Ruined: A New Adult and Billionaire Romance (His For A Week Book 5)

by EM BROWN

  “Why did you wait until now to lose your virginity?” Tony asks.

  I shrug. “I wasn’t waiting for the love of my life, if that’s what you’re wondering—or worried about. I’m not romantic like that.”

  “Really? I find most American women tend toward romantic.”

  “Well, I can’t draw any comparisons as I grew up here in America and never traveled abroad, but Lila was practical, almost to a fault. I never went through a princess phase like most girls because Lila didn’t want me to think that the end-all-be-all was sittin’ in a castle waiting for Prince Charming to come along.”

  “And I’m hardly Prince Charming.”

  “Well...I don’t think Prince Charming would smoke.” I raise myself up to look into his eyes. “You ever thought about quitting?”

  He narrows his eyes. “You’re not about to lecture me on the demerits of smoking.”

  “What if I did?”

  “I won’t hold back the next time I fuck you.”

  Good Lord. He had been holding back? I shudder, imagining what it would be like if he went all out. I don’t think my body would hold together.

  “Then I’ll just assume you know already that smoking is bad for your health,” I say. It was a little risky, but I was just returning a little of his own patronization. ‘Course, he might not see it that way. And if he did, he might not care.

  “I’m no good for you, but that hasn’t stopped you.”

  “Do you really care what happens to me?”

  His jaw tightens. “I shouldn’t.”

  “Right,” I say after a pause. “You don’t know me. Maybe I deserve what I get.”

  “I could say that I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, but I can tell you’re no asshole. Assholes don’t try to return umbrellas because they’re worried some rich son of a bitch might get wet.”

  “And the fact that you would warn me against you shows that you aren’t a complete asshole either.”

  “But that doesn’t mean it’s wise to have sex with me. What were you thinking?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look, I can tell you’re a nice girl—”

  I bristle.

  “Woman,” he corrects, “but what you did was stupid. Just because you wanted the money—”

  “Lots of women trade their body for money.”

  He gives me a hard look. “And most of the time, they’re forced into it. You may not have been raised a Cinderella, but you’re as naive as one.”

  I think about the stories I’ve read about sex trafficking, of little girls in Thailand giving blow jobs to travelers from the West, of women smuggled into the United States to work in the sex trade. Like Tony said, they’re forced into it. Or they live in such poverty, they have to turn to prostitution just so that they don’t starve to death. But I’m not ready to accept his assessment that I’m stupid.

  “I’m not this privileged person who has no idea that the world can be a bad place,” I say. “I grew up in the South with black parents. I saw a lot of crap.”

  “And you still thought it would be okay to sell your virginity to a stranger?”

  “You don’t want me to lecture you about the dangers of smoking, but you want to lecture me about what I did?”

  “I know that smoking is dangerous for my health. I know that it’s turning my lungs black. Do you fully comprehend the danger you risked doing what you did? I didn’t have to go get condoms. And if I decided not to, you couldn’t have done anything about it.”

  I weigh the truth of what he says. I was taking a big risk. What if I had ended up with Eric Drumm instead of Tony? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be as pleased.

  “Okay,” I concede. “I got lucky.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe? I know it could have been ugly. I fully comprehend I could have gotten myself into real trouble.”

  Tony shakes his head. “You are in trouble.”

  While I ponder what he means, he adds, “You have no idea what I want to do to you.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Disgruntled, Tony pulls off the condom and gets out of bed. “I need to smoke.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Isn’t there something else you can do? Like, watch tv or have a glass of water?”

  “If you smoked, you’d know that those are poor substitutes for a cigarette.”

  I hurry through various ideas and land on, “A blow job. Would that be better than smoking?”

  He stares at me. “Are you offering?”

  “Sure. Especially if it’d help save your life.”

  “You've given many blowjobs before?"

  "Some."

  "How many?"

  "Four or five... maybe three. I haven't had any complaints."

  Walking over, he lifts my chin and studies me. I stare back into his almond shaped eyes, wishing I knew how to read them. He lets go. “All right. I won’t go for a smoke. We’ll shower, then get you home.”

  Wait. He’s still planning on taking me home? After all that happened? What about the things he wants to do me? I watch him walk into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I’m not ready to go home. I want to see if I can understand those dark eyes of his. I want to get to know him more, to find out why it is I can simultaneously feel safe and scared with him.

  I hear him step into the shower. I don’t get it. One minute he looks like he wants to devour me, the next he wants to get rid of me. Something tells me I should take advantage of the latter sentiment, but I’m the proverbial moth drawn to a flame. Which means I’m not acting practical despite my claim. I’m not harboring any romantic notions about Tony. He and I are from such different worlds, but maybe that’s what makes him interesting to me. I want to explore him more. Temporarily. I don’t expect to relocate into his world. I just want to be a visiting tourist.

  I roll my eyes at my own metaphor and head into the bathroom. He’s already beneath the shower, water raining over his head and body. As the glass isn’t frosted and only partially encloses the shower, I can see everything. His butt is absolutely delicious. I’ve never been a butt person. Till now. The muscles are taut but the flesh is supple enough to sink one’s teeth into.

  When he turns around to see me, he pauses, then steps aside, a wordless invitation. I step into the shower, feeling giddy, as if we hadn’t just had sex together for the first time. He lathers up his hands and applies the soap to my shoulders, gently washing me. My heart skips several beats when his hands move across my breasts, down my belly, and to my pelvis. His fingers comb my pubic hairs before spreading my thighs. He wipes away the blood there before finishing my legs. Turning me around, he washes my back and ass, and a familiar warmth stirs within me. God, how is he able to turn me on so much?

  Taking the removable shower head in hand, he rinses my body. I gasp when the water streams between my legs, hitting the folds between them.

  “You ever use one of these on yourself?” he asks.

  I nod, a little embarrassed at admitting a fact I haven’t even shared with my roommates, though I’m pretty sure they’ve used the shower head for secondary purposes as well.

  He adjusts the angle of the showerhead so that the water hits my clit. I close my eyes and bask in the pleasant sensations. While holding the showerhead in one hand, he massages my right breast with his free hand. I groan and begin to think he can do anything to me and my body will respond. I even relish the soreness in my vagina. It's sore because of him. As Talia would say, I can move on to better things now that I've gotten my virginity out of the way.

  Slowly but surely, the pelting of the water against my flesh builds me toward my climax. He kneads my breast, tugging on the nipple, for a few minutes more before dropping his hand to my mound. His fingers part the labia, allowing the water to hit me more fully. I groan more as he moves the showerhead even closer to me. With a soft cry, I erupt.

  I make a mental note to get the brand name of this particular showerhead. It's a lot more effective than the one in my apartm
ent. Or maybe it has nothing to do with the showerhead and everything to do with who's holding it.

  "Okay, okay," I squeak when I can't take any more of the stimulation of the water against my overly sensitized parts.

  He holds the showerhead in place a few more seconds before returning it to its mount. He stares at me as I let out a long sigh and gaze up at him through glazed eyes. Still pulsing madly between my thighs, I notice his cock is half erect.

  "Your turn," I say, grabbing the soap.

  He lets me wash him, and my hands happily traverse every inch of him, except for his cock, which is now fully erect. I drop to my knees and marvel at how flesh so soft can harden into something as if it’s a limb with bones. Gingerly, I wrap my hand around him. His cock pulses upward with my touch.

  Sticking out my tongue, I like his tip. He grunts when my tongue slides under his crown. Hungry for him, I take more of him into my mouth. I relish his moan. Feeling empowered, I begin to suck. Steam curls around us, and little rivers of water run down his body. I take another inch and feel his hand at the back of my head. I draw my mouth up his length, then back down. I do this several more times and hear the rumble of appreciation in his throat.

  I try to take him in deeper, which he encourages by pressing the back of my head. I try not to gag when he pushes me too far, but it's hard not to. It's been a while since I've given a blow job. He lets me come off him to gather myself, but I don't want to come across totally incompetent and get back on his cock quickly.

  "Suck it harder," he commands.

  I do as he bids till he's murmuring in a foreign language again. He pushes me deeper down his cock. I start to choke when his tip hits the back of my throat, but this time he doesn't let me come all the way off. My mouth gets to the flare of his crown before I am pushed back down. His black pubic hairs tickle my nose. I go back up his shaft for some relief and brace my hands against his hips. But he's stronger and shoves me back down. This time the water running down his body splashes over my face. For a second, I can't breathe until he lets me back up his cock. My reprieve is short-lived. Once again he shoves me into his crotch. Water pours over me.

  When I sputter and choke, he lets me come off. I wipe my eyes and gather myself as quickly as possible. Without a second to waste, his cock is back inside me. I find my timing, taking my breath when I go up his shaft and holding my breath when I am smooshed into the water cascading over his groin. He hits my gag reflex several times, but he's past the point of slowing down. Gripping my hair, he pulls and pushes my head up and down his cock.

  His hips get into the action so that it's a full-on fucking of my mouth and throat. I lose my timing and wonder if it's possible to drown while giving a blowjob. With a loud grunt, he bucks faster, and I taste salty heat on my tongue. Unprepared, I choke in earnest. He releases me, and a spurt of cum lands on my cheek as he pulls his cock out. He wraps a hand around himself and pumps the rest of his cum.

  He bends down and lifts up my chin, gazing into my face as if to check that I'm okay. I give him a small grin.

  "I hope that was better than a smoke,” I tease.

  "That was much better than a smoke,” he acknowledges.

  And the glimmer in his eyes tells me I have a chance at not getting sent home.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  As Tony and I step out of the shower and dress, I brace myself for the forthcoming argument. I decide to blow-dry my hair to give myself more time to think. He has no reason to keep me except for sex, and though I have a feeling that mine wasn’t the best blowjob he’s ever had, it was good enough. And he wants me. How much, I can’t say for sure. But I glimpse the desire he tries to hide beneath half-lidded gazes. And I think a part of me had sensed it before or I wouldn’t have been so bold with him. Knowing that he wants me even a little is as thrilling as everything else. I want this to last as long as it can because I know in a few days’ time, he’ll be gone. Back to China or Paris or Vietnam. And I’ll probably never see him again unless I keep working at The Montclair. Even then, I can see us crossing paths with only the faintest acknowledgment of each other because he’ll have some supermodel on his arm the next time.

  But for the time being, I want to make him mine.

  When I step out into the living room, I see him looking over my leftovers, now cold and not quite as appetizing. His hair is still damp, making him look even sexier.

  “You want to go get something to eat?” I ask. “There’s a great pho place near Chinatown. If you like pho. I don’t mean to assume you do just because you’re from Vietnam.”

  And maybe pho isn’t fancy enough for billionaires.

  “Pho sounds good,” he replies.

  I’m ecstatic as this means my getting taken home has been delayed. I suggest we walk because trying to find parking will be a pain in the butt.

  “My driver’s in the city,” he offers.

  “I don’t mind walking,” I say. “But if you prefer to drive or be driven...”

  He grabs his jacket. “We’ll walk.”

  “Do you usually get driven places?” I ask.

  “No. My brother does just because he can get more work done that way, but I’m not that involved in the business. I don’t have to make every minute count.”

  I nod but can’t resist a little teasing. “So you can actually do things for yourself.”

  He raises his brows. I’m not sure if he’s amused. I think he is.

  “I’m not lazy because I can afford to have things like driving and meals done for me,” he says, opening the door for me. “It’s a matter of efficiency.”

  “I know. Like with your brother, the opportunity cost of him taking half an hour to make dinner would probably be in the thousands, or hundreds of thousands.”

  “Exactly.”

  “On the other hand, not every minute has to count. I mean to say, one doesn’t have to think of every minute as lost revenue. There’s value in not working as much as possible.”

  “You sound European.”

  “Well, I remember, when I was waitressing at Dee’s, which is one of the best barbecue joints in the Tri-Cities, I had to serve this group of New Yorkers who were in town for business. They couldn’t complain enough about how slow everything in North Carolina moved compared to New York. Maybe they just didn’t understand that you don’t rush good barbecue. And if you’re going to have lunch at Dee’s, you ought to enjoy your time there. Spending it complaining doesn’t seem like an efficient use of the time God grants you.”

  “You might fit in in France. Dinner there can take three hours.”

  “Okay, things may move slower in the South but not that slow.” I think for a moment. “But a super long dinner actually sounds nice. I would try that, a three-hour dinner. I’m usually scarfing down a sandwich in between work and classes, and I don’t even taste or remember what I ate.”

  “You’d like it. You can savor your meal, and I see how much you enjoy food.”

  I blush. “I never thought I’d like scallops this much. Was it that obvious?”

  “Your face lit up like a beacon.”

  I blush deeper. Maybe I should stay away from food in front of Tony.

  “You light up during sex, too.”

  A woman walking into the elevator as we walk out turns her head. My face is probably as red as a cherry right now.

  “Your emotions are easy to see,” Tony says as we exit the hotel.

  Unlike Mr. Pokerface next to me.

  Tony turns enough heads just by being him, so I change the subject because I don't want more attention drawn our way. "The pho place is nothing fancy. In fact, it's a hole in the wall, but they serve great pho."

  "You're a pho connoisseur?"

  "Actually, I've never had pho till I came to San Francisco, and I wasn't a huge fan when I first tried it. But it's definitely grown on me. It's kind of like Asian comfort food: it's filling and affordable. It probably won't be as good as what you can get back in Vietnam. I'm sure it isn't. But I hope you lik
e it. At least the options are much better here in San Francisco then back in North Carolina. I mean, we have ethnic food in Durham, in Charlotte, but it's a whole new level here in San Francisco. There could be more soul food options, though."

  "Soul food?"

  "Fried chicken, collard greens, sweet potato pie."

  "Fried chicken is popular in China. KFC outperforms McDonald's quite a bit."

  "I guess KFC is better than nothing, but that's not what I would call soul food. If you're interested, there's a pretty good place here in the city called Maybelle's. Her sweet potato pie's to die for."

  Of course, we won't get to try it if he decides to end our time together, I want to point out but decide not to press the issue just yet.

  We reach the pho place on the outskirts of Chinatown. It's before the dinner rush, so we easily grab a table in the corner. I pick up the plastic menu propped against a bucket of chopsticks and Asian soup spoons and jars of hot sauce, but I know I'm getting my usual, the Tái Gầu. Tony orders the noodle soup with fish balls, something I've never worked up the guts to try.

  "How come you decided not to use your driver to Eric's place?" I ask after we order.

  "I like to drive. When I was younger, I wanted to be a racecar driver."

  "Did you change your mind or is it still something you want to do?"

  "It wasn't an acceptable career path. Good Chinese boys go to good colleges," he replies tersely.

  Somehow I don't see him as a "good boy." In fact, his vibes suggest the opposite.

  "That must've been hard giving up something you enjoyed doing."

  "I didn't give it up completely. I raced without my father knowing. I stopped racing when my cousin died. We were racing Taike Road between Taiyuan and Jiaogu when her car spun out. I should have known she couldn't handle going into the “Devil U Shape” at my speed. But I was selfish. I wanted to take the turn fast even though I knew there was a chance she wouldn't slow down."