The Billionaire's Desire (A Billionaire BWWM Steamy Romance)

by Mia Caldwell

  I exploded. "What does that even mean?"

  She turned back to her desk, her hands flitting about nervously, just repeating the words under her breath. "Cold and impersonal. No humanity. No artistry...."

  I had clenched my fists and turned on my heels, storming out of the classroom before the class was even over. I had barely slept all night, and was up before the sun. I got dressed in my favorite handmade pieces...

  And I had headed right to Kingsley Designs.

  Somehow in the past couple of days, this had become my happy place. Hard work was not subjective here. I knew Mr. Kingsley was impressed with me, and I was learning so much about the business of fashion that I could almost forget that flighty professors held my future captive in their fluttering hands.

  “Nakia!

  I snapped out of my reverie and hurried over to Mr. Kingsley's desk. He motioned for me to look at his screen, forcing me to bend over his shoulder, where I was treated to the heady scent of him. I tried not to inhale too deeply as he stabbed the screen with his finger.

  "Do you understand this program?" he groused.

  I looked at the CAD design software he had. It was stuck on an ominous looking warning screen. "I've never used it, no, but it looks similar to the one we use at school."

  "Why the fuck does it keep freezing then? Can you tell me that? I was just working on it when suddenly this box pops up in my face," he stabbed his finger into the screen again, making a ripple in the plasma screen,

  "May I?" I asked.

  He gestured impatiently. "Be my guest," he said pushing himself away from the screen with an exasperated sigh.

  I bent over the keyboard, conscious of the fact that my ass was pointed directly at him. For a moment I hesitated to put myself so clearly on display.

  But instead I wrenched my focus back to the computer. In seconds, I realized what he had done wrong in locking himself out of the program. With a few taps of the keys, I restored the main design screen.

  I could barely suppress my gasp. "Is this one of your new collections, sir?" I exhaled.

  Right away I could see that it was flawless, the lines so perfect, the cut so exquisite, that I knew it would be all the magazines would be able to talk about once he sent it down the runway. Instantly I felt like an amateur. My design instincts were good. Zachary Kingsley's were unparalleled.

  Zack rolled his chair forward. "Just something I've been working on," he said. There was something different about his voice. Something softer.

  I let my eye wander all over this sketch, trying to figure out how he did it. The artistry was evident in every line. I looked closer, breaking apart the pattern pieces in my mind, trying to come up with how it would be cut to achieve the drape he'd created. Then I noticed something a little off..."Oh but I think you've got a little something," I poked my finger at the small imperfection. "Right here there is a little asymmetry you might have missed."

  I went cold the minute I said the words. How stupid could I be? He wouldn't appreciate having his mistake pointed out by a mere intern.

  But instead of getting angry, Mr. Kingsley just smiled and nodded his head. "That's my old dirty string."

  I turned and looked at him, furrowing my brow. "Dirty string, sir?" I asked.

  He leaned back in his chair. I don't think I had ever seen his face so relaxed. "I find perfection boring," Mr. Kingsley said. "It's cold, impersonal. I want my designs to look like they were made by the human hand. To have that warmth that comes with craft."

  I could feel the breath leaving my body. Of course. It all made sense. "But why is it a dirty string?"

  He peered at me. "Have you ever heard the stories about how Amish quilters work?"

  "Um, I think so," I said. I really hadn't, but I wanted him to keep talking. The expression on his face was breathtaking.

  He leaned forward, his eyes shining. "The Amish belief that only God can create perfection. So in every one of their quilts, they deliberately make a mistake, put something out of place. My father told me that story when I was a little boy. He was teaching me how to weave on this huge old loom that we had up in our attic." He smiled at the memory, his voice far off in dreamy. I could almost picture the scene, the light filtering in through a dusty window as old Mr. Kingsley guided his son's hands while he spoke. "He told me that when you run a very vibrant color in your weft, you should always follow that with an "old dirty string." Something rough, a little coarse. Maybe the color is off, or maybe it's even ugly. That piece of dirty string helps make the perfect, vibrant color even more perfect."

  The hard lines around Mr. Kingsley's eyes had softened, his warm mouth was curled into a dreamy smile as he lost himself in his memories. And or the first time I had met him, I saw that his hands were still.

  "Thank you, sir," I said trying to convey just how much he had helped me in only a few words.

  He seemed to come out of his reverie and when he looked up at me, there was a new expression on his face. One of wonder. "Why are you thanking me?" he asked cautiously.

  I couldn't look him in the eye when he was looking at me that way. I focused on the screen, on that gorgeously cut, saffron gown. "I think," I hedged. "I mean, I think you just taught me more about design then anything I ever learned in my Design Techniques class."

  Zach

  ☼ ☼ ☼

  I will admit that I had ulterior motive in calling her over to my desk. Having her bend over my computer screen gave me a chance to study the way her neck swooped into her soft shoulders. When I pushed away from my screen and she bent forward to repair the damage I had done, I treated myself to a long, lascivious look at that juicy rear end of hers.

  Then she knocked me flat on my ass with only her words.

  "I always wondered what it was that was missing in my work," she said dreamily, staring at my sketch like it was the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. "I was just told that it was too cold, too perfect. I worked too damn hard on it not want it to be perfect, but now I understand why my professor said I lacked artistry."

  I shook my head. "Your professor is full of shit," I grumbled, gesturing towards the outfit she was wearing today. "You're a fucking artist, Kia."

  I had never called her by a nickname before. It felt...good.

  She looked down to where I had gestured, the cutest little blush spreading across her caramel cheeks. "Oh this? This is something I made for me, not my classes…"

  I sat forward suddenly, startling her. But she needed to understand. "You made it for yourself. And that's why it's so damn good." I beckoned her towards me. "Come here."

  I didn't mean to order her around but she needed to understand this. She moved towards me her breath coming in short little gasps. My own breath was coming in ragged gasps as well as I slid my hand down the three-quarter length sleeve of the well-tailored jacket that covered her arms. "Take this off," I ordered.

  She nodded mutely, her warm brown eyes fixed on mine as she shrugged out of her blazer. I took the jacket into my hands, and quickly turned it inside out.

  "You put a dart in at the elbows," I exhaled. "That's a vintage technique."

  I looked back up at her. She was in front of me in only her camisole and skirt, but for some reason that was more erotic than if she were standing in front of me completely naked. I swallowed thickly as my eyes traced this smooth, curving lines of her body. Those generous breasts strained against the thin fabric of the camisole, and I could see the delicate lace of her bra just out of my reach. I swallowed again and handed the jacket back, shifting in my seat to hide my raging hard on.

  She shrugged herself quickly into her jacket, covering up that skin again. I felt like ordering her to take it off once more. I had a feeling she would if I told her to.

  But instead she dashed back to her desk and opened the file in front of her with such finality that I knew whatever spell there had been was now broken.

  I turned back to my CAD file and opened it to a new screen. I began sketching without even thinking, jus
t drawing the lines that came to my mind so I could stop thinking about the way her lacy bra had tormented me for that brief second.

  It wasn't until I finished that I realized I had sketched out a gorgeously cut blazer with darts at the elbows.

  Nakia

  ☼ ☼ ☼

  The way he looked at me.

  No one had ever looked at me that way before.

  Standing in front of him in only my camisole felt like the most brazen thing I had ever done. I should have said no. But somehow it had felt right. Like because he asked it of me, I knew I would be okay.

  The heat from his gaze had seared my skin so thoroughly that I could still feel it when I got home and crawled into bed, exhausted. Sleep would not come.

  My insomnia had risen to a fever pitch over the past few days. Night after night I lay staring at the ceiling, listening to the traffic in the street above my basement apartment.

  And as I stared, Zachary Kingsley's face swam above me. I had memorized it in perfect, minute detail, from the little quirk of his lips that signified approval, all the way to the swirl of stubble that darkened his sculpted cheeks. I knew each individual whisker and loved each one of them.

  I was now a devoted student of Zachary Kingsley. I felt I knew him better than I knew myself.

  And from the way he had looked at me, I could almost believe that he wanted to know me too.

  That hope was what pushed me forward. I was the first in the office in the morning and the last to leave at night. I spent my sleepless nights doing bleary-eyed research over my wheezing laptop, sourcing his competitors, studying the trends, being the eyes and ears that he needed on the marketplace in order to regain his lofty stature once more. I would do all of this for Zachary and never expected to get paid. In fact I couldn't believe that I was actually getting college credit to be so close to the man that I now realized I was desperate to be with.

  My body responded in the only way I knew how. Lifelong virginity had taught me a lot about my own desire, and I knew exactly what I needed in order to be able to fall asleep. Only one thing would calm the riot of desire and anticipation in my brain.

  My body cried out to be touched.

  And in the stillness and silence of my solo apartment the only person who could do that was me.

  I rolled over onto my side and traced my hand along my neck where I had felt his gaze. My skin tingled from the memory of his smile as he looked at me. As I brushed my hand down lower, I traced the outline of my breasts, imagining his hands upon them. My whole body broke out into goose bumps at the thought.

  I heard the rush of blood in my ears, louder than the noise outside of my window. I opened my mouth and moaned out the frustrated desire. My fingers wanted to go down, my hand wanted to be clenched between my thighs. My whole core beat a throbbing rhythm, wanting more than wishes to sustain it.

  I wanted him. I wanted him more than I've ever wanted anything in my life. It was a need too great to be ignored.

  When my fingers slipped down below the waistband of my cotton pajamas and into the crease of my soft folds, the heat they found nearly scalded me. I let one slide inside, slowly, just a little dip into the wetness that was growing slicker by the second. Hastily, I yanked my pajama bottoms down and flung them into the darkness of my room.

  The brush of the fabric against the hairs on my upper thighs was enough to make me moan again. I flopped back onto the bed, feeling the softness of the sheets against my bare legs, bicycling them over and over again, entranced by the sensation, but desperate for more of it.

  "Zach," I whispered, biting into my knuckle. It was the first time I had dared speak his first name. Until that moment he was only Mr. Kingsley, or more often 'sir.' Something about the way he strode around the office, accepting deference as his due, made 'sir' seem the most appropriate title.

  I also like the way he smiled when I called him that. And I liked the way it made my body tingle to make him smile.

  The memory of his smile sent my hand between my legs again. My fingers found their mark, and this time it wasn't just an exploration. I pressed frantically into the hardened pearl of my clit, tensing the muscles of my thighs to arch upward into my own hand. My hips bucked upward higher and higher as I rubbed frantically. The little darts of pleasure built and built into a crescendo. I squeezed my eyes shut and raked my free hand over my breast, imagining his lips on my nipple as I tweaked the peak.

  The sudden wave that hit me was more violent and all-consuming than anything I had felt before. My legs shot straight out as the bolt of pure lightning hit me and burned me from the inside out. With a wordless, strangled cry, I lost myself in the waves of pleasure that washed over me like the sea crashing into the shore.

  And then I squeezed my thigh muscles together and gritted my teeth. Because it hadn't been enough. My own fingers knew myself too well. With them I could never experience the feeling of Zachary's body next to mine. This little session had done nothing to dampen the fire of my ardor, it had only fanned the flames.

  And so I rolled back over onto my back, and tried to close my eyes. But sleep was a long time in coming, and morning was very close at hand. I rolled back over and looked at my alarm clock and counted on my fingers.

  Only three more hours until I would get to see him again.

  Zach

  ☼ ☼ ☼

  She was the best damn worker I had ever seen. Besides myself, of course.

  We were working our way through the license agreements, placing frequent calls to my lawyers to find out which clauses could be excised and which ones were airtight. I felt myself slowly regaining control of the company I had built from the ground up. With Nakia at my side, I felt invincible once again.

  In the two weeks since she was unceremoniously brought to my door, Nakia James had proven herself to be the most invaluable person in my life. She was the first to arrive in the morning, always slightly breathless in a charmingly eager sort of way. And she frequently left after I did.

  "Good morning Mr. Kingsley, sir," she smiled at me that morning, her beautiful face shining up from behind the pile of teetering files. I had set her up with a small desk in the corner of my office, so that I could bark orders at her whenever the mood struck me.

  And of course it kept her in view. I found myself looking forward to seeing another piece of her seemingly limitless personal wardrobe. It seemed as if everything was a one-of-a-kind creation. Thus-far, the only brand-name I’d been able to recognize came from her shoes. Vintage and delicate in their age, she always seemed conscious of keeping them beautiful.

  Whenever I didn't have a task for her, she would sit with her sketchbook, the tongue poking just out of the corner of her mouth in the most adorable way, as she moved her pencil in tight, controlled strokes. One day I had sent her down to the file room and snooped, and what I saw made my heart start racing. And once I did that, I couldn't stop.

  Everything I needed to re-launch my brand was locked up in Nakia's brilliant mind. I could see it. I just had to help her access it.

  I’d taken to sketching her designs at my desk as she worked, drawing out the patterns and adding my own personal touches. This woman was talented. With the right direction, she could be a powerhouse in the industry… It was a welcome distraction, and by this point, my fingers had traced every line of her body across wide sheets of paper.

  And I had stopped twisting my ring finger, looking for the ring that wasn't there. My finger no longer seemed naked to me. It seemed right...and free.

  But work is no place for sentiment. "How are we coming with those agreements?" I slammed my coffee down onto my desk, not caring that it sloshed slightly. Nakia was also really good at cleaning up my messes.

  She stood up quickly, darting across the marble floor with a quick tap of her heels. I watched appreciatively as her curvy body swayed slightly in the cute little outfit she’d worn today. "I placed a call to the UK," she said it, pursing her lips in the most adorable way. "We were just waiting for you
to get into the office before we proceeded."

  I felt my eyebrows shoot up on my forehead. "What time did you get here?" I asked.

  She darted a quick look at the clock on the wall. "Oh, around 6:45 AM."

  I nodded. "Good. Good thinking."

  She nodded as well. It was nice to have someone on the same wavelength as me.

  "Who do we need on that call?" I asked. I had forgotten which deal we were working on right now, that I didn't want to let Nakia know that. If I knew with whom we were speaking, it would subtly remind me what the hell was going on. Nakia had taken over this project so completely that I felt like I was almost superfluous. It was an odd feeling.