Page 32 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Aide

T oday should be the easy day. The fun day.

We’ve done the hard, back-breaking work, and now we get to reap the benefits.

To enjoy the part where we put all the new furniture and toys and games into the refreshed community centre and marvel at the transformation we’ve made.

There’s even a new air hockey table which Venus has generously donated.

It turned up yesterday out of the blue. The kids will lose their fucking lives over it.

The whole thing has Lotta’s fingerprints all over it.

The kids will see it tomorrow morning, when the sit-down breakfast service will recommence. God knows how Judy and Sylv will get the kids out the door in time for school. They won’t want to leave.

They’ll definitely have to keep the air hockey table turned off till the afternoon session.

So yeah. It should be a happy occasion. The team’s done a great job. We can be proud of ourselves. Between us, we’ve managed to keep a twice-a-day food service going from the play area while Lotta’s excellent team of professionals has turned out work of the highest calibre.

The room I’m standing in today is unrecognisable, frankly.

The new paint job and doors and fixtures have worked wonders in elevating the atmosphere to one of playfulness.

Optimism. Hope. Ian’s team installed massive cupboards which will now hide the majority of the necessary clutter, giving the kids more room to play.

Today, the clever new tables go in. They’re stowaway ones like primary schools use, with little round stools attached to them. Outside of mealtimes, they’ll flatten up against the wall of the hall like gym apparatus. They’re genius.

We’ve even got Gaz’s blood off the skirting board.

So I should be feeling less melancholy, less deflated, than I am.

Everything Lotta said in the car was right. I feel guilty, and I shouldn’t. I dislike the idea of Judy and Sylv and all our volunteers being left to manage things here while I swan off to run my multi-billion-pound empire.

I’ve been through this circular argument with myself a million times in my head.

Judy and Sylvie are both salaried. It’s not much, but they’re paid a respectable amount for the amazing work they do.

As Lotta said, they’re not measuring things by the same exhaustingly high standards that I am. They’re fucking thrilled, dizzy with excitement at the improvements in the centre. This, for them, is a huge win, and I need to remember that.

And I’m not bailing on them. I’ll still come and help out one afternoon a week, like I’ve always done.

I’ll be here to kick a ball around with the kids and catch up on how things are going at home.

At school. I’m still ploughing a lot of cash into this place, both personally and through Totum’s foundation.

It’s still a part of me. And I’m still a part of it.

Jesus. I should be glad to get out of here. Improved or not, it’s still fucking depressing. It’s still a reminder of what I endured as a kid. Of how far I’ve come. I should be putting as much distance as possible between me and this part of town.

But, as I told Lotta last night, roots are strong, stubborn fuckers, and it’s far harder to uproot yourself, reinvent yourself, than anyone ever gives you credit for.

It’s not?—

I lose all track of what it’s not, because at that moment, Lotta sashays past me into the kitchen with a smile on her face that’s aimed squarely at me, turning my brain to instant mush.

I follow her through to the kitchen, grabbing the pockets of her denim shorts as I catch her up and tugging that delectable little arse of hers firmly against my dick.

I couldn’t give a shit who sees us. I’m done playing games and hiding my infatuation with her.

Life is short. Today’s our last day working together. If I want to spend as much of it as possible with my hands on her, everyone’s going to have to deal with it.

She looks like a fucking supermodel. I was slightly concerned her morning routine would make us late, but she just ran a hairdryer through her hair for five minutes and dumped it all on top of her head in a big, messy pile.

Huge gold hoop earrings dangle against her slim neck, and worst of all, she’s wearing a t-shirt that may well bring me to my knees.

It almost led to round two when she put it on in my bedroom earlier.

It’s tight and white, with Chanel written across her tits in the sparkliest, most look-at-me manner possible. It’s written in gold sequins, for fuck’s sake. Worse, it stops far too high, exposing inches of flat, soft stomach.

I thought Lotta’s tits were my favourite thing about her. Now there are too many to count, but her skin is right up there. If I was a poet, I’d write sonnets to her skin. It manages to be creamy and tanned and glossy and so fucking soft.

I. Cannot. Stop. Touching. It.

Earlier, I sat on my bed and pulled her to stand between my legs so I could kiss that smooth belly of hers. Her skin feels like heaven to me. Like home.

Now I’ve secured her against me, I press a palm to said stomach, my fingers splaying out so my thumb brushes the hem of her top and my little finger toys with the button on her shorts.

Skin on skin.

There’s nothing like it in the world.

I bury my face in her neck and inhale the intoxicating combination of my shower gel on her skin as we shuffle to her beloved Nespresso machine. ‘Tell me you’ll put on your painting t-shirt shortly,’ I beg, my lips dragging over her neck.

She laughs and puts her hand on her stomach, on top of mine. ‘But we’re not painting today, darling.’

‘We’re doing stuff . This’ll get filthy. You’ll get filthy.’

‘Maybe you’ll have to come back to mine later and wash me off,’ she coos.

I tense in anticipation. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I didn’t bring a change of clothes.’

‘We have an overnight laundry service at Elgin.’ Her hand tightens over mine, and she pushes her arse back against me. ‘I can handle having you naked in my flat for a few hours.’

‘It’s a date,’ I tell her, tugging lightly at her neck with my teeth. That reminds me, I want to take her on a proper date. Something Lotta-worthy. So far, she’s had a drink in a shitty old men’s pub with me and the team.

I think I can do better than that.

‘Don’t forget to take that thing home with you tonight,’ I say about the Nespresso machine.

‘Oh God no. I got this for here. I have them coming out of my ears. Besides, Sylvie’s become addicted to the Vaniglia. I couldn’t do that to her—I’ve got a few sleeves of them on their way for her.’

She’s sweet. So sweet. And hearing her tongue caress a single Italian word like that, in the beautiful, melodic way it’s supposed to be spoken, almost makes me hard.

‘Will you speak Italian to me in bed?’ I ask. ‘It’s really fucking hot.’

She laughs and says something that’s unintelligible and husky and suggestive and absolutely perfect.

‘What did you say?’

She grabs a Nespresso pod and puts the little glass cup into the machine. ‘I said I’m going to bend over for you later and ask you in Italian to fuck me really, really hard and really, really slowly,’ she says seductively.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I moan, dropping my forehead to her shoulder. This woman is sex on legs. I can’t think straight around her. I’m barely surviving being outside of her body. God knows what I’ll be like tomorrow at work when I don’t get to touch her all day.

I might have to pay a visit to her office. Return the favour, as it were. I grin to myself as I rub my forehead on the cotton of her t-shirt.

‘Well, well, well,’ comes Gaz’s highly amused voice from behind me. ‘What do we have here, then?’

‘None of your fucking business,’ I say gruffly, but I make no attempt to extricate myself from whatever pheromones Lotta’s skin is emitting.

‘Morning, Gaz,’ Lotta says, sounding amused and a tiny bit self-conscious, which I really love. I wrap my other arm around her middle and squeeze.

‘I bloody knew it!’ Gaz says. ‘Oh shit.’

‘What?’ I mutter against Lotta’s neck.

‘I owe Judy twenty quid,’ he says. ‘She called it. Judith? Judith! Get in here!’

Lotta giggles.

I snort. ‘Jesus,’ I say. I turn us around and lift my head in time to see Gaz’s smirk. Whatever he’s lost on his little bet, I suspect he’s gained in satisfaction at catching us like this.

Judy appears behind him. ‘About fucking time,’ she says, looking us up and down. I can tell she’s trying not to grin. ‘Knew you two were fucking.’

Gaz tuts. ‘Language, Judith, language. Look at these two. Adorable. I might just have to…’

‘Nope,’ I say as he comes towards us. But it’s too late.

He envelopes us both in a massive hug, throwing his arms around me and squishing poor Lotta completely in the process.

He reeks of deodorant, which I should probably be grateful for.

I laugh, and she groans. Then Gaz moves his head so he can plant a big wet kiss on my forehead.

‘Fuck off, mate,’ I say.

‘I’m just so happy for you both,’ he says in a faux-emotional voice. ‘You’ll make such beautiful babies together.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Judy says. ‘Man the fuck up, Gaz.’

‘I can’t breathe,’ Lotta gasps between us.

I push out of his arms. ‘That’s enough, okay? And keep your hands off her,’ I add as an afterthought.

‘What’d I miss?’ Sylvie asks, barrelling in, vape in hand. I roll my eyes.

‘These two are an item,’ Gaz volunteers, right as Judy says, ‘They’re fucking.’

‘Oh!’ Sylvie gasps out the words. Her kind brown eyes are wide. Her lips press together like she’s trying to stop herself from beaming, and she puts her hand to her heart as she takes a tentative step forward.

Fuck’s sake. This woman kills me.

‘Get in here,’ I tell her with another eye roll, and I tuck her under my arm while pulling Lotta out of Gaz’s clutches. Lotta rests her head against Sylvie’s, and the older woman lets out a contented sigh.

‘I’m not missing this,’ Judy says, bustling over so she can get in on the action. She presses herself against Lotta. She only comes up to her shoulder.

‘Quite right,’ Gaz says. ‘We need to hug this out. The two most gorgeous human beings I’ve laid eyes on are humping. This is cause for a lager shandy later, Judith, my friend.’

‘Have some self respect,’ Judy tells him. ‘Lager shandy, my arse. We’ll have some of that expensive whisky Aide’s got stashed next door.’

I stand there and I fucking suck it up as my friends insist on hugging me and Lotta half to death.

I’d rather die than admit it, but I’m really going to miss this lot.