How to Blow It with a Billionaire

by Alexis Hall

  We flailed about, but nothing seemed to help. There was always some bit of him, or some bit of me, getting in the way. Why was it never like this in the movies?

  “I think,” I panted, “if we could go a little lower…”

  I pushed frustratedly against his leg. At which point my bum lost all purchase on the bottom of the bath, my legs flew over my head and, with a wild squeal, I crashed backward into the water.

  Well. A bit into the water. And lot onto Caspian.

  Who I’d basically just reverse dive-bombed.

  Shit, I’d probably drowned him. Bellerose was going to kill me. I’d completed an urgent swivel when he surfaced. Spat out a mouthful of bubbles. Pushed the sodden hair from his eyes and opened them slowly.

  “Why yes,” he murmured. “This is terribly sexy.”

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

  He was quiet for a long moment. And viper still. And then, with great deliberation he flicked his hand against the water…and splashed me. It surprised a giggle out of me. And then, of course, I retaliated.

  And this went on until Caspian wrapped me in his arms and pulled me against his chest, and somehow that worked, and there we were, warm and entangled and floating blissfully in the water.

  I made the happiest of happy noises. Even if I stretched, my toes still couldn’t touch the far side of the bath. And I could feel the steady thud of Caspian’s heart against my cheek. The strength of him under and around me. And also: his cock. Which apparently enjoyed me being all slippery when wet.

  It would have taken a better man than me to resist. I reached into the water and closed my hand round him. Dragged my palm tenderly along the length of him. Which made him shudder and close his eyes.

  “Arden, don’t.”

  Grumble, grumble. But I let him go. And he kissed the edge of my brow, his fingers brushing a tingly path along my spine. It drew a dreamy sound out of me and I relaxed an extra half percent I didn’t even know was there: completely limp and weightless, draped over Caspian. Obviously, touching him would have been wonderful. But it belatedly occurred to me that if I had jerked him off in the bath, we would probably have wanted to get out quickly. Even if—in purely rational terms—the spoodge-to-water ratio was very small.

  Eventually, the bubbles had mostly dissipated and my toes were turning wrinkly. So we de-tubbed and Caspian snuggled me up in one of One Hyde Park’s exceptionally fluffy towels. I was having a hard time not staring at him—I mean, even more than usual. Maybe it was my greedy desire for glimpses of damp, slightly disheveled post-bath Caspian. But, actually, I craved these moments with him. Moments when he wasn’t master of a world I could barely access. Moments when he was just…Caspian. A man who laughed rarely, smiled shyly, but let himself be playful with me.

  A man who was mine.

  “Do you need to borrow some clothes or something?” I called out, as I went in search of a non-embarrassing pair of pajama bottoms.

  He laughed. “Thank you, but no. I have lived here on occasions.”

  I couldn’t help wondering which of his houses was home. And if I’d ever get to see it.

  “Do you have any pizza preferences?” I asked instead.

  “None at all.”

  “Do you even like pizza?”

  “Probably.”

  My rummaging had miraculously failed to turn up some sexy yet sophisticated lounge wear. Mainly because I didn’t have any. “What do you mean probably?”

  “I mean…probably. I haven’t had it for a long time.”

  “You don’t have baths. You don’t eat pizza.” I compromised on my CHILL OUT Olaf the Snowman trousers and my I DON’T CARE I’M A UNICORN T-shirt. Okay, okay, it wasn’t a compromise. It was all I had. “What on earth are you doing with your life?”

  “Well,” Caspian said mildly, “I’ve been quite busy at work.”

  Wandering out of the bedroom, I found him already waiting for me. I’d seen Casual Caspian before—at Kinlochbervie when he’d come to get me back—but it was still slightly intimidating. Especially because he looked like an underwear model, in loose-fitting black sweats and a T-shirt that was practically molded to his torso. And I looked like a cartoon character.

  But I guess this was life with Caspian Hart. And it made sense that things were a little bit awkward because our relationship was a frankly bonkers combination of distance and intimacy. We’d shared secrets over the telephone. He’d given me an apartment to live in. I’d crawled to him on my hands and knees. And, unless you counted dinner with my family, this was the first evening we’d ever spent together in a way that didn’t centralize destroying each other or fucking.

  Not that I minded the fucking. I was a big fan of the fucking. But it was…well. It was nice that this was an option too.

  I smiled at him, self-conscious suddenly. “Any thoughts about movies?”

  “None.” He crossed the floor toward me, silent on bare feet, and gently turned my face up to his for the lightest of kisses. “Am I a terrible disappointment to you?”

  “What? No. How could you be?”

  “Because you’re asking me for things I have very little experience in giving.”

  I gazed up at him. Fuck. Maybe I should have let him take me to Paris. “Would you rather fuck me and go?”

  He blinked.

  “Not in a bad way. Just, this is probably really boring for you, isn’t it?”

  “How could I possibly be bored?” His mouth softened unexpectedly. “You nearly drowned me in the bath.”

  “Yep yep. I did do that. I could also get a pizza with a topping you’re allergic to, if you like.”

  “I’m not allergic to anything. Though I’m not especially fond of mushrooms.”

  For some reason, this tiny piece of random knowledge thrilled me. “I won’t get one with mushrooms. If you’re sure.”

  “Yes, I’m quite sure I don’t like them.”

  “You know that’s not what I meant.” I tried to sound stern but the giggling detracted.

  “Yes. I’m sure I like this. And I’m sure I like you. Now”—he turned me round and tapped me rather wickedly on the arse—“go and order pizza and then pick a film.”

  I gave him a fluttery glance over my shoulder. “Yes, Mr. Hart.”

  A few minutes later, pizza was on its way and I was wrestling my bedding onto the sofa. Caspian looked mildly confused again, but didn’t otherwise comment. He might have been a super powerful billionaire but there was at least one universal truth I knew and he didn’t: everything was better under a duvet.

  “So, I was thinking,” I said as I snugged myself up, “we could maybe watch the new Star Wars?”

  Honestly, I was more than a little bit nerve-wracked. Choosing a movie was a serious responsibility—it not only said things about you, it said things about the way you saw someone else. Two rich veins of potential humiliation. And Caspian was extra difficult because there were graven angels more into pop culture than he was. But I thought Star Wars might work. Given his fondness for sci-fi. And, y’know, the fact it was awesome.

  “As it happens, I’ve seen it.” He pulled the other end of the duvet over his knees and, let me tell you, his duvet technique was majorly lacking. No curling. No tucking. Absolutely no nestling.

  “You have?” The possibility hadn’t even occurred to me. But he did travel a lot—maybe he’d caught it on a plane.

  “Yes, I watched it with my father when it first came out. He was quite fanatical about the series.”

  I loved it when Caspian spoke about his father. Trusting me with the fragile origami of his memories. But at the same time, I didn’t want to appear morbidly eager for dead-parent-related entertainment. So I went with a casually encouraging “Yeah?”

  “Mm.” Caspian smiled, one of his sweetest, rarest smiles. “The original film came out when he was about sixteen. He called it his first love.”

  “I guess it’s pretty cool I mean, for a movie from the seventies.”

  “He alw
ays said that, like Bertrand Russell, three great passions ruled his life. Us—Eleanor and I—our mother, and Star Wars.”

  I suddenly remembered the dedication I’d seen in one of Caspian’s books. And felt a bit sorry for all my love, L since they apparently ranked below George Lucas in Arthur Hart’s affections. Which was when another important thought occurred to me. “So how did he find The Phantom Menace then?”

  “Well. He did not quite burn George Lucas in effigy. But from that day forth his life was ruled by two great passions.”

  I laughed. Then winced. Then remembered why I’d suggested Star Wars in the first place. “Caspian. You do know there’s, like, new new Star Wars, right? And it doesn’t suck.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Nobody says anything about midi-chlorians. And no trade routes are even remotely in dispute.”

  “That does sound rather more like the Star Wars my father enjoyed.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  He gave a slightly self-conscious shrug. “His enthusiasm was always infectious. Much like yours, Arden.”

  If you’d asked me, as a general principle, how I felt about being compared to deceased parents, the answer would probably have been Not so great, actually. But in this case? I was oddly touched. Showing Caspian how to enjoy things was a good trait to share with someone he loved. On the other hand, maybe Star Wars wasn’t the best choice in this particular context.

  “Would you rather watch something else? Because I’m always up for Disney.”

  “No, no. Star Wars is fine.”

  Fine: the answer dreams were made of.

  But it turned out to be a lie, anyway, because Caspian clearly was not fine about Star Wars. He was enthralled. He tried to hide it but he literally gasped when the music kicked in. It was beyond adorable.

  It belatedly occurred to me that I should have warned him I’m a terrible person to watch movies with—I kind of, somehow, can’t stop talking through them. Which is not, well, it’s not ideal, is it? But, actually, while there were lots of things I could have said, I didn’t, in the end, say any of them.

  Because I didn’t want to spoil anything for Caspian.

  And, for me, watching him was better than watching the movie. It wasn’t what I would have pictured at all. But, then, doing something like this with Caspian had always been a daydream I’d never really believed would happen, so my imagination had been hazy on the details. I guess I’d been expecting his usual careful detachment: an elegant man bathed in the silver light of a screen. What I got was a boy’s wide-eyed wonder. A delight in TIE fighters, Wookiees, and lightsabers that might have started as affection for his father but was now entirely his own.

  And he was sharing it with me.

  The pizza came and went, and he barely noticed. And, once I’d got rid of the box, he let me rearrange the duvet over us both—for maximum coze—and squeeze right up against him. I even got to wriggle my hand into his. I didn’t think I’d ever liked Star Wars quite as much as I did right then. I felt half drunk on his pleasure. My heart huge and soft and raw and wobbly.

  Oh God. Was I in love? This vast feeling soaring and wheeling inside me. Surely it was love.

  When the credits rolled, Caspian turned to me, his eyes oddly shiny in the flicking light, and murmured: “I wish my father could have seen that. But I’m so glad I got to watch it with you.”

  And now my heart was mush. Just red mush spilling everywhere. “Caspian.” Overcome with happiness and too-big emotions, I flung my arms around him and covered him with hysterical kisses.

  He seemed a bit surprised but only reined me in a little bit.

  I paused briefly in my frenzy. “Thank you for tonight. I loved watching Star Wars with you.” And, in case I was overdoing it and getting scary, I added, “You big nerd.”

  “How dare you.” He subjected me to his most billionaire-y look, only for it to be undermined by the light in his eyes and the laughter lurking at the edges of his lips. “I simply commit fully to my every undertaking.”

  “Including Star Wars.”

  His smile got the better of him. “Especially Star Wars.”

  Help. I was going to explode of everything. How did people cope? Did they go about their daily lives with love inside them like a skyful of rioting party balloons? And, suddenly, I was terrified.

  Because what if I told him?

  Because what if I was wrong?

  Because what if what if what if…

  I would probably have had a panic attack on the sofa but then my dick swept in out of nowhere and rescued me by getting incredibly hard. Arousal thundered through me with the sort of conviction that hurled lions off cliffs and left their sons guilt-stricken for half a movie. Slightly shocked at the intensity of my own desire, I twined my arms around Caspian’s neck.

  “Take me to bed,” I said. My voice was so shaky, I couldn’t tell if I was asking, demanding, or pleading.

  But it didn’t matter anyway because Caspian picked me up and carried me off.

  Chapter 21

  It wasn’t the first time he’d done that, but his strength always took me a little bit by surprise. I think because—along with so many other things, passion and joy and laughter—he kept it locked away behind his well-cut suit and his cold eyes. And there was nothing quite like being carted around by someone else to make you feel excitingly overpowered. I clung to his shoulders, my stomach doing roller-coaster swoops, even though I knew he wouldn’t drop me.

  He tossed me onto my duvet-less bed like I was a medieval princess and he was the dark knight come to claim my maidenhead. And then came down on top of me, kissing me hard, his tongue plunging between my lips in happy anticipation of other acts-of-plunging he might be likely to perform. I sank into sex—into that warm, thudding place of heart-to-heart and mouth-to-mouth.

  But, of course, the moment I got my hands under his top and against his skin he had me by the wrists and was pulling my arms over my head. He gazed down at me—all predator-sharp and sexy-hungry. “I should get my tie.”

  I flip-flopped between thrilled and frustrated. Because, yes, part of me would have loved it—the part in question being my dick, which had got even harder at the prospect of me being trussed and helpless and at the mercy of Caspian Hart. But my more complicated bits had more complicated reactions.

  “Let me touch you,” I absolutely did not whine.

  “Arden…”

  “I know, I know.” I pushed against his hands. “I can’t help it. I just want to give you pleasure sometimes.”

  “You do give me pleasure. You give me so much pleasure.”

  “Did you hate it? In Kinlochbervie?”

  “No but—”

  “Please.” The word burst out of me, raw with longing. “I beg you, Caspian.”

  He looked startled and I couldn’t entirely blame him. I couldn’t remember ever begging that hard for anything in my life—including my own orgasms.

  Although, slightly to my own horror, it turned out I wasn’t done. “You can still be in control. I’ll worship you. I’ll serve you. My hands will be your slaves.”

  Endless silence. I could tell my eyes had gone huge and needy. And, while I knew I gave good pleeeeease face, for once, I wasn’t trying to be cute.

  “It really means this much to you?” he asked.

  “Yes. God yes.”

  “What”—he faltered, then recovered—“do you want to do?”

  “Anything.”

  “That’s not very specific.”

  “Um.” He was right, but now he’d put me on the spot. And having already made a massive fuss, I felt duty-bound to be reasonable. There was, after all, no point asking for the moon when the stars were plenty shiny. “Can I give you a hand job?”

  “Just a hand job?” Wow. Way to sound insultingly relieved, Caspian.

  I pouted. “Hey now. There’s nothing just about a hand job when it’s from me.”

  “It’s really what you want?”

  Well. No
. It was a sneaky piece of icing from the spectacular, multi-tiered cake of my wanting. But, dammit, I would take it. “Yes.”

  He let me go and rolled onto his back. “As long as you don’t—”

  “Put my weight on you. And I’ll stop straightaway if you tell me.”

  “All right.” He sounded perfectly calm, even bored, but his eyes—which held mine like a drowning man might clutch me—told a different story.

  “I promise,” I whispered. “And thank you.”

  He gave a shaky laugh. “I’m not sure I’ve done anything to merit gratitude.”

  “Oh my God.” I turned and ran palm down the frankly ridiculous contours of his abdomen. “You’re trusting me. And you’re giving me…you. That’s the most incredible gift.”

  “I very much doubt it.”

  “Don’t say that stuff. You’ll make me cross with you.”

  My caress became a well-deserved a poke. Which made him…I didn’t quite know. From anyone else it would have been a yelp. From Caspian it was probably a much more dignified sound. “I’m very sorry.”

  “I’ll forgive you. Can I take your clothes off?”

  “I presume you’re intending to follow suit?”

  He’d had me naked and in compromising positions pretty much constantly. But nothing—not even the threat of torture, well, okay, the threat of torture, let’s keep a sense of perspective here—would have made me point it out to him.

  “Course.” I whipped my top over my head and wriggled out of my pj bottoms.

  And, yep, there I was again: slightly cold and extremely undressed in front of the most gorgeous man I’d ever met.

  But, God, it was nothing.

  Barely a fraction of what I would have done to please him. To make him feel safe. Sure of his power and my so-willing supplication.

  He sat up and I caught the hem of his T-shirt, drawing it up and off. A ribbon of heat spiraled down my spine toward my increasingly perky cock. He’d never let me do anything like this before. With other people, I’d dragged them out of their clothes and hardly given a second’s thought. With Caspian, it was intimacy beyond anything I’d dreamed of: no longer just a recipient of his desires, I was part of them.