Typist #4 - Billionaire Novelist

by Mimi Strong

  Mom and I each walked through our doors, and then laughed when we immediately saw each other through the double doors connecting our two suites.

  She walked around, her mouth literally open as she gaped at the beautiful linens, the sumptuous furniture, and the fruit. Yes, the fruit. She pulled it out of the bowl on the table in my suite, a piece at a time, saying, “Tori, this is real. Look, this banana! It's real. And this peach! It must have been flown in from somewhere exotic.” She held it to her nose. “Oh, it smells so good. And these grapes. These grapes are real. Not plastic.”

  She ran over to her side of the suite and shrieked.

  “What?” I ran after her.

  She held up a pineapple, her eyes glistening. “A pineapple,” she gasped.

  “Mom, stop. You're making me feel bad. We have a good life back home. You get pineapple all the time at home.”

  “Only when it's on sale,” she said.

  “Pineapple is a ridiculous fruit for a hotel room. You can't just eat that. You need a knife and a cutting board.”

  She sniffed the pineapple. “There's a nail file somewhere in my luggage.”

  I backed away to my side of the double suite. “Okay, you have fun then. I'm going to take a shower and get dressed for dinner.”

  She was still smelling the pineapple and muttering about her nail file when I went off to check out my bathroom.

  I'd been trying to hide my nerves from my mother, but alone in the space of my luxurious bathroom, I collapsed in a heap of does-he-like-me-or-not insecurities. The flight and hotel were expensive, but I knew that was like pocket change to a man with Smith's means. His most valuable asset was his time, and so far he'd given me none of it.

  I cried into my hands, and then I got into the fancy shower and cried into the steam.

  Pull yourself together, I told myself, which only made me cry harder.

  My love life back home was not much better than my current prospects in Switzerland. The brother of my boss had shown some interest, suggesting we go out for drinks sometime. He was the exact same age as Smith, yet he was old.

  I'd actually gone out with another guy, for a blind date set up by one of my girlfriends, but the guy was way too young. He was only a year younger than me, but when we were at the restaurant together, I felt like I was sitting at the kids' table. He talked about his new computer system, with three monitors chained together so he could play video games, and I half-expected the waiter to come by with crayons for coloring the place mats.

  I still slept with him, though.

  What can I say? I thought it would help me get Smith Fucking Wittingham out of my system. The kid had washboard abs, and he was fun in bed—both times—but he didn't take charge. He kept asking if it was okay if he did this, or did that, and I guess it was better than nothing, but not by much.

  Smith had been so hot in bed, or on the forest floor, or in an alley, against the bricks. I'd had to imagine it was Smith in order to get off that night with the kid, and after that, I couldn't face him again, because I thought for sure he knew. I may have accidentally panted out Smith's name.

  That was all behind me, though, along with Smith himself. Except now I was in Switzerland.

  I got dressed in one of the nice dresses I'd bought in Montreal, and I styled my hair up into a twist for a change, so I'd look more sophisticated. Finally, I put on the necklace he'd hidden in my purse. It gleamed in the bright light of my bathroom, and I looked exactly like someone who'd be staying at such a nice hotel.

  My mother came into the room all dressed up in an indigo-hued dress that showed off her hourglass figure.

  “No, Mom. You look way too good,” I said. “He's totally going to flirt with you.”

  She held one hand to her lips. “Oh no. I can change?”

  I laughed. “I'm just teasing you.”

  We left the room and walked down the hall to the elevator.

  What was that thumping noise?

  Right. Just my pulse.

  I grinned at my mother.

  She said, “Why are you baring your teeth at me?”

  “I'm smiling.”

  We got in the elevator and she pushed the button. I thought I might throw up, but didn't.

  At the dining room, my mother confidently said, “Wittingham party,” and the elegant waiter led us over to a table set for four.

  A man was already sitting there.

  My pulse pounded in my ears.

  The man turned our way and stood. Black hair. Blue eyes. Familiar smile. It was Claude, Smith's driver.

  “Tori!” Claude said. “I'm so glad you two came.”

  “What's going on here?” Where was Smith? I got the urge to punch something.

  And then… an arm was around my waist, and a hand was over my eyes.

  His body pressed up behind me, and he growled into my ear, “Guess who.”

  “Smith Fucking Wittingham,” I said. “How dare you make me worry you weren't coming?”

  He'd already released me and was shaking my mother's hand. “I'm so glad we can finally meet,” he said. “Now I can see exactly where your daughter gets her gorgeous looks.”

  My mother giggled like someone a third her age.

  We all sat down, and I gave Claude and my mother a proper introduction.

  Claude said, “My wife is looking forward to meeting you both. She had to catch a later flight, but she'll be here tomorrow.”

  My mother looked from Claude to Smith and back again.

  Smith explained that while Claude was his employee, and they didn't typically socialize together, he did give them a travel bonus every year. “They are only forced to eat one meal with me,” Smith said, winking. “Then they sight-see and do their own things, and I must make do with a lesser driver.”

  My mother said, “But there are no cars in this village. And no drivers.”

  “Exactly,” Smith said. “I could not possibly make do with a lesser option.” He gave me a flirty look, his sapphire blue eyes sparkling.

  He continued to flirt with me all through dinner, and I was so nervous, I could barely choke down a few bites, delicious as the meal was.

  My mother raved about the newest novel, telling Smith how brilliant he was, and he pretended to be modest, but I could see him hanging on her words, hungry for her praise.

  He looked even better than I remembered, his thick, light hair golden in the candlelight. He wore a blue-green shirt that set off his eyes, and the man was certainly a big pile of handsome when he put on a suit. His driver, Claude, was a good-looking man, but Smith was by far the most attractive man—no, person—in the restaurant that night. Or at least he was to me.

  I wanted dinner to end so we could be alone together. Of course, being alone together scared me, so I took my time deciding on dessert, and I ate my chocolate cake with raspberry-lemon drizzle oh-so-slowly.

  My mother fake-yawned and pushed her chair back, excusing herself. Claude said he had to make a phone call to his wife, and the two of them left.

  We were alone. Just me and Smith.

  His voice husky, he said, “Did you enjoy the book?”

  I could have lied, and said I hadn't read it, but there was something about Smith that made me want to tell the truth, to be naked to him.

  “The book was beautiful,” I said. “And the new scene at the end, with the hot air balloon, that was brilliant.”

  “Yes, well, it's a shame what's going to happen to Sheri in the next book, but the bigger the tragedy, the more memorable the story is to people.”

  My heart sunk. “What?”

  “Come on, Tori, you know how it is. We can't have Dunham settle down, it'll be the end. Dullsville. Nobody wants to read about a domesticated Smith, wiping the poop out of diapers.”

  I set my fork down. “Wow. Tragedy and poopie diapers. You sure know how to romance a girl.”

  He leaned back, laughing, and stuck his hands in his pockets. “You know, I meant everything I said in the dedication. You did br
eak me. I was a wreck after you left Montreal, but I think I'm in a better place now.” His gaze went to my neck. “I'm so glad you wore the necklace. It looks as perfect as I imagined.” He leaned across the table and reached out to touch the necklace. As I looked down, he booped me on the tip of my nose.

  I leaned back from the table. “Did you just boop me?”

  He shrugged. “I booped you. Couldn't help myself.”

  “Story of your life. That should be the title of your memoir. Couldn't Help Myself.”

  “You're right. I'm sorry. I apologize.”

  The waiter came by to take away our plates and bring us small pots of fresh tea.

  After he'd left, Smith repeated himself, “I truly am sorry.”

  “For smashing the lamp and scaring the crap out of me? You should be. Whatever. I guess I forgive you. Sounded like you had a lot of baggage going on with your ex-wife. Not my business.”

  “After we separated, she spent some time in a mental health facility. I see what you're thinking, and just stop right there. I did not drive her to madness. She had serious issues since before I even met her.” He poured some tea into his cup and stared into the swirling liquid. “She was my first love, though. We started an affair together when I was eighteen, and I wasn't smart enough to see the relationship was bad for me.”

  “I think I can relate.”

  He looked up, catching me in his powerful gaze. “Tori, I don't want to be anything to you if it's not going to bring you joy. The worst thing I can imagine myself doing is hurting you, and I'll stay away if that's what you wish, but you'll have to help me by…” His gaze wandered down from my eyes to my neck and my chest. “Not being so damn ravishing. Especially if you're going to come to my cabin in two months to help me type the next novel.”

  “I don't understand. You flew me here to Switzerland to ask me to type for you?”

  “And more,” he said, stretching both his hands across the table toward me.

  I looked down at the glint of gold.

  A wedding band.

  On his ring finger.

  Smith was married.

  And he wanted me to… what? Type? Be his mistress?

  I pushed my chair back so I was out of his reach. “Smith Wittingham, you are…” I went through the mental list of bad names I usually called him, but none of them were bad enough. “You are just THE WORST!”

  People were staring, of course, so I got up and stomped out of the restaurant. The elevators were to the left, but I turned to the right, toward the doors.

  I shoved the doors open with a clatter and ran outside. The car-less village sparkled in the snow all around me, and I wanted to scream my outrage and hear it echo through the Alps, but I didn't want to disturb all the nice people who lived in the village, so I just started running.

  Smith came after me, yelling, “Tori, wait!”

  All the words I didn't say back in the restaurant came to me. I kept running, and yelling at him, letting everything out. The heel on one of my shoes broke, which made me even more angry.

  He caught up to me easily, hobbled as I was, and he caught me in his arms. “Wait, I need to say something to you,” he said.

  “Well, just say it. Blah-blah, I broke you, but now you're fine and thank-you-very-much Tori, and why don't you fuck off and die, you awful son-of-a—”

  He kissed me. I slapped him. He kissed me again, this time getting a better grip on my hands so I couldn't beat him senseless.

  “This is my father's wedding ring,” he said.

  Gasping for breath after the running and the kissing, I shot daggers at him with my eyes. “Like I care it's a family heirloom.”

  “I'm so sorry,” he said. “It was a mistake. I had his ring in my pocket in the restaurant, and I was so nervous about talking to you, I wasn't paying attention, and I slipped it on.”

  I couldn't recall if it had been snowing already when I ran out the door, but it was definitely snowing now, fat snowflakes landing on both of our eyelashes and wetting our cheeks.

  “You're not married?”

  “God, no!” He let go of my wrists. “I mean, no. I'm not. My parents are here to renew their vows. That's the whole reason for this trip. They've gone through a rough patch over the years, but I think they're going to be okay now.”

  “And they're renewing their vows?”

  “That's what I said. And I would have told you in the restaurant, if you'd asked about the ring, but apparently… I can't take you anywhere fancy, can I?” He grinned, flakes of snow in his eyebrows.

  “It's true. You can dress me up, but you can't take me anywhere, can you?”

  He shrugged. “Aside from your restaurant manners, you do everything else perfectly. You make me want to be better, to act better, so I deserve you. After I got back to the hotel in Montreal, I called my therapist and begged her to take me back.”

  “You have a therapist?”

  “I didn't take it that seriously before, but after I scared off the most sensational girl in the whole world, a girl who seemed to actually like me—”

  “I do like you.”

  “Therapy was no longer just an option. It was mandatory.” He kissed me again, gentle this time. “I don't want you to run away ever again, Tori. Unless it's for sport and I'm chasing you through the woods so we can have strange, angry sex that makes my blood boil.”

  “Honestly, I've never slapped anyone before you. Maybe I should see your therapist.”

  He kissed me again, hungrily, and pressed his body against mine.

  I put my arms around his neck and leaned into him as I devoured his succulent lips and ran my hands through his hair.

  He growled. “I'm going to throw you down in a snowbank and get some of that strange, angry sex I've been craving since you left me.”

  I shivered. “Not the snowbank!”

  He looked around. “Where else are we going to do it?” He turned and looked back over his shoulder. “Oh, hey, a hotel!”

  He slipped off his suit jacket and wrapped it around my shoulders.

  “We could see if they have any rooms at that hotel,” I said, hobbling toward the doors with my one broken shoe.

  He scooped me up in his arms and started walking swiftly toward the door. “Good idea,” he said.

  We went up to his room, which he assured me was just far enough away that my mother wouldn't hear anything.

  As we entered his room, him breathing down the back of my neck, he said, “This hotel has excellent soundproofing, but I'll do my best to make sure the neighbors learn my name.”

  “Oh, Smith.”

  He grinned. “Just like that, but louder.”

  “Your room's nicer than mine.”

  “It's the exact same room. Mine just seems better because I'm in it.” He unzipped my dress and let it drop to the floor. We both kicked off our damp, snowy shoes, and then he threw me on the bed.

  The bed was soft and welcoming.

  Smith finished taking off all my clothes and climbed up alongside me like a tiger. His tongue flicked out and he licked the tops of my breasts, above my lacy bra. He ran his tongue across my collar bone, and his fingertips up and down my arms.

  His gentle touches made me howl in frustration, because I wanted him to grab me, and I wanted him inside me again.

  He said, “My therapist said I need to talk to you, tell you what I'm feeling.”

  “Ugh. Less talking.”

  “I'm feeling… your hot ass.” His hands darted under my buttocks and squeezed.

  “That feels good.”

  “And now I'm feeling your gorgeous, creamy tits.” He unclasped my bra and cupped my breasts in his hands. “And now I'm feeling some sort of rising action, down there.”

  I sighed and grabbed his cock with my hand.

  He gasped. “Feels good.”

  I continued to stroke his shaft, enjoying the soft velvet skin on my fingers. I rolled him onto his back so I could move down and mouth him, licking around the head and taking
my time.

  Peeking up along his gorgeous, muscular body, to that sexy face of his, I said, “Your therapist wants you to talk about your emotions. Your wants and desires.”

  “I want you to remove your panties. I desire you without your panties.”

  I squirmed around and wiggled out of them, so now we were both completely naked.

  He gestured for me to move a certain way, and I knew exactly what he meant. I faced down toward his feet and threw one leg over him, my breasts over his belly button as I took his cock into my mouth.

  With his hands resting on my buttocks, he licked between my legs, focusing on my clit. He brought me to the edge of climax, then eased off, even as I ground down against his chin.

  I laughed when I realized I'd completely forgotten about his cock, and had been resting with my cheek alongside it, enjoying the sensations of him giving me pleasure.

  “I'm so glad you came to Switzerland,” he said.

  “I'd like to come in Switzerland.”

  He chuckled. “Me, too. But there's no rush.”

  I licked him from his balls to the tip of his cock, and then back down again. He moaned in pleasure, but stayed still, nothing moving except one foot, twitching now and then when I flicked my tongue a certain way.

  He kept licking me some more, taking his time, until I couldn't wait any more. I spun around and lowered myself onto his hard erection.

  He grasped my hips roughly, pushing me down, driving me onto him. I slid down easily in one stroke, gasping when my flesh hit his hips. I rocked back and forth on his cock, enjoying the length and width of him inside me, my nerve endings bursting with pleasure, like fireworks in a summer night sky.

  “Oh, Tori. I meant all the things I said to Sheri. I mean that Detective Smith said to Sheri.”

  I ground against him, wanting more, more.

  Panting, I said, “You mean you solved the case I hired you for?”

  “Yes, Tori, I solved the case.” He laughed, and then stopped laughing, grimacing as he pulsed inside me, growing so big. “The case of the missing heart. And by that, I mean I love you.”

  He pushed down my knee and rolled us to one side, and over, so he was on top, thrusting hard against me, filling me.