The Founder (Trillionaire Boys' Club Book 7)

by Aubrey Parker

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  EVAN

  BECCA RELENTS, BUT SHE’LL ONLY drink a single glass of wine. Two is my max; I never did eat lunch and am a lighter-weight than most people imagine, so I don’t drink more because I don’t want to get sloppy around Becca. But the Lafite is such a fine wine that the glass left in the bottle bothers me. What am I going to do — cork it and stick it in the fridge? What the hell; I invite Jolene to drink it.

  I don’t care that Becca won’t drink more, that’s her business. But the unspoken reason bothers me. I thought we had a connection the first time we met in the restaurant, and we sure as hell connected in my conference room. But since then, Becca’s been distant. It’s like she’s afraid of me — or more likely, of herself. Afraid of losing control, then doing the wrong thing.

  Does she think I’ll take advantage of her?

  Does she think she’ll do something after two glasses of wine that she wouldn’t do after one?

  She’s a strange and wonderful woman. By the time we land, that single glass of wine must be out of her system, but she’s still much friendlier than she was on boarding. There’s a new openness. Tentative at first, as if she’s still shy — afraid of saying too much. But as we get into the waiting limo and start to drive, she’s moving closer.

  And as we snake down the California coastline toward Cielo Del Mar, she doesn’t pull away when I touch her hand, her knee. There’s a bubbly energy just below her surface.

  We are alone in one of the world’s best restaurants, Bella by the Sea. The loudest sound is the waves slapping the shore.

  Appetizer. First course. Second course. The most charming old Italian man, telling us in wonderful detail about every single dish, oozing pride as he does.

  More wine, but again, only a glass.

  We talk more about my idea, this time at a less frenzied clip.

  She leans in. Touches me. Lowers her guard.

  I tell her about my discussions with other members of the Syndicate, though I don’t mention the group’s name, or even that there is a group.

  I tell her about what Caspian White got into around the time he married Aurora — the Einstein module he’d developed and that we’d secretly discussed, as a portal into my vision for a revised LiveLyfe.

  Rebecca has ideas. She articulates some of them. She’s not just doing what I suggest, and I’m not remotely trying to sell her. Sometime during dinner, the AI-mentorship education platform I mentioned stops becoming “one of Evan’s ideas” and starts being “the thing we’re doing.”

  Becca keeps saying how much development it will take, how much money it would cost to build. I tell her I’ll figure out how to fund it, but I already have ideas there, too. The Trillionaire Boys’ Club has been looking for something to throw its cash at since the Eros deal with Anthony Ross fell through, and I’ll bet that the right profit model could sell them on this.

  Dessert.

  A digestif.

  We’re back in the limo when Rebecca looks out the window and says, “Isn’t the airport that way?”

  I laugh. I don’t need to explain, though, because we pull up to the hotel’s awning before I can speak. A white-gloved attendant opens Rebecca’s door; after giving me a look that’s half-confused, half-something-else, she steps out. I do the same, and sixty seconds later we’re outside the hotel’s big doors, the doormen both seeming to wonder if we’re going inside or not.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “You thought we were flying back tonight. I should have been clearer.”

  She doesn’t say anything. I can’t read her. She marches into the lobby, and I follow. She almost looks angry. But it’s hard to say.

  “Do you need to get back?”

  Furrowing eyebrows. She’s again unreadable. Deadpan, she says, “No. It’s fine.”

  But as I check in, I realize I’ve made a mistake. I’ve pissed her off. Now she’s probably reframing all that’s happened tonight as one big player’s seduction. Second-guessing it all. Assuming I did this all just to get her back into bed.

  “Everything okay?” I ask when I return.

  Becca hasn’t moved. She’s right in the middle of the lobby, stunning. I feel myself wanting to take another step, to take her hand. When we left the restaurant, she took my arm as I had my hand in my pocket, like genuine arm candy. Back when she was still smiling.

  “Fine.”

  “You seem strange.”

  “I am strange.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “No, Evan. I don’t.”

  I reach into my pocket and hand her a key card.

  “I got us separate rooms.”

  But dammit, I didn’t say that right. I realize it as she walks ahead of me again, headed for the elevator. I meant to say that the plan from the beginning was to have separate rooms. I don’t like to presume, and wouldn’t. I had Sam book us two rooms from the start, but the way I just said it, she probably thinks I made the switch just now, adding a second room when it became clear that she was angry.

  Unsure what else to do or say, I follow Becca. Her demeanor is flat and featureless. Icy cold or something worse. I don’t know. It’s enough that I’m slightly surprised when she lets me board the elevator with her. I half-expect her to close the doors and leave me to take the next one.

  We ride in silence, side by side.

  Down the hall, we stop at 1102. Becca’s room.

  She turns to the lock, getting the key. The door unlatches. She pushes it open and is about to enter when I say, “I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Becca turns with the door still open behind her. Her eyes are hard on me.

  “No, Evan. I will not see you in the morning.”

  “Oh. Well, okay.” I feel stupid. So damn stupid. It’s not even a sensible response. How the hell will she get home, if not with me? Maybe she’ll buy a commercial ticket, using some of that million dollars she must feel I’m using to buy her.

  She comes a step closer. Her eyes haven’t changed. Haven’t softened a whit. She holds my stare without blinking.

  My heart hammers. She’s so close to me that I can feel her warmth.

  Her hand comes up. Her fingers slide through my hair, around the back of my head. And she pulls us together, forehead to forehead. Our noses touch. And now, finally, I can see what I’ve missed. It wasn’t ice in her eyes. It was fire.

  “You will see me right now,” she says.

  Then Becca pulls me into the room, walking backward, flicking on the lights and kicking the door closed behind us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EVAN

  “I THOUGHT YOU WERE ANGRY,” I say.

  But Becca has separated from me. She’s still walking backward, deeper into the luxurious suite. She kicks off her heels. Flat-footed, she seems smaller. She’s wearing a black dress — one I’ve tried to keep my mind off of while we talked shop all night. Her hands reach back, and she pulls the zipper all the way down on her own. The halves hang open behind her, spread like an angel’s wings.

  Her arms slip from the sleeves. The dress falls to her waist. She’s braless, her beautiful tits making my cock hard. Hands on her waist, hooking her thumbs under the fabric. Pushing down and shimmying out. A second later her blue panties are on the floor, too.

  “I am angry at you, Evan Cohen.”

  I reach up. Drop my jacket. Unbutton my shirt, faster than I’d like. It’s hard to show restraint. Her body calls to me. I can’t take my eyes off of her. I’ve never met anyone like Becca. It’s not that she completes me. It’s that I yearn to complete her.

  “I’m angry,” she says, “because you didn’t tell me to bring my pajamas.”

  My hands go for my belt. It frustrates me, takes too long to come off. I fumble with the trouser button.

  Becca moves toward me again, close enough that my hands no longer have room to work.

  Her soft breasts press into my bare chest. She’s so warm. So hot.

  “And I’m angry,” she go
es on, “because you’re not letting me do that.”

  “What?”

  She looks down. Moves my hands from my pants. Replaces them with her own, then moves to kneel in front of me.

  “This is my favorite part. The big reveal.”

  “You didn’t let me undress you,” I say.

  “I’ve got the pussy. I make the rules.”

  The word makes my cock even harder. I want to tell her to hurry. I feel like I could come right now. The skin of my cock is tight; my balls are high and full.

  She unbuttons me. Unzips. Takes me out.

  Puts me in her hot mouth, her tongue sliding along the bottom.

  “I don’t think you want to do that,” I say, very much wanting her to do that.

  She wraps her lips. Moves slowly back and forth on my shaft. Her eyes are turned up, still meeting mine. Her spit leaves a thick gleaming trail along my shaft while one hand gently grips my balls.

  All the sensation in the world. All the tension. I’ve never been with a woman like Rebecca. She’s her own breed. Amazing. Smart. Beautiful. Sexy without a clue that she’s smoldering.

  Her mouth comes off. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “I mean … I’m close. If you keep going …”

  Without taking her eyes off me, Rebecca slips my dick back into her mouth. One hand still plays with my balls. The other slides down her naked front, between her tits, between her legs. I watch as she rubs her clit, I see the way her finger shines.

  “Rebecca … I’m going to …”

  I don’t have time to finish the thought. I’m subsumed with a feeling of inevitability. I couldn’t stop if I wanted. But I have long seconds to feel my orgasm coming, and in those seconds, I watch Becca’s eyes, her tits, the slow movement of her hand between her legs. It’s a curious kind of orgasm. It comes from deep down, taking its time, impossible to stop. My cock quiver as it builds. And then everything tightens at once, and I feel warmth rise as I fill her mouth with my cum, surge after surge.

  She doesn’t even try to swallow. My cock stays in her mouth and her lips overflow, running down her chin, between those perfect tits. I know it’s a guy thing, but I don’t give a fuck: seeing my cum all across her chest keeps me hard, makes me want to fuck for real.

  She stands. “Now lay back.”

  But I shake my head.

  “I’ve got the cock. I make the rules.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  REBECCA

  I ALWAYS WANTED TO FUCK him.

  It feels wrong and right in unison, and I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t. But on my knees, I realized how close Evan was — how much the night had primed us — I wanted to make him come even more. I wanted something filthy, like his spunk running down my tits.

  I assumed, when I decided to take him all the way, that we’d have to resume in the morning, or at least later tonight.

  But he’s looking at me like a beast.

  Like he’d attack me as easily as he’d take me.

  He leads me to the bed. We’re side by side, mouths mashing like mad, his hand on my pussy — rolling across my clit, stroking it, slipping a finger inside.

  I’m so wet. I was soaking my panties on the plane.

  I pushed this back as far as I could. I didn’t want to give in, because I make mistakes whenever I do. But Evan drives me crazy — crazier, I think. He’s normally impressive, but tonight he was something new. An unstoppable force. A man possessed by drive and mission.

  A man who means to change the world, and make wrongs right.

  I was helpless. I tried to fight the feeling as long as I could, but when I realized we’d be staying at a hotel, a wave washed over me. I could barely speak. If I did, the last of my control would shatter, and I’d have fucked him right in the lobby. Getting up here was like crossing a crowded room with a platter full of delicate crystal. One bump and it’d all be over.

  Now we’re all hands. Mine is on his cock, which is, if anything, harder than ever. His works my pussy, but I’m so keyed up; it doesn’t even matter what he touches or how he touches it. Everything is electric and my dial is turned up to eleven. I come twice, at least. It’s hard to keep track. I’m no longer a rational being as Evan murders my lips with his, as I submit to the force of him.

  He’s an animal. I’m his prey.

  He’s on his back, shaft pointing to the ceiling.

  “Sit on my cock, Rebecca. I want to watch you fuck me.”

  I climb on to him, then am about to reach back and slide his cock inside when he does it himself, hands-free. I’m barely above him before I feel his hot head parting my soaking folds, sliding inside. Despite my flowing juices, it’s tighter than it should be. I’m gripping him so hard; he must think I’m doing Kegels.

  “Holy shit, Rebecca. You’re so tight. You turn me on so much.”

  I rise up. Slide down. His cock inside me is a hot piece of iron. I feel his every inch.

  His hands palm my breasts. My head rolls back, chest pushing out. I move faster, my pussy still on him like a gripped fist.

  “You’re going to make me come again. Fuck yes, Rebecca. Ride my cock and make me come inside you.”

  His palms become pawing grips, growing rough. I love it. I want more. I go faster, riding higher. My hand finds my clit, rubbing it while Evan’s dick is inside me.

  Faster.

  Harder.

  And faster.

  The bed bounces beneath us, racking the wall. I cry out, calling his name, as another orgasm surprises me. That’s never happened before.

  “Fuck me, Rebecca. Keep riding my cock!”

  I want it harder. Louder. I reach down, grip his chest, leaving claw marks.

  “Oh my God, keep riding me with that pussy!”

  The long tail of my orgasm is still on me, but this one is like a whip. I thought it was happening earlier, but it was only building. A long, intense swelling, lasting half a minute. Now the head hits me.

  I shout, and for a second I can’t see a thing.

  Evan grips my hips. Slams up hard inside me. I’m taking every bit of his length. And as he arches up, he comes again. I feel its heat, the way our congress lubricates further, how suddenly we’re nothing but sweat and fluid.

  Lips meet lips. I can’t get enough of him. His hands grasp the sides of my head, covering my ears. His mouth is unable to get all it wants.

  Slowly we come down. I slide off, rolling to lay beside him.

  But with the departure of euphoria, a few of my standard worries return.

  You screwed it up. You should have resisted.

  But another voice inside me says: Just enjoy it for once, you bitch.

  We say nothing, and within ten minutes, we’re both asleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  EVAN

  DESPITE THE CLICHÉ, I CAN’T resist a few minutes watching Rebecca sleep.

  I get up early; it’s how I’m wired. But because I don’t want to do anything in the room that would wake her (and because I don’t want to go to my room lest she gets the wrong impression), there’s little I can do with myself.

  I head to a corner away from the bed, open the curtains, sip terrible coffee from the hotel coffee maker, and watch the sunrise. I come back to bed when she stirs, eager to see Rebecca rise.

  I soak her in. Again I'm struck by the raw beauty millimeters under her surface. Rebecca does all she can to obscure it. She buries her beauty with her sarcasm, her history, her humor, her pain. When unconscious, she can’t hide a thing. Her dark hair spreads across the pillow in a tangled mess. She’s no longer a tiger. Right now, Becca is a beautiful sleeping cat.

  She turns, stretches, and opens her eyes.

  The reveal I was waiting for. Those big blue eyes. Sleeping Beauty transforms back into Becca right before my eyes.

  “Creep,” she says.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re just sitting there staring at me. I should call the cops.”

  “You’re supposed to
find it sweet.”

  She gives me an Oh, whatever gesture and rolls away.

  This woman never ceases to surprise me. I reach out, put my hand on her shoulder, and roll Becca back to face me. The cover shifts and I’m treated to her naked breasts. She doesn’t try to cover up.

  “You’re not giving me credit for how adorable I am. Do you know how many girls would love to wake up with some guy fawning all over them?”

  “You should track them down and let me sleep.”

  “Nobody’s stopping you from sleeping.”

  She shoves at me, playful. “Yes, but now I know you’ll just sit there staring at me while I do it, like a creep.”

  “You don’t find me looking at you romantic? It’s always romantic in movies.”

  She props herself up on one elbow. Now her breasts are on full display, no shame. Last night wasn’t our first time together, but the rules all say it should still be awkward in the morning, or at least could be. Rebecca doesn’t mind giving me show — or, I think, remembering her story about her accidentally topless client call, perhaps she doesn’t realize she’s doing it.

  “My mom had a lot of romance novels when I was growing up. I got an early education. Do you want to hear an interesting bit of trivia?”

  “Okay.”

  “What’s the difference between a lot of romance heroes and creepy stalkers?”

  I sense a trap but don’t have an answer. I shake my head.

  “The heroes are hot. Otherwise, they’re the same. Apparently, guys can get away with all sorts of stuff if they have a six-pack.”

  I look down at myself. I’m still shirtless. I run a hand across the ridges of my abdomen. “So, I should be able to get away with watching you sleep.”

  “No,” Becca says, moving to turn over again. “I’m the one girl in the world who can see through the pretty boys’ bullshit.”

  If she’s going to fuck with me, I think I can risk fucking with her. “I guess that’s how Steve pulled it off. Because he’s so hot.”

  Steve is not hot. Apparently, he used to be, but the bloom has been off the rose for years.