How to Blow It with a Billionaire

by Alexis Hall

  And there was no way I was goofing this up. No catching his ear or messing his hair or getting his arm stuck. Oh no. I divested him of his T-shirt like it was fucking cloth of gold. He emerged blinking, his freshly bared chest heaving with his quickened breath.

  “See.” I leaned in and brushed my mouth over the stark crests of his collarbones, remembering the way he’d responded in Kinlochbervie. He trembled now, my gorgeous man, felled by the gentlest of touches. “You can imagine you’re Alexander and I’m Bagoas and I’m disrobing you after some great battle.”

  He cupped a hand beneath my jaw and drew me up for a brief kiss. “I think I’d rather you were Arden.”

  “I can definitely live with that. I’m still yours, though.”

  “Is that so? How’s your dancing?”

  “I’ve got some moves. How’s your global conquest?”

  “Largely financial.”

  He was stalling. It was cute stalling, but stalling nevertheless. Shuffling lower on the bed, I slipped my fingers gently under the waist of his lounge trousers and slid them all the way down. Swear to God, if I’d attempted a sexy move like that on myself, I’d have got them tangled in my knob. Or around my knees. But, for Caspian, I found grace.

  And there he was: my own private centerfold. I actually groaned at the sight of him. Like when you’re super hungry and somebody makes you bacon for breakfast. That kind of groan.

  “You are so ridiculously hot,” I told him.

  And, of course, he blushed—a pinkish tinge spreading across his cheekbones and down his chest. Which made him look, if possible, even better. It gave life to that perfect physique of his. A whisper of the imperfect to make him real. And touchable. And mine.

  He was only half hard. Not exactly a ringing endorsement of what was happening so far but I wasn’t going to take it personally. Clearly he felt exposed and not everyone got off on that the way I did. Though I was hoping I could show him he didn’t have to be vulnerable. That control and distance weren’t always the same thing. And even if he was uncertain of himself, he never had to be of me. I would yield whenever he needed it.

  I got settled by his side. Since I intended to be a while, it made sense to get comfy. “Can you grab some lube from the drawer?”

  “Is that necessary?”

  Sheesh. You’d have thought I was pulling his teeth, not his dick. “No, but it’s nicer.”

  His knees shifted very slightly.

  “I’m not going to cross the neutral zone, Caspian. That’s how you start a war with the Romulans.”

  At last: a faint smile.

  I grinned back at him. “Get me the damn lube, will you.”

  He turned onto his side, pulled open the bedside drawer, and froze. “Good God. What’s all this?”

  “Just your standard, everyday, perfectly average collection of sex toys.”

  “I wouldn’t call this average, Arden. I would call it expansive. I mean—”

  I glanced at what he was brandishing and shrugged. “Everyone needs a Fleshlight.”

  “And a vibrating cock ring?”

  “Hell yes.”

  “What about…actually, I have no idea what this is.”

  “It’s a guybrator. And that’s a prostate massager. And that’s a subtly but significantly different prostate massager. That one’s a very basic dildo.”

  “And this?”

  “A dildo in the shape of a tentacle. Obviously.”

  He covered his eyes with a hand. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “How about: I respect your commitment to self-pleasure.”

  “This is quite the commitment.”

  Oh bless. He’d gone all pink again. So adorable. “Well, like the lady says: If you don’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else?” Except now he had his I have no idea what you’re talking about look. I held out my hand and wiggled my fingers impatiently. “Lube, please.”

  “Which lube? You own a lot.”

  “Hmm.” I considered the matter. “The Boy Butter.”

  “Boy Butter? Really.”

  “It’s lovely, I promise. Can you”—a sigh I couldn’t quite stifle—“trust me. A little bit. Please.”

  He passed me the tub without further comment.

  I flipped off the lid, gathered up a generous dollop of soft creamy goodness on my finger, and set about getting my hands, and his cock, all warm and slick. Then I noticed Caspian was frowning. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Just do you…are we…am I not satisfying you?”

  “Where did that come from? I love sexytimes with you.”

  “Well.” His frown intensified. “I can’t help notice you have gathered masturbatory aids with the determination of a squirrel preparing for a long winter.”

  I couldn’t help giggling at the image. Arden St. Ives: wanksquirrel. “I like getting myself off. I mean, not more than I like someone else doing it. I’m into both is what I’m saying.”

  This was not an ideal time for there to be silence. I knew because silence happened. And kept happening.

  “Um.” I shifted uncomfortably. “I’m feeling slightly slut-shamed here. For your information.”

  “That was not my intention. I’m simply…somewhat startled.”

  “I don’t see why. Everyone masturbates.”

  “Yes, but I’ve always treated it as little more than a necessity.” His gaze skittered away from mine.

  Great. Now I’d made him uncomfortable. Turns out, talking about wanking was a hot potato of social awkwardness. Who’d have thought it?

  “I’m pretty sure that’s the general cultural perception,” I said. “But I guess I don’t really see masturbation as a lesser form of sex. Just a different one. Also you’ve made me say masturbation about eighty-seven times, which is embarrassing, so you owe me an apology.”

  He ducked his head to hide what was blatantly a smile. “I’m sorry.”

  “I suppose I’ll forgive you.”

  He was quiet again. And then, very softly, “I love the glimpses of the world I see through your eyes.”

  Wow, this was like that scene in that movie where the guy is super moved by the beauty of a plastic bag blowing in the wind. Except it was my penis. I wasn't entirely sure how to respond, apart from, y’know, graciously because he’d given me a compliment. “Um, thank you.”

  Caspian gave me a tense little smile. And I was still sitting there, with his dick in my hand. So far Operation Hand Job wasn’t anything close to the gently erotic experience I’d had in mind. In fact, it was hard to imagine how it could have gone worse without one of us sustaining actual physical injury. Or my mum and his mum walking in on us simultaneously. Probably the sensible thing to do at this point was give up.

  But fuck sensible. And fuck giving up. I’d damn near demanded Caspian’s trust. And so far all I’d done with it was intimidate him with my array of personal lubricants and get defensive about my masturbatory habits.

  I had to fix this.

  Obviously I needed to say something reassuring. Although the only things I could think of—just relax, it’s going to be okay—made it sound like I was about to laser off a verruca or give him a colonic irrigation.

  “Okay,” I announced. “Hand job time.”

  Caspian gave a splutter of amusement.

  Which, y’know, was better than nothing. I’d lost ground in erection terms, but I wasn’t too concerned. If anything, it was part of the experience: coaxing him languorously to arousal between my palms. As far as I could tell, most people jerked off as if they were late for an orgasm appointment. Me, I took the scenic route. And, soon enough, Caspian was with me for the journey, his cock hot and hard, silky with lube, and shudderingly responsive to my caresses.

  I didn’t actually have any magic wanking techniques. And who had time for all that “make an O with your thumb and index finger” Cosmo nonsense? It was about paying attention. Taking your time. Enjoying what you were doing. And, God, was I enjoying myself. Ther
e was an intimacy to this that I absolutely loved.

  I mean, of course there were a bunch of ways to get intimate with someone else’s cock—but the thing about having one inside you was that it was difficult to really appreciate the, well, the subtleties. The flushes of color that rushed over the head. The tender stretch of the foreskin, with its dark, dancing veins. All the places he was extra sensitive. The puzzle-box of touches that made him arch and drip, and turned his breathing ragged.

  “Arden?”

  I glanced up dreamily. “Yes?”

  “Talk to me.”

  For a second or two, I was topic bereft. But then I realized he probably didn’t want to discuss the political situation in Syria. Keep me with you, he’d told me once. Slipping a hand under his balls, I treated them to some attention. “How’s this feel? Good?”

  “That’s not talking to me. That’s asking me things.”

  “It’s engaging you in conversation. It counts.” To make my point, I lightly circled the exposed delta of tissue on the underside of his shaft.

  And he threw an arm across his face and smothered a groan. This lovely raw sound, too sweet for pain.

  “You’re still okay with this, right?” I asked.

  “I am.” His head moved restlessly against the pillow. “Though I’m at a loss to understand what you’re getting out of it.”

  “Are you kidding me? I get to watch you and touch you and please you.” I shifted my grip, giving him long, sensuous strokes. Building pleasure like a fire in winter. “I am pleasing you, aren’t I?”

  “Y-yes.” He swallowed a gasp. He was such a tantalizing collection of contrasts just then: the sharp lines of his drawn-tight muscles and his bliss-softened mouth half hidden by the shadow of his wrist. I hoped he felt beautiful because he was. He so was.

  He made me want to be an octopus. I mean, not actually. Japanese wood carvings aside, he probably wouldn’t have been into me anymore. But I could seriously have used some extra arms. He was all ridges and grooves, sweat-gleam upon straining skin, and I yearned to stroke him everywhere. Smooth my palms over his trembling stomach. Press my fingers into the damp hollows behind his collarbones. Gentle his struggles as well as inspire them.

  His fist clenched in the sheets. “Arden?”

  “I’m right here. It’s all right.” It was an inane thing to say considering what was happening, but apparently it was what I had. “You’re doing so well. You’re wonderful.”

  Honestly, I didn’t know what the fuck I was going on about. Except, with the same instinct that had once sent me to my knees on a balcony in Oxford, some part of me recognized it was what he needed.

  “Look at me,” I whispered.

  A tremor shook his whole body. “I can’t.”

  “Please.”

  “Don’t.”

  “You need to. You need to see.” I worked him steadily, lavishing him with all the care my hands could give. “You need to see what I do when I look at you.”

  He was right on the edge of orgasm. I could feel him there, a dancer not yet dancing, though I wasn’t the one holding him back. He stirred agitatedly, his spine bowing, hips bucking, one foot braced against the bed. Until, at last, he pulled his arm away. His face was flushed with hectic pleasure and damp with desperation, moisture matted into the hair at his brow, and glittering on his lashes. Even wrecked, he was lovely—one of those naughty seventeenth-century poems I hadn’t revised properly. Delight in disorder and all that.

  His eyes found mine—wary enough to break my heart. But it was okay. I gazed at him, full of submission and hope and love and certainty. Because I knew that even if he caught only the reflected shadow of everything inside in me, it would still be enough. And he’d understand that I was his and he was mine, and could be everything that mattered.

  “You’re perfect,” I told him. “I wish you knew. How beautiful you are. And how strong and kind. How good—”

  He made a broken sound and came, trembling frantically, covering my fingers and his own stomach. And, for the briefest of moments, he let me see: his pleasure in all its nakedness, before he retreated behind his arm.

  Grabbing my T-shirt from the floor, I cleaned us up and then went to retrieve the duvet. My preference would have been insta-snuggling, but I thought he might appreciate a minute or two to himself. And, sure enough, when I came back he seemed a lot more put together. Which was a shame because I liked him sex-rumpled. And a little bit unraveled.

  I cast the duvet over the bed and bounced up beside him, hoping everything was still okay. The seesaw of equanimity had clearly decided it was my turn to get anxious because suddenly I was convinced he was going to resent what had just happened. Or have some terrible reaction to it he hadn’t seen fit to tell me about.

  Instead, he turned my face to his and kissed me. It wasn’t rough, but it was bone-meltingly deep, and I surrendered to it gratefully. To the gentle dominion of lips and teeth and tongue.

  When he finally let me go, I realized I was oddly wobbly. Happy-wobbly, like after he’d spanked me that time. The same sense of being stripped down somehow, as if he’d taken a pumice stone to my soul, and left me fresh and shiny and vulnerable. It made no sense because what we’d done had been so different…or, actually, maybe it hadn’t.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled. “That was amazing. The best.”

  “But what about you?”

  “What about me? Oh, you mean…” It seemed a bit weird to be turning down sexual attention but I kind of felt like I’d had sexual attention. “I’m okay.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair.”

  “You gave me what I needed, just like always. How isn’t it fair?”

  He made an unconvinced noise.

  “I’d rather cuddle and share your afterglow. Err, you do have afterglow, right? I gave you an afterglow?”

  “Yes. I’m”—he blushed—“glowy.”

  My eyes got big and hopeful. “Is cuddling an option?”

  He answered by pulling me into his arms. I tucked in as close as I dared, sinking into his warmth, and letting the scent of his skin—sweat, sex, the fading notes of his cologne, and something I recognized as purely him—wash over me.

  “Though I think I might want a cigarette,” he murmured, after a minute or two.

  I partially de-nestled. “I’ll go.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of getting them myself.”

  “Well, I know that. But I want to. Where are they?”

  “Jacket pocket.”

  I kissed the corner of his mouth, scrambled out of bed, and went looking. As love-quests went it was minor—I didn’t meet any fantastical beasts or get my head chopped off—but I liked being able to do something for him. It seemed…domestic. The sort of small task a partner might do. I even remembered to grab a saucer for the ash.

  Wow, I was the best.

  “Can I light it for you?” I asked, on my triumphant return.

  One of his eyebrows twitched upward. “I think you might be overestimating the power of your hand job. It was very nice, but I’m still functional.”

  “I just thought it would be romantic.” I grinned at him in what I hoped was an appealing fashion. “You know, like Bogart and Bacall, Davis and Henreid, Grant and Scott. I mean, unless you think I’ll set your face on fire or something?”

  “I don’t think you’ll set my face on fire.” He took the packet of cigarettes I’d brought him, drew one out of the foil, and put it to his lips.

  And, obviously, smoking was bad and everyone knew it was bad…but he looked so sexy. Half naked, stretched out in bed, still languid with post-orgasmic sensuality: this perfect embodiment of old Hollywood glamour, except nobody had to pretend they were straight.

  I fumbled a match out of the box. “I should light one for me too, and then we could put the tips together and do it that way.”

  “I’m not letting you smoke.”

  “Um, is it up to you?”

  “Since they’re my cigarettes, yes.” But then
he smiled unexpectedly. “Besides, you’re terrible at it, Arden. And I’d rather you didn’t take up an unhealthy habit.”

  “It’s your unhealthy habit.”

  “Indeed. And there are many other aspects of my life I would prefer you didn’t repeat.”

  I blinked at him. “Really? You don’t think I should aspire to be rich, successful, brilliant, and gorgeous?”

  “I think you should be exactly who you are. Including all the ways you are not like me.”

  I couldn’t quite untangle what was a compliment and what wasn’t. But I was getting distracted anyway. I didn’t actually want to smoke—I was just getting bratty because I’d been told I couldn’t. And it was extra-nonsensical because Caspian not wanting me to get cancer and die was hardly the height of oppression. So I stopped arguing and lit his cigarette for him. And I didn’t make a total hash of it. Yay.

  Caspian was pretty casual about the whole thing, but I was strangely touched. Maybe because I was thinking of Oxford again. His smoking had been this private ritual then and he’d seemed like an impossible fantasy of a man, as beyond me as the stars and the golden towers. Except the truth of him was so much more.

  Making sure the match was out, I dropped the box on the bedside cabinet and snugged up next to Caspian. Watched the curls of smoke drifting from between his lips. Was it wrong that I found it hot? Of course, I would have preferred him to have a non-harmful hobby, but I don’t think he did it enough for it to be very damaging.

  “Are you going to stay?” I said, instead.

  “If you’d like to me to.”

  “Hmm, let me think about it. Yes.”

  He laughed, but quickly turned serious again. “I can’t promise to…to be the best sleeping companion.”

  “I’ll, um, try not to flip out this time.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m incredibly jet-lagged anyway. I probably won’t notice if you slip out to join a mariachi band.”

  He stubbed out his cigarette, put the saucer to one side, and drew me fully into his arms. “Then you should sleep, my Arden.”

  “Will you?” I brushed a finger against the corner of his eye. “You look tired too.”