Crave Me: A Billionaire Boss Romance

by Amy Brent

  Stella had been modeling since she was six—her skin and hair were tawny and the perfect blend of white, black, Hispanic, Arab, and Greek features made up her face: the little snub button-nose, the wide gold-and-green-rimmed eyes, and thick luscious lips with high cheekbones. It was easy to see why everybody wanted to fuck her, but Stella had always demurred when they went out together, telling the guy who was hitting on her to see if Alisha wouldn’t be more willing.

  Alisha couldn’t understand why Stella did that. Stella may have been the pretty one but Alisha was the one who always seemed to have a boyfriend—ever since she was sixteen she’d never gone longer than two weeks without a man in her life. So it wasn’t as if she was free to date whatever guy Stella dumped into her lap, even if he was cute and hot and had biceps bigger than her thighs. And anyway, a dancer’s life wasn’t exactly conducive to being in a relationship. The only reason she and Calvin had lasted as long as they had was because they were both in the same dance company, though they danced different styles so they mostly did different shows. But the dedication to the physicality of their art demanded a lot from them, and until they’d gotten together the longest relationship Alisha had been in was two months—and that was with the man who would later become her stepbrother.

  “There’s my girl,” Stella called, as her head appeared above the floor. The rest of her quickly followed: she was wearing a sheath dress, with leaves on top of nude panels that had been dyed to match her skin so that it looked as if she were in graver danger of exposing a nipple than she actually was. “Happy birthday!”

  “Thanks,” Alisha said. “Let me get changed,” she said.

  “What are you wearing?” asked Stella, as she came in. “I hope it’s something hot.”

  “I can’t decide,” Alisha said, beckoning Stella into her bedroom. “This one—” a slinky, strapless number, covered in iridescent green sequins “—or this one,” a gauzy, shapeless dress that was just translucent enough to suggest that there might not be anything underneath; Alisha had paired it with underwear that matched her skin tone—a rich, dark brown—to complete the effect, though with her skin tone it was impossible to tell if she was wearing anything underneath it anyway.

  “Go with the white one,” said Stella, without hesitating. Alisha grinned—she’d favored the white one, too, but she hadn’t been sure she could pull it off. “Nothing underneath it, though.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. Fuck, girl, you’re twenty—one. If you can’t live a little why we taking you out?”

  “All right, fine,” Alisha said. She shooed Stella out and slid out of her clothes Alisha took a moment to stare at her naked body in the mirror. Curves—she had breasts and hips and muscles on her thighs and calves—stared back at her. For a moment she questioned Stella’s judgment in picking out the diaphanous dress, but when she put it on she was glad she listened. In the dress she looked airy—delicate, even. What costumers never understood about her when they came up with her costumes was how to enhance her curves without making her seem overly huge and busty and heavier than she actually was. Hard enough being the only black female dancer in the New Haven Dance Company—that the costumes never looked right on her added insult to injury. It was a relatively long dress—and though it was breezy it also draped nicely so unless there was a stiff breeze nobody would see. She could make this work, and as she stepped out Stella nodded her approval, saying, “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  “I feel like I’m going to flash someone,” said Alisha.

  “You probably will,” said Stella. “The key is to control it.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You look lovely,” Stella said, handing her a pair of sandals. They were little more than two pieces of leather with a mess of silver cords holding them in place, running up her leg.

  “Christ, I do this enough at my job,” Alisha grumbled, as she laced the shoes up to her knees the same way she tied her ballet shoes.

  “Yeah, but you don’t look this hot,” said Stella. “I have seen you dance—you are beautiful, but you ain’t sexy up there on that stage.”

  “That’s the point,” Alisha said. But Stella only winked and started heading out. “Makita will meet us at the bar,” Stella said, while they headed down the stairs.

  Thank God. Makita was the sensible one: she’d majored in accounting and worked in something finance-related. The stories about women who grew up and moved out to the ‘burbs—that was Makita, who’d Succeeded. Stella could get into some pretty wild shit—with Makita along at least the damage would be contained. “Isn’t she pregnant?” Alisha asked.

  “Yeah, but they make mocktails these days,” said Stella.

  The Blue Diamond was one of the fancier nightclubs in New Haven. Alisha had never been inside it—she couldn’t afford the cover, never mind the cost of drinks, but Stella had somehow gotten her hands on a VIP pass and she’d promised Alisha that she could get them in without any problem. On this night, as with most nights, there was a line a mile long, and Stella waltzed right up to the bouncer, with Alisha in tow, and flashed a gold card at him. “Right,” the bouncer said, stepping aside and undoing the velvet rope. “But not your friend.”

  “Oh, but it’s her birthday,” Stella pouted.

  “Sorry, I don’t make the rules—”

  “But if she’s not in there with me, how can we do this?” asked Stella, right before planting a kiss on Alisha’s lips. Alisha, surprised as she was by the kiss, was even more surprised to find that she liked the feeling of Stella’s tongue against her lips, and the grasping, gasping little tugs of Stella’s mouth against hers. A ring of shouts and hoots went up around them, but all Alisha could feel was the delicate play of Stella’s tongue on hers, and feel Stella’s hand warm on her breast, her fingers teasing the nipple so that it tented the fabric of her dress. Stella’s hand slid Alisha’s dress higher and higher up her side, and the coldness of the air against her pussy pulled Alisha back into what was happening. A shock of mortification went through her, but much to her surprise when Stella broke away all Alisha could think was More.

  The bouncer was visibly flustered, and then Stella guided Alisha’s hand to her own breast, moaning, “You don’t want the party to get boring now, do you?”

  Finally, the bouncer shooed them both in. Stella blew him a kiss as they stepped past the ropes. “I’ve got to get one of those cards,” said Alisha, trying not to show how rattled she was by the kiss that Stella had planted on her.

  The inside of the club was dark, black lights and neon lights flashing all over the place. It was too early for the dancing to start, but there was already a sizeable crowd around the edge of the dance space. Club music was pumping through the sound system, a steady thoomp thoomp that stirred the dancer in her, and she could feel her body began to sway to the beat.

  “Sure, babe,” said Stella, waving. There was Makita, at a booth, a glass in front of her. She didn’t look the least bit pregnant, and as they exchanged kisses and hugs Alisha wondered what was the polite thing to say about her figure.

  “Hey Makita, tell the birthday girl what she has to do to earn one of these VIP passes.”

  Makita laughed. “All you have to do is eat out the owner’s pussy in a way that makes her come.”

  “Quit it,” Alisha said, feeling a blush start over her body. She didn’t like to be reminded that she was the youngest of the three—and she especially didn’t want them to find out that she’d been with Calvin for six months and she was still a virgin. Stella would probably go down on her right then and there.

  “It’s true,” Stella said. “She’s very particular. If you think you have the skills—”

  “So what’s the deal with the tequila?” Alisha asked, a little too loudly. Happily, Makita began telling her about the ritual—shot, salt, lime. It’s a good thing I’m a dancer, Alisha thought. She wondered how people who were drunk managed. “People who are drunk don’t order tequila,” Makita said, gues
sing her thoughts.

  Stella merely winked. The waitress came around and when she found out that it was Alisha’s birthday she brought out a shot glass of something blue and purple, and set it on fire. “Happy birthday,” said the waitress, winking at Alisha.

  “Ooh, she wants to tap that,” Stella said, as Alisha watched the flames die out. “Drink up!”

  Alisha took a deep breath and tossed back the concoction—surprisingly and pleasantly sour—in one gulp, trying not to sputter when the alcohol stung her throat and eyes. Stella laughed and clapped her on the back. “Now that’s how you celebrate turning twenty-one!” she cried, tears streaming down her face, she was laughing so hard.

  Alisha could feel the booze working its way through her, the first tendrils already winding their way through her mind, loosening her thoughts and spreading a smile across her face. “So, you still with Calvin?” asked Makita, as they waited for their tequilas to arrive.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “You like him?”

  “I guess,” she said. “I mean, he’s a nice guy and all, but I can’t stand the way he touches me. It’s like he’s trying to push a button, literally. It’s awkward and horrible and we’ve been together six months and we’ve never had sex.”

  “You know what your problem is?” asked Stella. “You don’t know how to masturbate.”

  At that moment their tequilas arrived, lime wedges and little bowls of salt. An awkward silence settled between them as they waited for the waitress to finish setting down the drinks. Makita ordered some cheese-bread, whatever the hell that was—Alisha was too infuriated with Stella to care that Makita was ordering carbs.

  “I do know how to please myself,” Alisha hissed, even though she suddenly realized that she’d never actually done it. She grew up in the projects—she and her mother and brother and sister had shared a one-bedroom, and there wasn’t much privacy there. Or anywhere, for that matter—the dance academy had even less privacy, four girls sharing one room. Now that she was living on her own it’d simply never crossed her mind to touch herself.

  “Sure,” Stella said, breezily. “There’s knowing, babe—and then there’s knowing,” she said, leaning into Alisha and sliding her hand up her dress and brushing her finger against the edges of her Alisha’s cunt. Alisha felt a shudder run up her spine. Stella pulled her knees apart. “That’s right,” Stella said, taking her hand and guiding it between her legs, sending a little shiver of pleasure right up her spine. In front of them a group of guys began to stare eagerly, their eyes taking in everything, noticing the flash of pink between her legs before Stella tugged her dress back over her knees.

  “Come on,” Makita said, taking up the the salt. “Bottoms up.”

  It was over faster than she’d thought it would be: drink, salt, bite of the lime. The flavors melted together through the burning alcohol and once again there was a pleasantness that began to seep its way through her. And despite the strangers watching her, pointing at her, Alisha wanted to feel that little shiver again. She felt her knees falling open again, the giddiness taking over—what could possibly go wrong if she were to touch herself? She’d attracted quite a crowd—Stella and Makita had to push the table away from them so that they would keep their distance. “No touching, boys,” Stella was saying. “Tonight she’s flying solo.”

  Makita reached over and untied the halter top, and the dress fell away to her waist, exposing her breasts for all to see, and with Stella’s guidance Alisha found her hand squeezing her own breast, pinching her own nipples, tugging them into tight little nuggets on her breasts. It was strange, how titillating the sensation was, how happy feeling her fingers on her nipples made her, how the excitement began to rise and swell from those two points on the tips of her breasts. Stella moved Alisha’s other hand between her legs, and when she whisked the fabric of Alisha’s dress up to her waist the coldness of the air on her pussy prompted a rush of heat and Alisha felt her hand grow warm and slick as she found the tender nub of her clit with her fingers.

  The first touch set off an electric shiver all throughout her body. She felt her eyes roll closed of their own accord as her fingers worked their way around the folds between her legs, gently prodding and eliciting sensations of liquid fire through her body. The world around her faded to one point, that rising swell of pure ecstasy that was pushing its way through her body and suddenly flooded her veins, so much that she was afraid that she was going to burst like the stars that were blinking in her mind’s eye.

  And then it was over—her body turned into Jell-O, and Stella’s and Makita’s hands were the only thing keeping her in the seat. Around her, the people who’d been staring at her were applauding. Stella pulled her dress back over her breasts. “Welcome to womanhood,” she whispered in Alisha’s ear.

  Alisha suddenly realized what she’d done, but even though she knew she should be mortally ashamed, she only felt pride, a faint glow of achievement flushing her cheeks. “I have to go to the bathroom,” she said, as she got up.

  The men who’d been watching her parted before her—one man slid his hand over her breasts but she grabbed his hand and slapped him, and all around them the men and women booed him. He fell back, chastised. That was the power of being a woman, and when Stella took her back to her place she realized she’d gotten her orgasm—and so much more. There was something incredibly freeing about having been truly seen and found beautiful—she fairly skipped up the stairs to her apartment that evening, wondering what the next day would bring.

  Calvin came over to her place before dinner the next night. She’d been expecting Stella again, which was why she’d buzzed him upstairs without asking who it was. As soon as she saw the blond curls, though, she knew she’d made a mistake—and that he’d heard about what she’d done last night.

  “Calvin,” she said, as coolly as she could manage.

  “Alisha,” he said. He had his hand behind his back as he came up to her. He had an earnest look on his face, now more so than ever—when they first met he reminded her of a puppy, sweet and innocent, and she’d thought that was a facade. But as they grew together she realized that it wasn’t just a facade—he really was a sweet man, which was why she hadn’t had the heart to break up with him even though he had yet to give her any satisfaction.

  Now, his face was strangely grim, and she found herself precariously close to hoping that he was handing her a breakup note. But instead he handed her a box: four chocolates from Godiva, and a rose. “Happy belated birthday,” he said, his voice sounding oddly strangled.

  She blinked, surprised, and let him in. It was the least she could do, given that he seemed disinclined to make a fuss about her masturbating in front of a crowd last night. She at least owed him a civil breakup, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t feel bad about it. He’d done nothing wrong, after all. He’d agreed to wait until she was ready for sex—he planned interesting and fun dates, and when they hit the dance floors together she could tell that the passion between them was real. His touch was certain yet delicate, and his body felt sensuous and strong against hers when they danced together—but he’d never been one for true public affection, and while they got hot and horny on the dance floor, the ardor never translated into their private moments.

  “I heard about last night,” he said, as she set a glass of water down in front of him. He was more disciplined than she was: no booze, no sugar, only whole grains if he had to have carbs. “That must have been interesting.”

  “Look,” she said. “I know you mean well. I like you, I really do—you’re a great guy and one day you’ll make the right girl—”

  “You are the right girl,” he said. “Don’t you feel it?”

  She didn’t say anything. They’d started out romantically enough, but lately, she’d found herself getting frustrated with the way he touched her. It had been one thing when they were first dating—she could forgive a few clumsy advances—but it was six months and he still hadn’t figure out that treating her nipple
s like the joysticks of an X-Box simply didn’t do it for her. She’d given him blow jobs that had him coming so hard and so much it looked as if she were frothing at the mouth, and tried to show him the kind of touches that would turn her on. For some reason, as gifted as he was at commanding the stage, though, he never quite managed to figure out how to please her, and after last night, she’d come to the realization that she didn’t need a man to make her feel like a woman.

  “Honestly, Cal—you’re a great guy, but you just don’t do it for me,” she said.

  “And you think you can get off for the rest of your life with vibrators?” he snapped.

  She flushed. After what had happened last night, she’d taken the dance floor with Stella, and the feel of Stella’s hands on her breasts, gently squeezing as Stella guided her to follow along with her movements, had awakened an awareness in her about what it meant to be touched. Alisha, up until last night, had been willing to accept that one night she would get drunk enough and Calvin would touch her and she would simply accept sex with him because he was her boyfriend. But now—now that she understood what it meant to be touch and be touched, and the power behind a single finger, carefully placed, simply accepting that he would fumble at her while she moaned and groaned and pretended to enjoy it seemed like sacrilege. She couldn’t lie to him or herself anymore: she was ready for sex, just not with him.