Page 6 of The Reluctant Billionaire (Love in London #5)

Aide

‘ H ow’d it go?’ Andy enquiries twenty minutes later as he steers my brand-new Defender through the traffic-logged streets of Notting Hill.

My driver and all-round house manager picked me up a couple of streets away from the community centre.

Having someone drive me is one of those things that sounds wanky on the face of it but is in fact, like most of my choices, grounded purely in practicality.

I sigh and let my head fall back against the leather seat as I crack open a bottle of Pellegrino. ‘I dunno. Good, I think. We’re ahead of schedule. The woman running it from Venus’ side’s a piece of work, though.’

Understatement. I think back to our conversation just now. A conversation in which I transcended the bounds of decency so spectacularly that I’d be facing a lawsuit if we were in a formal workplace. There’s no explanation other than that she—and her tits—have driven me temporarily insane.

‘Is that Paul Whatshisname’s daughter?’ Sometimes I think Andy spends more time reading the Financial Times than I do.

‘That’s the one.’ I slug some water, the bubbles hitting the back of my throat with refreshing perfection. ‘Carlotta.’

Carlotta Montefiore Charlton. What a mouthful. Even her name’s high-maintenance.

He laughs. ‘Jumped-up little princess, is she?’

‘You can say that again.’ I take another swig. ‘She was wearing six grand trainers. On a building site. Fucking stupid.’

‘These people have no idea of the value of money,’ Andy says. ‘It’s indecent, that’s what it is. But you can’t be surprised when she’s grown up that minted. It’s different for you. You earned it. She had it handed to her.’

‘Yeah,’ I agree half-heartedly, wondering why slagging Carlotta off is sitting so uncomfortably in my gut. I’m not one to sit around and bitch, but people like her are so entitled it pisses me off. They have no fucking clue. Even if what they’ve built at Venus is impressive.

Beyond impressive.

That said, I have no idea if she’s just a pretty little figurehead or if she actually works hard. God only knows.

It’s time to change the subject.

‘You see Emma today?’ I ask Andy. Emma’s his first grandchild. I think she’s around six months old. His daughter lives not far away, and he and his wife, Maggie, are hands-on grandparents. Emma’s his pride and joy.

He grins at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘Yeah. She’s sitting up, all by herself. Can you believe it? She’s a right little sweetheart.’

He’s proud as punch, and it brings a smile to my face. I can’t remember when Woody sat up for the first time, but I suppose it must feel like a miracle when you witness your own kid or grandkid doing it. ‘Clever girl,’ I say.

‘She is. She’s bright, that one. You mark my words.’

We settle into a contented silence, and I begin to scroll through my emails.

Andy’s been working for me for over a decade now.

We met when one of my seed investors sent a car to fetch me for a pitch in Mayfair.

Andy was behind the wheel. I was bricking it, and he could tell.

He pulled over by Hyde Park and told me to take off my shoes and socks and go take a walk in the grass.

It did the trick. I pulled myself together, and I got the funding. I also kept Andy’s number and started to use him for one-off jobs. We spent more and more time together, and it felt only natural to ask him and Maggie to move into one of the cottages on my grounds when I had my house built.

When I had my house built by Venus , I should say.

I wonder if and when Carlotta will work that out.

Anyway, they live on-site now and they look after the place because, God knows, I’m not on the move enough during the day to warrant a full-time driver.

I already know I’ll murder whatever Maggie has cooked for me tonight.

My inbox is looking borderline manageable, thanks to my amazing Executive Assistant, Laetitia.

Tish. She monitors my emails with terrifying ruthlessness.

She monitors my entire life with terrifying ruthlessness.

No one gets to me on email, or by phone, or in person, without getting past her first. She has my diary organised in fifteen-minute slots, and we catch up every morning on any requests for my time that don’t automatically get declined.

Tish knows I just want to be left alone to do my job. I’d die for my team, I tolerate my investors, and everyone else can go to hell. Phone calls kill me. Zooms are a necessary evil that, again, get kept to fifteen minutes. My time is too precious and my attention span too short for anything else.

Slowly, slowly, I’ve built up a support network of people who understand the pressures I face. Who understand how unnatural it feels for me to have this public persona. How little interest I have in cultivating that persona. And who guard my time with ferocious jealousy.

I have my family, obviously, and I love them with all my heart, but they don’t always get it, and the money’s a constant point of discomfort, if not overt contention.

Mainly because I can never get them to take as much as I want to give them.

But Tish and Andy and Maggie and the others who form the inner circle of my personal and professional lives have my back, and I’d be in a fucking loony bin without them.

I collapse at the massive island in the centre of my kitchen and devour Maggie’s excellent Moroccan chicken as soon as I’m in the door, washing it down with a cold beer.

But I’m filthy and sweaty, and I need a shower before I go anywhere near my sofa or my bed.

I stick my empty bowl in the dishwasher and amble tiredly through my home and up the cantilevered staircase that floats through the centre of my entrance hall.

The staggering beauty of its simplicity never fails to hit me.

This home of mine is undoubtedly my haven.

Settling outside of central London, here in Osterley, has allowed me a serious footprint inside and out.

I can’t see another house, thanks to the maturing groves of trees we’ve planted around the perimeter.

My own house is built on two stories, and we went overboard on the lateral space.

My brief to Venus was to create as much space and light and fluidity as possible.

The rooms flow onto each other, punctuated by huge arches or double doorways.

The building faces east-west, and the reception rooms straddle it front to back, enjoying the maximum amount of daylight in both the mornings and evenings.

Above them, my master bedroom complex has a fucking enormous terrace where I spend as much time as possible.

In terms of materials, we went for only the most natural. The most sustainable. This is where I’m happy spending my money. This is where it feels right to invest.

I’ve made peace with the vast sums I sunk into this place.

I’m aware that being environmentally conscious is often the privilege of the wealthy.

And while I can’t stomach spending money on stuff, pointless objects to fill my home for the sake of it, I can get on board with investing in materials and pieces that are kind to our planet. That respect it.

That’s where the guys at Venus really excelled themselves, to be honest. I’m sure they have clients who demand gold taps and wall-to-wall marble, and I’m sure they do a great job for them.

But they were as strong on the fundamentals as they were on the design elements, and I can sleep easy knowing my home’s ecological footprint is as gentle as possible.

There are plants everywhere, too. That was another priority for me.

After growing up in a cramped, squalid part of London, I knew I wanted to bring the outside indoors as much as possible.

The polished floors of the ground floor, made from green concrete that’s far more environmentally friendly than traditional concrete, give way to numerous built-in planters of the same substance.

In turn, these planters are brimming with trees and plants.

There’s even a water feature in the hallway.

The sound of running water and the presence of living things both contribute greatly to my mental wellbeing.

When I’m at home, away from the frenetic buzz of the office and the relentless pull of everyone who demands my time, I want to be soothed. I want no distractions. No fuss.

Which is why there’s so little furniture, much to the dismay of my interior designer. There are a few amazing, oversized paintings. Smooth, abstract sculptures crafted from stone. And the odd piece of mid-century furniture. But not much else.

Every single item in my home has to justify its existence.

Just like I justify my own existence every fucking day.

I wish I could tell you my mind is quiet, stilled from hours of manual labour today, but that’s not true. It’s the opposite, in fact. My brain is busy and fizzing, and it’s not from the riot of emails I just processed in the car. It’s from my day at the centre.

It’s from dealing with that fucking woman.

I didn’t even have much interaction with her. She was in a different room for most of the day, to be fair. But she got under my skin in every possible way, and she’s still under my fucking skin even now.

And I do not fucking appreciate it.

I crank the handle in my shower, and a torrent of water hits the concrete floor of my wet room with gratifying force. Less gratifying is the reminder of my last verbal exchange with Lotta.

It sounds like the only person who needs a cold shower around here is you.

Jesus Christ. Much as I hate to admit it, she’s not wrong. I hate to admit even more that a good proportion of the friction in my brain just now isn’t anger or resentment or irritation.

It’s desire.

Because not only is she a knockout of the finest proportions, but she’s a firecracker. I mean, she’s fifty percent Italian and one hundred percent entitled, so it shouldn’t be a huge shock.

What’s a bigger shock is that I liked it.

I liked riling her. Getting a reaction. And I fucking loved the fact that she was eyeing me up too, even if I suspect her physical reaction to me pissed her off just as much as my carnal reaction to her did me.

The steam coming off the water tells me I’m good to go. No cold shower tonight. My tired, aching muscles need heat. I really am getting soft—need to double up on the PT sessions when this project is over.

I peel off my vest and unzip my filthy cargo pants. Jesus, I stink. Unfortunately, there’s one part of my body that’s not getting soft and it’s my dick.

Nope.

It is rock fucking hard and it definitely hasn’t got the memo that my body is exhausted.

Fuck my life.

I shuffle into the shower and hang my head, letting the torrent of water massage my scalp and course over my sore shoulder and back muscles as I attempt to ignore my throbbing dick.

Attempt unsuccessful.

After a minute or two, I give in. I close my eyes, and I fist it roughly at the root.

Jesus fuck, that feels good.

I pump some shower gel into my hand and smooth it over my length.

The glide of skin against skin has me huffing out a sigh of anguish and ecstasy, because this is what I need.

A quick wank to release all that tension.

I close my eyes and pull up an oldie but a goodie from the spank bank: Margot Robbie, spreading her legs in The Wolf of Wall Street.

She’s so hot, and so golden, with that breathy voice telling Leo she’s not wearing panties. She does it for me every time. She’s uncrossing her legs, and?—

Fuck. Fuck.

The second I let my mind relax, Margot’s buggered off somewhere, and in her place is Carlotta, headlights on full beam.

She sashays towards me, dark eyes flashing, pulling her t-shirt over her head as she approaches. The lace bra that tormented me today is white, so pure and chaste against her tanned skin, except that I can see her taut pinky-brown nipples through the lace.

I pump harder. Fuck, that’s good. That’s exactly what the basest part of me needs. Other parts of my brain are disgusted with myself right now, but I’m past caring.

In my fantasy, I reach around and unhook her bra with one hand. It falls, and she’s topless, those dark, satiny tresses cascading over her shoulders and those beautiful, beautiful tits on full display for me.

I start salivating and glance down at my dick, watching in horrified fascination at how steely it is at the mere thought of a topless Carlotta, how hard the muscles in my forearm are working.

I squeeze my eyes closed again.

She’s sinking gracefully to her knees in front of me, licking those full lips and casting teasing glances my way through her thick lashes.

She unbuckles my belt and unzips my trousers, shoving them down, easing my boxers down too as she presses those delicate, ring-covered hands to my quads and takes me in her mouth.

In the capable, depraved depths of my monkey brain, the wetness sluicing over me, gliding up and down my length, teasing my sensitive crown, is not my shower and my own soaped-up hand.

It’s her warm, willing mouth.

I rub the pad of my thumb over the pre-cum beading at my tip, and it’s her greedy, teasing tongue as she gazes up at me for approval.

She fucking has it.

I’d get to my knees for her right this second.

I’d prostrate myself at her six-grand feet.

I pump my length hard, and really it’s me holding her beautiful face between my hands, my fingers clawing at her jaw through her masses of dark hair, as I fuck her mouth and she takes me all the way in like the little champ I bet she is.

The heat is building, building, engulfing me so thoroughly it’ll be the death of me. I’m breathing hard as I attempt to withstand this onslaught of the purest kind of pleasure, of oblivion, there is in this life.

So fucking good , I tell her. I’m so close I can barely get the words out. God, I’m so close. I’m so ? —

I’m pumping furiously, my hand a blur of movement over my cock as I chase my high.

I slap a palm against the slate wall of the shower for support as my orgasm races through me.

And then it’s upon me, and I open my mouth, locking my jaw in a silent scream, bucking and shaking with the intensity of the pleasure as the evidence of that pleasure erupts across the shower wall in endless hot ropes.

When I’m done, I collapse my forehead against the cool of the wall. Triumph and despair course through me equally hard, because that little fantasy I just concocted was so fucking real as to be terrifying.