Dreaming of the Billionaire

by Bright, Alice

  Not caring that I'm naked, I jump out of bed and run to the bathroom to continue throwing up. I’m not sure if I’m feeling hung over or embarrassed, but it doesn’t matter. I just need to wash my face and get with the program.

  I stare at myself in the mirror for what feels like forever. My makeup is gone now, but the dark, puffy eyes are here to stay. Perfect. I can’t stop thinking about every stupid thing I said last night. How can Sean even look at me, much less be interested in hiring me?

  Let’s see: I drank way too much, acted like a huge dork, threw up on his floor, almost passed out in the bathtub, and then let him drag me naked to bed. Yes, I’d say I’m definitely making an impression.

  It’s just not a very good one.

  I walk back into the bedroom and slip my clothes back on. Of course, they still smell a little bit like wine. I must have spilled some on myself. Seriously. Is there anything I didn’t do wrong last night? Glancing at myself once more in the mirror, I decide that it’s the best I’m possibly going to be able to do without makeup.

  I straighten up the bed, trying to pretend that I’m not a horrible person, and leave the bedroom. It’s the first time I actually get to notice the second floor of Sean’s home. Everything is huge. The hallway is wide and open and there’s a balcony that overlooks the first floor entryway. I lean against the railing, staring down at the front door.

  What would it be like to walk through those doors every day?

  I’m not, by any means, fantasizing about marrying this guy, I tell myself. I’m not. I’m not ready to get married, he’s not ready to get married, and we’re certainly not ready to get married to each other. But just thinking about the way it must feel to walk into the house and just be home seems like a great feeling.

  I realize with a start that I haven’t felt home in my new place with Amy. It’s not that I don’t like living with her. I do. I really do. She’s a great roommate and she’s clean and tidy and friendly. It’s just that to me, home was where my mom was. And now she’s gone. To me, home was walking through the front doors of my parent’s house and knowing that I was loved completely. It was having a place to go for Christmas. It was being able to know that if anything ever went wrong with my life, I’d have a place I could go seek comfort.

  I wonder if Sean feels home in this place.

  I pry myself away from the balcony and head downstairs. I think I hear someone in the kitchen. A housekeeper, perhaps? Then it dawns on me: of course he would have a housekeeper. What billionaire wouldn’t? Sean is obviously far too busy working, running his father’s business, and handling PR issues to find time to clean and cook for himself. He probably even has someone do his grocery shopping.

  Ah, what a life.

  I make my way into the kitchen to see if I can score some coffee before I figure out how I’m going to get back to my car. I have no idea what time it is, but I’m guessing Sean has left for a meeting or an event today and that I’ll be on my own. Maybe the housekeeper can help me call a cab or at least help me find my phone, which I seem to have lost, so I can call Amy to come get me.

  “Good morning,” I say, entering the kitchen.

  “Why, hello,” the voice that purrs at me is no housekeeper’s. To my surprise, Sean is the one rustling about the kitchen. From the looks of it, he’s halfway done making omelets and bacon. A steaming cup of coffee is resting on the counter.

  And he’s wearing pajama pants.

  Only pajama pants.

  Meow.

  I must look surprised to see him because he gives me a playful smile as I slide onto a barstool and lean against the counter.

  "Were you expecting someone else?" He asks.

  "I just assumed," I begin, then realize I sound a little pretentious. "I mean, I thought you might have a housekeeper or something."

  "I don't," he tells me, turning back around. I see that he's cooking and I'm suddenly starving. I have a touch of hangover, but I don't feel nauseous anymore. My stomach growls as I wonder how everything is going to taste. He turns to give me a quick smile.

  "Hungry?" He asks.

  I nod.

  "It'll be done soon. There's juice on the counter if you want some. Coffee pot is right there." He motions to his one-cup coffee maker and I scurry over to brew myself something while I wait for him to finish cooking.

  "Why don't you have a housekeeper?" I ask, genuinely curious.

  "I prefer to live alone," he says simply. He does? But he has such a huge space. Seriously. He could fit five families in here and not even notice there was anyone else at all, but I suppose it's his right to live alone. Maybe he just really hates the idea of someone else touching his stuff. I don't know.

  "Oh," is all I say as my coffee finishes brewing and I lift the mug from the machine. I walk back around the counter to my barstool, trying unsuccessfully to keep my eyes off of his perfect abs. Does he work out ten hours a day? It sure looks like it. Abs like that are made with blood and sweat. I can tell he's put in a lot of work.

  And I'm the one reaping the rewards of that, at least this morning. A pang hits my heart as I realize he's probably very taken. After all, nothing happened between us last night and I was very drunk. Very, very, very drunk. He didn't even try to kiss me. Maybe he's just a gentleman, but I don't think so. He's probably in a serious relationship. Maybe he's even engaged. I don't know, and I don't ask because I'm afraid of the answer.

  "Penny for your thoughts," Sean says suddenly, breaking me out of my daydream. He slides a plate filled with bacon, eggs, and toast in front of me.

  "I was just wondering why a handsome guy like you lives alone," I say, graciously accepting the plate. "Is there a Mrs. Moormead?" I ask, suddenly feeling brave and a little bit fierce. There's no need for me to be shy or timid at this point. He's already seen me naked, after all.

  Sean looks at me, hard. His eyes don't leave my face, but I can't read his expression. Is he wondering whether to lie to me? Is he wondering whether I can handle the truth? Is he wondering whether this is my feeble attempt at asking him out? What is he thinking? Then, after what seems like an eternity, he slowly nods.

  And my heart, which had leapt up into my throat, now sinks to the pit of my stomach.

  He's married.

  Fuck.

  "Oh," I manage to get out. I should have known. I shouldn't have let myself think, even for a second, that he wasn't already someone's true love. And why am I so worried about it all of a sudden? Too busy to date, I remind myself. I'm too busy. Yes. That's it.

  But then Sean does something that shocks me.

  He starts laughing out loud, softly at first, and then louder.

  Soon he's doubled over with laughter and he points to me as he tried to catch his breath.

  "You should see your face," he laughs. "You look so sad!"

  "I do not look sad!" I protest, realizing that my complaints are useless here.

  "Yes, Violet," he says, finally calming down, finally giving me his "serious" voice. "There is a Mrs. Moormead." Then he leans a little closer, so close that I can almost touch him, and he goes, "but I just call her 'Mom.'"

  12.

  I'm not sure whether I want to slap Sean or start laughing with relief when I find out that he's single. Part of me is upset that he messed with me, but most of me is relieved. Either way, we're both completely shocked when instead of laughing or slapping him, I instead burst into tears.

  And they're loud, ugly tears.

  "Shit, Violet," he says, rushing around the counter to wrap his muscular arms around me. "What the fuck? Are you okay?"

  "I'm sorry," I manage to get out between the tears. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm crying. It's just that I'm so embarrassed. Last night and now this and oh why did you have to be wearing only PJ pants?"

  As if noticing for the first time that he's half naked, he glances down at himself, then back at me. He cocks an eyebrow, tries to hide a little smirk, and then grabs my face gently with his hands and leans toward me.


  This is it.

  This is the moment I've been dying for since I first met him.

  He's going to kiss me, I just know it. This is it.

  I close my eyes, begging the tears to stop as he gets closer and closer to me. I try not to worry about my horrible morning breath or the fact that my eyes are all puffy and swollen. I try not to wonder what he's going to taste like or why he waited so long to kiss me. In this moment, I'm his. I'm his entirely, and we both know it.

  But as I pucker my lips in anticipation, I'm shocked when instead of kissing my lips, he plants a gentle touch on my forehead.

  That's it?

  I open my eyes.

  "That's it?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I thought you were going to kiss me!" Now I do slap him. Once for tricking me about his mom and a second time for just now. "Don't do that, Sean. You just can't do that to a girl. Dammit!"

  He looks surprised as I turn around and refocus my energy on drinking my coffee. I just need to drink it all, find my fucking phone, and then I can get home. I know that I'm blushing like a teenage girl who just got asked to the prom, but that's sort of what I feel like. I feel awkward and weird and uncomfortable. Most of it isn't Sean's fault. Well, no, that's not true. All of it is Sean's fault. I feel completely embarrassed that he didn't kiss me. I feel embarrassed about my behavior at dinner. And most of all, I'm embarrassed that I'm sitting in the home of my would-be boss wearing last night's outfit and I look like crap.

  I wanted him to kiss me. He didn't. I just need to get over it.

  "Thanks for breakfast," I finally say, standing up. He's still staring at me, obviously surprised at my outburst. He should be surprised, too. I'm not usually like that. I don't usually just blurt out whatever happens to be on my mind. I'm usually cool, calm, and collected. I'm usually normal. I'm usually the type of girl who can keep it together even when I'm under pressure.

  But not around him.

  And I don't know why.

  "I should go," I continue, glancing around. "But I seem to have lost my phone. Do you happen to know where I put it?" I ask, trying to shift the conversation away from me, him, and making out. And for the love of books, I'm trying to keep my eyes off of his abs and on his eyes.

  "Look, Violet," he tries to begin, but I hold up a hand.

  "Don't," I say. "I just need to find my phone and I'll get out of your hair forever."

  He nods, still not knowing what to do with me, and heads into the other room. While he's gone, I close my eyes in frustration and bite my lip. I'm such a fool. Seriously. No one but me could get themselves into this kind of situation. No one but me could think that someone like Sean fucking Moormead would want to make out with them the morning after a bad not-date.

  No one.

  He comes back into the room with my phone and I thank him, then start to head to the door.

  "I can drive you back to your car," he tells me, but I keep walking. I'm not ignoring him. I just don't want him to see that I'm crying again. It's a combination of embarrassment, stress, and exhaustion.

  "I'll call a cab. Don't worry about it." He doesn't follow me as I leave his house through his huge front doors and walk down the sidewalk to the road. He doesn't follow me as I flip open my phone and realize that it's completely dead and I can't call anyone to come get me.

  And he doesn't follow me as I start walking down his huge driveway, anxious to get away from his house.

  I just need to go home.

  13.

  I arrive home shortly after noon.

  All of me hurts.

  My stomach is still reeling from the alcohol, my head is killing from my hangover, and my legs hurt from the two miles I walked back to the restaurant when I couldn't get a cab.

  "Woah," Amy says as I walk in the front door, but I shake my head, warning her not to say anything. She obliges, and I'm grateful. I'm going to tell her everything, of course. I always do. I just can't do it now. Right now I just need to be alone. Right now I just need a few minutes to myself to think.

  I head into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and strip down.

  And then I stare at myself in the mirror.

  Sean makes me feel so many different things: sexy, naughty, lusty, and beautiful. But he also makes me feel embarrassed, awkward, and shy. He makes me feel a desire to please him, but there's also a hint of something else. It's something deeper than just attraction. It's raw, unadulterated lust.

  Underneath the money, the suits, and the poise, Sean is a bad boy.

  And he's just waiting for the right good girl to turn bad with him.

  I run my hands gently over my breasts, feeling their plumpness in my grasp. What would it be like to have Sean run his hands over me? Would he go slowly? Would he be rough with me? Would he pinch my nipples until I begged him to stop and keep going at the same time? What about what happens next? Would he start at my neck, biting me gently? Would he move down, slowly flicking and licking his way to my tits?

  What would fucking Sean Moormead be like?

  I don't know, but I'm wet as fuck just thinking about it.

  I give up staring at myself. I'm not going to get any release from just standing in front of the mirror. Instead, I climb into the shower, turn the heat up, and drown my sorrows in the water. My tears come quickly: a harsh reminder of the night before. I can't believe I blew everything so badly. I was offered a job - a good one, too - and I just blew it.

  Why did I have to lose my cool?

  Why did I have to get so nervous that I drank so much?

  And why did I go home with Sean?

  I'm kicking myself for not just calling Amy. She could have come to pick me up. It wouldn't have been a big deal. Sure, she would have been tired and she would have bitched about it the entire time, but she would have done it without judging me.

  But I couldn't do that, could I?

  I had to accept Sean's offer to drive me. I had to go to his beautiful mansion. I had to fall asleep in his guest bedroom and, most of all, I had to completely freak out on him when he didn't kiss me.

  The water pours over my body, washing away any sense of decency and restraint I once had. It doesn't take long for me to stop feeling embarrassed and to start feeling the growing sensation of warmth between my legs.

  I can't help but wonder what would have happened if things had gone a little differently.

  What if I hadn't gone so drunk that I threw up at his house?

  What if instead of passing out, we had made out?

  What if he had climbed into the shower with me and slid his hands down my back?

  What if he had pressed up against me, completely naked?

  I'm feeling warm all over, and it's not from the shower. No, this is different. This is a much more feral, more dirty, more naughty kind of warmth. It's the kind of warmth that only touching Sean Moormead is going to satisfy.

  He's not here right now, but I am.

  So I do the next best thing to letting him get me off and I make myself cum - hard - in the shower. I'm still so turned on by the night before that it doesn't take much. A few carefully placed fingers, a couple of seconds of pretending my fingers are his, and thinking about how his tongue would feel flicking against my clit, and I'm gone.

  I'm his.

  And then I'm on my knees in the shower, moaning out loud, not caring who hears. All I'm thinking about is dropping my panties to the billionaire of my dreams, sliding down onto his throbbing dick, and riding him until we're both drowning in pleasure.

  My fantasy is interrupted far too quickly by a knock on the bathroom door.

  "Violet?" A familiar voice calls out. "Is everything okay in there?"

  Sean.

  What the fuck is he doing at my house?

  14.

  He knocks again, this time more urgently.

  "Violet, are you okay? Do you need help? It sounded like you fell."

  I turn off the shower and step out into the cool bathroom air, frustrated that my "alon
e" time is over so quickly. Why is Sean at my house? Why is he knocking on my door? More importantly, why is he listening outside the bathroom door? Does he want to catch me fucking myself?

  "Hold on," I yell out, obviously not pleased. I can't believe this is happening. I don't have a robe in the bathroom. I don't have clean clothes. I have nothing. Gah! It's not like he hasn't seen me naked before, I realize, remembering how he helped me out of the shower and into bed last night. Like a perfect gentleman, he didn't even try to touch me. Now, though, I wonder what it would have been like if he did. What if instead of helping me to bed, he had taken me to bed? What if he had slid himself so deep inside me that for just a second, I forgot my own name? What about that?