by Paige North
Dirty Nasty Billionaire (Part Three)
Paige North
Favor Ford Publishing
Copyright © 2018 by Favor Ford Publishing
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Want To Be In The Know?
Dirty Nasty Billionaire (Part Three) by Paige North
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Want To Be In The Know?
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Dirty Nasty Billionaire (Part Three) by Paige North
Chapter 1
I need you. Sending a car.
The text comes at around 9pm. Elise has arrived back home after a long-overdue drinks date at a hole in the wall pub down the block. I’m about to slip into sweatpants when my phone chirps. I don’t recognize the number at first, but as soon as I read the text, I know.
My heart starts pounding like someone is playing bass drum in my chest. Nixon has never summoned me outside of work. It has always been stolen moments in the middle of the day, or a secret meeting before leaving. For him to ask for me this late at night — for him to reach out on my personal cell — that’s next-level. How did he even get my number? I never gave it to him. Of course, when you create the world’s most powerful search engine which grew into the world’s most powerful company, I’m sure getting a phone number isn’t that hard. Hell, he’s my boss, he probably just had to run a search in HR.
My fingers hover over the keys, trying to figure out what to send back. A thumbs up emoji? Or maybe the eggplant? Ugh, this is so fucking weird, I don’t even know how to be. But luckily, I don’t have to decide, because Elise knocks on my door.
“Uh, D? There’s a guy at the door says he’s got a car for you? Are you dating European royalty and you failed to mention it?”
My mouth drops open. Damn, he works fast. But that means I need to work fast, too. I still haven’t said anything to Elise about what’s going on with Nixon. I don’t know if I could make her understand. She’d point out that he’s my boss, and then she’d say he’s using me for sex. And while all that’s true, there’s also so much more to it. Hell, I don’t even understand it myself.
And I definitely don’t have time to unspool and untangle all that right now, especially not with a car on the street and a driver at my door, and Nixon god knows where waiting for me. So instead I grab my work bag and grimace.
“Yeah, I just got a text. Some kind of disaster at work? Everyone’s being called in. I gotta go.” I gather up my work bag and make a big show of putting my laptop in it. Gotta commit to the story, right?
“Please tell me Scour isn’t melting down,” Elise groans. “I haven’t backed up my cloud storage, and if I lose all my grad school application essays, I’m murdering Nixon Blake myself.”
I laugh as I rush out the door past her. “I’m sure it’s not that big. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. Don’t wait up!”
And hopefully by tomorrow I’ll have come up with a plausible story for her.
The driver is waiting by the shiny black Mercedes when I run out onto the sidewalk. He smiles serenely in his black suit and opens the rear passenger door for me. “Ms. Masterson?” He asks, and I nod, sliding onto the buttery soft leather seat.
The drive gives me ample time alone with my thoughts to wonder what caused Nixon to send that text. I most often see him after he’s had some kind of trying experience, like the crowd at the gala or the sit-down with the reporter. I know today he had some kind of executive board meeting, and a bunch of investors were in house to take tours. Could that have been it? Did the meetings go long? How could someone like Nixon Blake, who built the world’s most powerful tech company, spiral into a panic after meeting with investors? Isn’t that something he does regularly?
We take off, winding through the streets of Cambridge until we merge onto 93. At first I think we’re headed to Scour, but when we exit the interstate, we pass the Summer Street bridge and head towards Downtown Crossing.
I lean forward in my seat. “Excuse me, where are we going?” I ask the driver.
“Mr. Blake is waiting for you at his residence,” the driver replies.
His residence?
Which turns out to be a glass high rise near Downtown Crossing in the Financial District, the dense part of the city that comes closest to resembling New York. It’s the only place you’ll find skyscrapers, unless you count the Hancock and the Pru in Back Bay. And Nixon’s building turns out to be the biggest of them all.
Of course.
The car pulls into an underground garage, and for a moment I get nervous, because it looks like the kind of place where a young woman might be taken to be murdered. And no one would know where to look for me, because I just lied to my roommate and haven’t told a soul that I’m fucking Nixon Blake.
The car pulls to a stop in front of an elevator bank, and the driver gets out, opening the door for me.
“Penthouse,” he says, pressing the elevator button for me. And when the mirrored doors slide open, I see that “Penthouse” is one of only three destinations, the other being “Lobby” and “Gym.” A private elevator? I didn’t even realize these existed. I’ve just arrived in luxury beyond my wildest dreams, apparently.
I press the button, and the mirrored doors slide closed, leaving the driver and his snazzy car back in the garage. The elevator begins to rise, smoothly, but at a pace so quick it makes my stomach jump. I instinctively reach out and grab the side of the elevator, trying to hold on to some sense of equilibrium.
In seconds, we’re at the top. The door slides open, and I’m standing in a small vestibule. It feels like the waiting room before you get the pearly gates. Everything is so white. White marble floor, white walls, and a while metal door. It’s cold, and when I step forward, my feet echo in the frozen, hermetically sealed room. I press a button next to the door that I think is a doorbell. After a beat, a low buzz emanates from the door. I glance up and see a small white security camera perched over the door, pointing directly down at me.
Apparently the buzz is my greeting.
I step forward and open the door, and am greeted with even more white, this time with a polished concrete floor, just like at Scour. I think I’m in an apartment, but it’s hard to tell, because there’s almost no furniture to be seen. No couch, or television. No dining room table or chairs. The open-concept kitchen is all white cabinets and stainless-steel appliances, one giant white marble island in the middle that looks like a tomb. But there aren’t any dishes or packages of food. It hasn’t even been staged, like how realtors do. It looks like the construction crew just finished in here this morning. It doesn’t even have a homey smell, like an actual person lives here.
The rest of space is expansive, with ceilings that must be at least twenty feet high. Across from me, the entire wall is made up of floor-to-ceiling windows that look out across Boston, from the Harbor to the East, around downtown, the Common, and off towards Back Bay. I can see the Hancock and the Pru, I can see the illuminated gold dome of the Statehouse, and I can see the Charles River and Cambridge across it, headlights zipping up Memorial Drive in the inky black night. It’s breathtaking.
I hear footsteps
, and Nixon strides into the room, still in the clothes he was wearing at work today: a pair of dark wash jeans and a slate gray cashmere sweater, the sleeves pushed up.
But he looks like hell.
There are dark circles under his eyes, and his hair looks like he’s been pushing it back from his forehead for hours in some kind of act of frustration. He looks exhausted, and a little bit manic.
“You’re here,” is all he says when he sees me standing in his apartment.
“I’m here,” I reply.
He crosses the floor in two steps, pulling me into his arms. His mouth is covering mine before I can say a single more word, or ask him where his sofa went. It actually takes me a moment to surrender to him, because I’m so confused by the cold, austere world he apparently inhabits. For the first time, I don’t sink into the heat of his body. The driver said this was his residence, and maybe he just moved in and is waiting for all his stuff to arrive, but something tells me this is actually just it. It’s just like his office at Scour — just like all the offices at Scour. Cold, white, and devoid of emotion.
But Nixon isn’t devoid of emotion. Not right now. And when he begins to walk me backwards towards the windows, his tongue parting my lips, I awaken to his desire.
I feel my back press up against cold glass. He reaches for the hem of my tank top and lifts it over my head. When he sees that I’m not wearing a bra (it’s the first thing I take off as soon as I get home from work, and it’s currently draped over the back of my couch at my apartment across the river in Cambridge), he lets out a low groan. He ducks his head and suck one of my nipples into his mouth, his hand reaching up to gently pinch my other nipple between his thumb and first finger. I think I now know the meaning of the phrase “hurts so good.” I’m already breathless, but then he spins me around, his chin resting on my shoulder, his hands cupping my breasts.
“Like what you see?” He asks.
“I didn’t come here for the view,” I reply.
“That’s my girl,” he says, and I can hear his lips curled up into a smile. Behind me, he sheds his sweater, and I hear him making quick work of his belt. I look down to watch his pants drop to the floor, and then he’s pushing down the waist of my skirt, until it joins his pants. I’m struck for a moment by the fact that our clothes are literally the only things on the floor in this entire apartment (well, what I’ve seen of it, at least), but that thought quickly melts away when he leans into me, his hard cock pressing into the small of my back.
“Can anyone see us?” I ask, staring out the windows, already dripping wet and dying to feel him inside me.
“Does it matter?” He asks. He takes hold of his cock and runs it along my ass. I lean back into him. He starts to bend down to reach for his jeans, and I know what he’s getting.
“Wait,” I say. I grab his wrist, spinning around to face him. “I’m on the pill. And I’ve been tested. So if you…” I trail off, not sure if I’m out of line. We never have these kinds of discussions. Or any kinds of discussions. Our talks usually fall into the “oh god” and “I’m gonna come” categories. Condoms just happened, as well they should have. But I know what I want, and I want him to know it, too.
“I’m good,” he tells me, and then his eyes flash when he realizes what this means. I start to turn back around, press my hands up against the glass so he can enter me from behind, but he stops me. “No,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “I want to watch you.”
He reaches down and grabs the back of my thigh, hiking one leg up so I’m open wide to him. His erection hovers between us, and I want him so bad I can taste it. But when I reach for him, to guide him inside me, he pushes my hand away. Because he’s in charge right now. This moment, this is his, and he’s going to take me.
Nixon usually drives into me with weight and force and purpose, but this time, he slides in nice and slow. I feel every ridge, every inch, as he enters, his cock rock hard and so warm. I didn’t know anything could feel this good, and when I try to push my hips into him, to take him faster, he grabs my hips to stop me.
“No,” he growls, looking straight into my eyes. There are flashes of fire amidst the cold blue of his irises. It ignites a heat deep within me. “Mine.”
He grabs my wrists and pins them over my head against the glass, his eyes never leaving mine, as he fucks me slowly and deliberately. He owns every second of this, and he loves it.
I love it.
I let go and relinquish all control to him. I let my body respond to his, my hips moving to his slow, steady rhythm. Every time I feel the urge to close my eyes, he squeezes my wrists, bringing me back to him.
“I want to see the moment I make you come,” he says, his voice full of steel.
He must see it before I even realize it’s happening, because his eyes narrow, and his pace picks up. Soon the slow, deliberate rhythm becomes more desperate, more insistent. He’s literally beckoning me to come. I’m pushing harder into him, feeling him hit deeper inside me than he ever has before. My orgasm builds with each thrust, until I’m crying out, begging him.
“More,” I say, the word coming out in a heave of breath. “Harder. Don’t stop.”
His only response is to fuck me harder, faster, and with more passion.
“I’m going to come,” I cry. At that, he lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist, so that he’s holding me up as he fucks me to completion. I wrap my arms around him, feeling the ripple of muscles along his back with each thrust of his hips. “I’m coming. I’m coming now.”
And all the while, his eyes never leave mine, like he’s drinking up my orgasm. And the heat of his gaze makes the crashing waves even more intense. Right when I fall over the edge, I see his eyes narrow, his mouth dropping open slightly. And then I feel the heat as he explodes inside me, following me right over the cliff. Our shared orgasms seem to last forever. I never want them to stop.
I never want this to end.
“Fuck, Delaney,” he pants, gently lowering me to the cold concrete floor. “What are you doing to me?”
Chapter 2
I was planning to go home. It never occurred to me to do anything else.
But when we finally come down from fucking against a window as all of Boston lies beneath us, I start to gather up my clothes, reaching for my work bag, which is still over by the door.
“What are you doing?” He asks from behind the immense marble island, where he’s busy filling two glasses with water.
“Um, well,” I start, unsure how to finish. Admitting that I’m leaving before he can kick me out seems like it would start a conversation I don’t think he’s ready to have. I don’t know if I’m ready to have it, because part of me is scared that he’ll decide maybe it’s best if we just don’t do this anymore.
And fucking Nixon Blake has become the only thing in my life that I’m sure of these days.
His voice is gruff, and for the first time, he breaks eye contact with me, his eyes dropping to the sink in front of him. “You should stay,” he says finally, his voice slightly unsure. “If you want to.”
I pause, drinking in a long breath and the expanse of this moment. Not only is Nixon Blake inviting me to stay, he’s made it a request. No demand. No taking. I’ve never seen him look so vulnerable, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s wearing nothing but his black boxer briefs.
Instead of a response, I drop my bag back by the door, cross the cold concrete floor, and take the second glass off the marble island, where he’s placed it, waiting for me. I take a long sip, then look up at him and smile.
Something’s changed. Something is different. I have no idea what, but the ground beneath our feet has shifted.
And all I know is that I’m going to stay and see what’s left after the earthquake.
Nixon doesn’t say anything else. He simply takes me by the hand and begins walking down the expansive hall. Once again, I’m greeted by blank white walls, cold concrete floors, and rows of closed doors. At the end of the hall, we final
ly reach one that’s open, and inside I’m greeted by Nixon Blake’s bedroom. Though to call it a bedroom feels wrong. The word bedroom conjures up images of nightstands stacked with books waiting to be read, perhaps a dresser with a few personal items scattered on top. An alarm clock or a framed photo or a tossed bath towel. Something.
To say Nixon’s room is sparse would be a vast understatement. The room is perched on the corner of the apartment, on the corner of the building. Two of the walls are blank white, the other two are floor-to-ceiling windows, just like the rest of the apartment. These look straight out past Boston Harbor and into the inky black night of the Atlantic Ocean. I feel like if I walked into that corner, where the two walls of windows meet, I’d feel as if I were going to plummet to earth.
The only piece of furniture in the room is a king-sized mattress and box spring, centered on the floor in the middle of the room. It’s topped with white sheets and a single white blanket, a small collection of white pillows waiting for sleep.
And that’s it.
“Is something wrong?” Nixon asks, strolling towards the mattress. His voice is already growing heavy with impending sleep.
I don’t even know how to begin to answer that question. No, nothing’s wrong. But something is definitely … off.
“Can you point me to the bathroom?” I ask. He nods to an open door in the corner of the room as he collapses onto the bed. I scurry over and find the master bath. It’s nearly the size of my entire apartment, with concrete floors and a white tiled walk-in shower with immaculate glass walls. The counter is white marble, the fixtures a harsh stainless steel. While my bathroom is topped with makeup and hairbrushes and toothpaste tubes and various glasses of water that migrated in there and never left, Nixon’s bathroom is, once again, a total blank. There’s not a water spot in sight. Not a tube or jar or pot of anything. I glance over my shoulder to see if he’s watching me, and when I don’t hear anything, I cross to the sink and slowly, carefully pull open the medicine cabinet. Maybe he’s just a person who doesn’t like clutter. Maybe when I open this door, I’ll see the overflowing detritus of an actual person who lives here. But inside all I find is a single toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a single razor, and one can of shaving gel. It’s all lined up perfectly. Nothing out of place. Nothing but blank space. It looks like it’s been staged for a photo shoot.