TRAINWRECK 2: An Alpha Billionaire Romance Inspired by a True Event

by Nelle L'Amour

  Jaime’s smile widened. Pride washed over his face. “Yes. I’m glad you noticed them. When he died, I secretly gathered all his paintings and hid them in storage until I could display them. One day, when I have time, I’m going to exhibit them. I want my father to have the glory he deserved.”

  “They’re pretty amazing.”

  “You’re pretty amazing, Ms. Long.”

  Gripping my shoulders, he spun me around and crushed his beautifully etched lips onto mine with a bruising, passionate kiss. A moan escaped my throat as he deepened the kiss with his velvety tongue. Oh, God, he tasted divine! Our tongues danced, swirling together in figure eights. Tingles shot down my body, from my head to my toes. I swear if we weren’t in a public place, I would have let this masterpiece of a man fuck me right here and now and let the Mona Lisa watch with her magic eyes.

  After a late lunch at a nearby café and another long, delicious tongue-driven kiss, Jaime and I went our separate ways. He to visit that client, who I still didn’t trust, and I to visit the Gloria’s Secret store on the busy Champs-Elysées.

  I was happy to see that our first Paris store was bustling with customers. I took special satisfaction in knowing that even Parisian women were gobbling up our reasonably priced American-made lingerie when they had the most exquisite underwear in the world at their fingertips. I found Sandrine quickly. Dressed in head to toe black with the exception of a colorful silk scarf knotted around her neck, the slim, spiky-haired woman epitomized French chic. She was showing a young attractive sales girl how to re-stack bikinis and bras after they had been mussed up by customers. I found it so annoying that customers were often such slobs, with no sympathy for the low-paid, hard-working sales assistants who had to clean up after their damage.

  Sandrine spotted me immediately and ran over to me with open arms. We exchanged a typically French double cheek embrace.

  “Ça va?” she asked.

  “Ça va bien.” I replied. “Merci beaucoup for helping me with Madame Paulette’s burial.”

  “Pas de problème. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Like many Europeans, Sandrine spoke perfect English though she liked to throw in a little French. I, in turn, could conduct a conversation with her in French, thanks to Madame Paulette’s tutelage.

  Sandrine was one of my favorite and most respected store managers. She was bright, organized, and always one step ahead. She ran the store with both a smile and an iron fist. Recently, at the age of thirty-two, she had become engaged to a successful, handsome doctor.

  “Do you have a little time? I’d love to take you out for a drink to thank you for helping me and to celebrate your engagement.”

  “For you, I always have zee time,” she said brightly.

  We ended up going to a lively café that was a few doors down from the store. Over champagne, we caught up on business and then moved on to personal stuff. She was getting married in April—it was going to be a big Jewish wedding at her family’s country home in Provence.

  “My maman eez driving me crazy!” she sighed. “Everything she loves, I detest. Can you imagine… she wants jars of butterflies on every table that zee guests will set free after we say our vows!”

  I laughed lightly. “At least you have a mother who cares about you,” I countered. A wistful expression fell over me. Sandrine was one of the few people, other than Kevin and Madame Paulette, who knew about my crack whore mother.

  She twitched a guilty smile. “You’re right. She means well.” She sipped her champagne. “I hope you will come.”

  I let her know I wouldn’t miss it for the world. A big smile spread across her face.

  “What about you, Gloria? Eez there anyone new in your life?”

  Blushing, I shook my head and said, “Not really.”

  “Gloria, I don’t believe you. Your face gives eet away. Spill zee beans as you Americans say.”

  Draining my champagne, I broke down and told her all about Jaime—including the complications with Victor and Vivien, who she openly despised.

  “Mon dieu! This eez heavy. But I would have given my tongue to zee cat to see Vivien’s expression when she saw you and Jaime kissing at zee restaurant. La putain!”

  I couldn’t stop laughing. She’d just called Vivien a whore! Like Kevin, Sandrine could be so brutally honest. And a bit wicked. That’s why I adored her.

  “So what does Monsieur Zahn-deur look like?”

  The way she breathily said his name with her French accent sent me over the moon. I described Jaime to her, from head to toe, as if he were a painting in The Louvre. The words came so easy. In my mind, he was a work of art.

  “He sounds like a hottie!”

  I giggled. Usually the word “hottie” made me cringe, but the way she said it—HAH-tee—was charming. My cheeks heated.

  My delightful French friend and colleague took a sip of her champagne. “Gloria, are you in love with him?”

  “I’ve only known him for a week.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  A loud sigh escaped my lungs.

  “Ah, Gloria, you are! You are! Mazel tov!”

  I remembered Madame Paulette once telling me that sometimes l’amour slinks up to you like a cat; other times it attacks you like a lion. Jaime Zander was a sexy beast who had all but consumed me. I could no longer deny my feelings. Yes, I was hopelessly, helplessly head over heels in love with him.

  My heart began to roar at the very thought of him touching me. Longing and lust surged through my body. I grasped my friend’s French manicured hand and murmured, “Sandrine, what should I do?”

  “It eez simple. Don’t let him go.”

  I smiled back. It never ceased to amaze me how wise French women were.

  “But don’t tell him you love him until he tells eet to you.” More words of wisdom.

  The check came. As we hugged good-bye, my sage friend whispered into my ear, “I’ll see the future Monsieur and Madame Zahn-deur at my wedding.”

  When I got back to our hotel room, three dozen long-stemmed red roses, arranged in three tall crystal vases, awaited me. My heart melted. Mr. Zander was true to his word and a romantic.

  I dipped my nose into one of the bouquets and inhaled deeply. The scent was divine. Intoxicating just like him.

  “Hey.”

  At the sound of his voice, I straightened up and caught sight of him stepping out of the bathroom. He was wearing nothing but a white towel wrapped around his hips. My eyes zeroed in on the deep “V” that emanated from it and then traveled up over his washboard abs and toned pecs. My gaze met his, and my breathing hitched.

  “They’re beautiful!”

  “My biceps?”

  Conceited fuck! I scrunched my nose.

  “No, the roses.”

  “Thanks.” He cocked a bashful smile as though the flowers were an embarrassing afterthought. Our eyes stayed locked on one another. Silence. My sex was throbbing, my heart pounding. I wanted to be lost in him. Neither of us moved. The seconds felt like hours.

  “Get over here, you,” he said at last, and in a heartbeat, I was in his arms. We were at each other as if an apocalypse was dawning. Kissing, groping, stroking, licking. He lifted my sweater over my head, unable to get it off fast enough. Panting, I kicked off my ballet flats and said good-bye to my leggings. The towel fell off his torso, and we were fused together, flesh to flesh. With his mouth locked on mine, he walked me backward until I was sandwiched between him and a wall.

  “Wrap your legs around me, angel,” he said, lifting me off my feet.

  Our eyes level, I did as he asked, looping my long legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. He gripped my ass to support me. Between my thighs, I felt his hot cock line up with my opening. “Gloria, you don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to have you like this.”

  “Shut up and fuck me.” I couldn’t believe my own words. I was begging for him.

  “I’m going to give it to you hard.”

  Oh, yes!

 
“Promise me you’ll scream my name like it’s the only word you know.”

  “Girl Scout’s honor!” I gasped even though I’d never been one.

  Satisfied, he slammed into me with a powerful thrust pushing me into the wall with the force of his body. We both cried out with carnal pleasure. As he got into a rhythm, he latched his hungry lips back onto mine, and I moved my hands to his face, cupping it in my palms. Our kiss deepened, our tongues locking together in an erotic dance. We moaned and groaned into each other’s mouths.

  I squeezed my legs tighter around him as he picked up his pace. My breasts skimmed his chest, and my clit was pressed tight against his pubic bone, making the sensation of every deep thrust so much more intense. I was a sweaty, whimpering bundle of bliss on the verge of a major orgasm.

  “Angel, I can’t fucking get enough of you,” he breathed against my mouth.

  And I couldn’t get enough of him. The words, “I love you” were on the tip of my tongue, but I bit down on it to hold them in. Sandrine was right. He had to say them first. I drank in his sexy, heated face, longing for those three little words to form on his lips.

  “Do I feel good?” he asked instead, his breathing harsh.

  “Yes!” I cried. I was losing all control, a breath away from detonating.

  “Good. I’m going to give you what you want.” He rewarded with me with a squeeze of my clit, and that’s all it took. I screamed his name for the first time over and over as an intense explosion of fireworks sprayed my core. He ground into me and came hard, shouting my name. I could feel his hot release pouring down my already drenched thighs. He rested his glistening forehead on mine, our heated breaths mingling. I stroked his damp hair.

  “Fuck, Gloria. That was even better than I imagined,” he said hoarsely.

  Confession: Wall banging was something I’d fantasized about ever since he’d mentioned it in his conference room. It had exceeded my expectations too. It was like a thrill ride—the kind you had to hold on to tightly or you might fall off. The experience was in a word: mind-blowing.

  His breathing almost back to normal, he transferred my limp, glistening body into his arms and licked his upper lip. “I’m not done with you, Ms. Long.”

  This man was insatiable. Though spent, I wasn’t done with him either. I wanted more. As he carried me away, the wildfire inside me burnt out of control, consuming every part of me. Sandrine was right. Even if he hadn’t said the three magic words, I couldn’t let him go.

  We fucked our brains out again in the shower and then we hopped into his bed, minty clean, naked, and wasted. He spooned me into his body, wrapping one sculpted arm around my chest. The deft fingers of his other hand glided along my folds.

  “You’re always wet for me, Gloria.”

  “You’re not going to fuck me again?” I asked, trying to imagine what it would feel like in this cuddly position. It felt delicious to be blanketed by his warm body, and I was quite frankly unsure if I could handle another mind-blowing assault.

  He nuzzled the nape of my neck. “No, angel, not even if you begged for it. We need to rest up for dinner and the surprise I have in store.”

  “What kind of surprise?” The word made me buzz with lust and curiosity.

  “Come on, it wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you. Now, close your eyes.”

  Obeying him, I was shrouded in his scent, his breath, his touch. I reflected on this shift in power. Being dominated by a man was something new for me—uncharted territory. As I drifted off, I had to admit I was more than enjoying it. I loved it. And I loved him. Only one question weighed on my heart: Did he love me?

  The restaurant Jaime took me to was an intimate neighborhood bistro, walking distance from the hotel. With its candlelit, red-checkered tablecloth tables and funky outsider art on the walls, it was definitely not the kind of restaurant where you’d find Victor Holden. Chances were he was holding court with his business associate and some hired high-priced female escorts at some posh club on the Right Bank.

  We sat side by side like true Parisians along a red leather banquet. His thigh brushed against mine and our shoulders touched. When he turned to speak or look at me, his warmth breath grazed my flesh. He smelled delicious and looked as sexy as sin. He was clad in all black—elegantly tailored, belted wool slacks and a form-fitting cashmere sweater that clung to his prominent biceps and showed off broad, chiseled chest. Mr. Fucking Continental! I was wearing my blue chiffon dress, the one I’d worn when we went to dinner in New York with matching blue lace lingerie. Jaime had insisted I wear it along with my hair down; the least I could do was oblige. It was a small concession but nonetheless piqued my curiosity.

  “Why this outfit?” I asked after a sip of the expensive Côtes du Rhône white wine he’d ordered.

  “Because, Ms. Long, it makes you very surprise-worthy.”

  A shiver zigzagged down my spine. He still hadn’t given me a clue into the surprise he had planned. Though I was sure it had to do with lifting up the skirt of my dress and doing some very naughty things. My nerve endings tingled at the thought of the possibilities. While the meal in front of me, a delicate poisson au beurre, looked delectable, I had a hard time eating it when I knew this gorgeous man was totally eye-fucking me. His denim blue eyes burnt into mine. I squirmed, my panties soaking with desire while my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

  He smirked at me, knowing damn well he was affecting me. I kept waiting for him to make a move. The surprise. My gaze drank in his searing eyes and that sexy, slightly parted mouth that was longing for a taste of me. My body was crackling all over with anticipation. Seated so intimately close to each other, a kiss was just inches away. And that was just for starters.

  I finally managed a bite of my fish. It was delicious. Jaime watched as I savored the flavorful, buttery fillet.

  “So how did you learn to fuck, Gloria?” he asked before I could swallow.

  I almost gagged. I was certainly not prepared for that conversation game changer.

  Genetics. My mother was a crack whore.

  “I’ve been around,” I managed after regaining my composure and feeling assured I wouldn’t regurgitate my food. We turned at once to face each other.

  He cocked a brow. “What does that mean?”

  “I fucked a lot of guys when I moved to LA.”

  “Anyone serious?”

  “No just a bunch of fucks.” Heartless fucks—none of which had ever given me an orgasm. Not even a mild one. It was a just stupid phase I went through to keep my mind off the heinous crime I’d committed back East. My secret. Once Gloria’s Secret took off, I had little time or interest in any kind of sexual relationship.

  “What about that PR guy of yours?”

  “You mean, Kevin?”

  “Yeah. He’s very good-looking, and seems like he’s really into you.”

  “He happens to be my best friend. He also happens to be gay.” And he’s fucking your assistant Ray.

  A wry smile flickered on his face. “Good. That’s what I thought. I don’t want to share you with anyone.” He sipped his wine. “And what about that boyfriend you were visiting in New York?”

  My eyes widened. I thought he’d seen right through my pathetic white lie, but maybe he’d given it second thought. Score one for me.

  I took a long slug of wine to keep him in suspense.

  He tugged at my hair. His face tensed. “Well…”

  Okay, enough torture. “You don’t have to worry about him.”

  “Good. You know, I’m very possessive. I’ll knock his teeth out and make it so he’ll never be able to put his mouth to yours ever.”

  “You won’t have to,” I reassured him, both intimidated and turned on by his violent, jealous streak. After another morsel of fish, I asked, “And what about you, Mr. Zander? It’s only fair that I get some more insight into your social life.”

  He grinned. “You mean, sex life.” A statement, not a question.

  “Semantics.” I wrinkled my nose at h
im, knowing that turned him on.

  “Let’s put it this way. I’ve probably fucked every model in your Gloria’s Secret catalogue.”

  I almost choked again. Why should I be surprised?

  “But just like you, they were only mindless fucks.”

  That wasn’t good enough. “That could pose another major conflict of interest.” Jealousy scorched through me, thinking that whoever we cast in the new advertising campaign might be someone he’d fucked. Or wanted to fuck. I shuddered at the thought of being just another conquest…the newest member on his find-feel-fuck-and-forget list.

  With a roguish glint in his eyes, Mr. God’s Gift to Models twisted a lock of my loose hair around his index finger. “Don’t worry, Gloria. I plan to use fresh talent. In fact, I’m still convinced that you should be the star.”

  What?

  His eyes traveled from my face to my cleavage and stayed there. “My creative instincts tell me it just feels right.”

  I raised my brows. “I don’t get it.”

  “Think about it, angel. A beautiful, sexy CEO selling what she believes in. It would be breakthrough. And trust me, a camera couldn’t take a bad shot of you. We’ll just have to airbrush that scar of yours that you won’t tell me about.”

  That did it. Before I could ingest another bite of the fish, I choked. Turning red, I immediately reached for my sparkling water and gulped it down.

  “Are you okay?” asked a concerned Jaime.

  “I don’t think so,” I finally managed, trying to wash down the painful memory.

  “Do you want me to take you back to the hotel?”

  “No. I’m fine. I meant about me modeling for the ad campaign.”

  Jaime looked relieved. “Trust me, you’ll change your mind.” He leaned into me and planted a chaste kiss on my forehead, his first physical advance thus far. I inwardly trembled, still reeling from his obsession with my scar and his sexploits. I also wondered if this kiss would lead to my surprise. Any form of sex in this small intimate restaurant made my nerves sizzle.

  To my relief, his advances stopped with the kiss. He continued to talk business, focusing on the timeline and logistics of the shoot. I half-listened, too wrapped up with my newfound insecurities. Feelings never entered the conversation. I was glad when the check came and reached for it.