transfixed.

‘It’s a Celtic cross. Mum bought it for me when I was christened.

They’d been on a pilgrimage up to Holy Island—Lindisfarne, up in Northumberland—just before they conceived me, and Mum’s always been convinced that’s why I came along.

They were having problems getting pregnant before that.

Anyway, they named me after St Aidan and St Cuthbert, who were the two early Christian saints who made the island famous. ’

Her face opens up like she’s just had a revelation. ‘Ahh. I wondered why your middle name was Cuthbert?’

‘How’d you know that?’ I ask, and she looks shifty.

‘Wikipedia, I think.’

I laugh and slide my hand up the smooth arc of her spine. ‘Stalker.’

‘When people lie to you about who they are, Aidan ,’ she retorts, ‘you have to take matters into your own hands.’

We lie there, grinning at each other like idiots.

‘So, all this roots stuff is important to you.’ It’s not a question.

‘Suppose so.’ I pause. I’ve over-thought this topic so much in the past decade, as I’ve been on my crazy journey, but it’s hard, and sometimes painful, to articulate it.

‘I think roots are important for all of us as human beings—we latch onto them. But I also think when you have very little, maybe you make them a bit too important.’

‘How do you mean?’ she asks, shifting closer and releasing my cross. Her hand drifts over my shoulder and down my arm, and I like how good her easy touch makes me feel. How safe.

‘Well, take our family. We had no fucking money.

Nor did any of our neighbours. So you cling onto other stuff.

Tradition. Cultural identity—Mum was second generation Irish and Dad was first generation.

He moved over as soon as they let him leave school.

I dunno. Religion. That played far too big a part in our lives for our liking.

‘Also things like… reputation. Shame. Pride. Dignity. Values. Codes of conduct. When you don’t have much, you live and die by how you act.

Poverty can make people strong and resilient, but often it brings out the worst in humanity, too.

That neighbourhood I grew up in was just petty.

No one wanted to see anyone else doing better than them.

Getting out. It wasn’t fair. It was resented. ’

She purses her lips. ‘So you’re saying you had nothing but your roots, and who you were and who your family was informed your whole identity, and tough shit if you didn’t like that identity because you didn’t feel you had the right—or maybe even the currency—to change any of it? Nor did you feel you could leave?’

I laugh, but there’s no mirth in it. ‘Something like that, yeah.’

‘Fuck, that’s depressing. It’s like the song Common People.’

That makes me grin properly. ‘If I’m Jarvis Cocker, you know who you are in that song, right?’

‘Fuck off. But also, obviously .’ Her fingers run up and down my arm. ‘Where’s your dad now? I haven’t heard you mention him.’

‘He died a few years ago.’

She really does have the most expressive eyes. Face. The way she’s looking at me almost undoes me.

‘It’s okay. He was sick for a long time. Got sick after my brother, Pete, was born. MS. He couldn’t work. Not really.’ I let out a heavy sigh. ‘Mum was a nurse, but she also took care of Dad until I was old enough to help.’

Her beautiful dark eyes narrow. ‘Wait. You were your dad’s carer?’

I exhale. I really do not want to make a big deal out of it.

‘Yeah, but not full-time. They never let me miss any school. But Mum’s shifts were all over the place, so yeah, when I was older I had to step up so she could earn her salary.

Even then, she ended up going down to part time because it all just got too much once Dad lost the use of his legs. ’

‘Jesus,’ she groans. ‘Is that why you used to go to the community centre?’

‘It got us out of Mum’s hair when she was at home,’ I say, ‘and when she was at work, it meant she knew we could pop down there for dinner and not go hungry. Judy is a living saint. That woman was like a second mother to me.’

‘I’m glad you had her,’ Lotta says softly. ‘Thanks for telling me. I’m sorry you had a shitty time of it.’

‘It wasn’t unhappy,’ I say, anxious to make her understand.

‘It was just… stressful. I worried about stuff that I wouldn’t want my kids worrying about, and I saw my mum upset a lot.

I’d never want that, either. But honestly, I’m amazed she didn’t fall to pieces.

It was a lot for her to deal with. She’s so fucking strong. ’

‘It must be amazing to know you can look after her now,’ she says, and I roll my eyes.

‘You’d think so, right? But she’s also fucking stubborn. And she refused to move away from this area. So she’s in a better house, but it’s nowhere near as nice as I’d like her to have.’