How to Bang a Billionaire

by Alexis Hall

  Especially not when I felt—and probably looked—like I’d been shat out by a gastrically distressed camel.

  But it was Caspian Hart. Offering me something I could barely even begin to imagine. Would he fuck me like he kissed me? As though I were his world to be conquered? Come undone as he had with his cock down my throat? Passion-flayed, whispering my name like it was the only word he could remember.

  “Um, sure, okay.” I stood and undid the cord of the dressing grown. “Let’s go.”

  He recoiled a little. “Not now. Not like this.”

  “Oh.” I grinned hopefully at him. “Are you going to take me to dinner first?”

  “Please sit down. And be serious. This is a negotiation.”

  I hadn’t been aware of being unserious but I sat down again, not sure I was entirely happy with where this might be going. “Sleeping with me is a negotiation?”

  “Well.” He crossed one leg over the other, his whole body taut now, a bow bereft of an arrow. “You said yourself there is a spectrum between casual sex and a relationship. I require neither, but I do wish to have sex with you on a short-term, prearranged basis.”

  Was I dreaming? Or still drunk? He wanted me? He really wanted me? Wait. He wanted me on a…short-term, prearranged basis? “Wow, you could turn a boy’s head with dirty talk like that.”

  He gave me a look that probably made him the terror of boardrooms from here to New York: banked ferocity and merciless conviction. But it was so…so practiced, I wondered if he was nervous.

  Nervous?

  No. Caspian Hart would never be nervous.

  “You have expressed quite plainly your desire to sleep with me on no less than three occasions. And on at least one of them you were sober. There’s very little purpose in dissembling now.”

  He was right. But also wrong. It wasn’t that I was unconvincingly attempting to play hard to get. It was just difficult to get all that excited about negotiation. “I’m sorry, I’m not dissembling. I’m just, you know, swept off my feet here by the passion of your invitation.”

  “I would not be suggesting it if I did not want this very much.” He sounded faintly irritated. As though admitting he wanted me was some kind of concession he’d been obliged to make. And his foot did this jerky little tap that he stopped almost at once.

  I tilted my head, instinctively quizzical at all the contradictions here, and then wished I hadn’t because it made my dehydrated brain flop around painfully. Was this why he’d come to Oxford? To arrange to have sex with me? Or to actually have sex with me, only to discover I was pissed off my head and about to go down on another bloke? “But you said no before. What changed?”

  “Nothing changed. That is”—he hesitated a moment—“what changed was my understanding.”

  “Um, I’m going to need more than that.”

  His fingers twisted. Knotted. Turned white at the knuckles. “I’ve always wanted you. I just overestimated my capacity to resist it…resist you.”

  “And me throwing up all over myself totally sealed the deal? Because I’m pretty sure some people would have been put off.”

  “You were worried about that?”

  “Well, yeah, just a bit.”

  He gave me an odd, soft smile and this whimsical “abracadabra” gesture. “It’s forgotten.”

  I found myself smiling. The most painful thing about Caspian Hart wasn’t desiring him; it was liking him.

  “And while,” he went on, “I would prefer you didn’t make a habit of inebriation, I found far more to dislike in the way that boy was touching you.”

  “I wasn’t too keen on it myself.” Trying my best to make light.

  “I hated it.”

  The fervor in his voice surprised me. I glanced up and discovered him looking particularly wolfish, eyes burning with this possessive, predatory light I—honestly—found wildly exciting. And felt bad about finding wildly exciting. “Um, sorry.”

  “I hated his hands on you. I hated seeing you on your knees for him.”

  God. Moral quandary. On the one hand, this was way better than negotiation. On the other, it seemed mean-spirited to feel good about someone else feeling bad. Although maybe if he’d sounded less irritated about being into me, I wouldn’t have been stuck hoarding scraps of jealousy. “I wasn’t really on my knees. I was more sort of too drunk to stand.”

  “I’ve never struck anyone before.” Some of the wildness faded from Caspian’s expression, leaving him the closest to flustered I’d ever seen him, a flush caressing the arch of his cheekbones. “It was inappropriate.”

  Surely he wasn’t embarrassed?

  “Oh no.” I slipped from the edge of the chair where I’d been perched and knelt down next to him. Not in a subby way, just in a needing to be close way. I wanted to touch him, but I didn’t quite dare. If he’d been a different man, if we hadn’t been negotiating, I’d have propped my chin playfully on his thigh like a puppy. As it was, I just smiled up at him. “It was heroic. The most heroic thing anyone has ever done for me. It made me feel like a princess.”

  He laughed, the flush deepening and spreading beautifully. I wondered if he would blush like that when I touched him. Life breathed into marble. “I’m afraid I’m a poor choice of knight. I don’t think punching people lies within my skill set.”

  That was when I noticed the mess of his knuckles. “Oh, Caspian.”

  He covered one hand with the other. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing.” I reached out and he drew away. “You’re hurt.”

  “Faces seem to be harder than hands. Teeth especially.”

  “Can I see?”

  “It’s hardly—”

  “Please.”

  He wouldn’t look at me but he let me uncurl his fingers. Rest his palm lightly on mine as I contemplated the damage. Truthfully, it wasn’t so bad, except for the fact that he’d earned those wounds for me. He’d cleaned himself up, but there was still some swelling amid the scraped skin and the shadows of burgeoning bruises.

  He had such gorgeous hands: elegant and strong and lived in, with pronounced bones and ropey veins, long knotty fingers and well-kept nails. Acquisitive, powerful hands, for taking and claiming. I wanted them on me. In me. I wanted to make them tremble.

  But right now, I didn’t want him to hurt because of me.

  “I’ve got an idea.” I reached behind me to where I’d left my water glass. There were still some pieces of ice in the bottom. I chased them with my fingers until I managed to snag one. Sucked it until it was completely smooth. And then brought it very gently to his knuckles.

  He gave a soft hiss.

  “Too cold?”

  “It’s ice, Arden. Ice is cold.”

  “Maybe if I had something to wrap it in. I think I saw a washcloth in the bathroom.”

  I was about to stand when his other hand caught me by the wrist. “Don’t go.”

  Ridiculous really because it was only a room away but such was the intensity of the moment that I forgot.

  I forgot everything except the pressure of his hand and the urgency of his voice. The stark yearning in his eyes.

  Icy water was dripping into my palm, sliding down my arm, my fingers turning numb.

  But I didn’t care about that either.

  Just his mouth, hot on mine, as he leaned over me and kissed my chilled lips. It was an awkward position, unbalancing, but I arched into his touch, letting desire shape me. I loved being unbalanced by him, controlled by him. It was its own power—its own freedom—and it made me feel so good. So good, so safe, and so marvelously claimed.

  Next thing I knew he was bending me back, pushing me down onto that plush hotel carpet. He caught my other hand and pulled them both over my head. He seemed to like me that way, pinned, stretched, helpless, his.

  Well. That made two of us.

  Although there was part of me that ached to touch him back. To know what it would be like to tangle my fingers in his hair. Stroke the skin at the nape of his nec
k. Feel the muscles of his shoulders tighten like wings beneath my palms. I wanted him to have everything. All the pleasure it was in me to give.

  His suit was rough against my skin and I expected his kiss to be rough as well.

  But he didn’t kiss me. Only looked at me with lust-glittery eyes. Then groaned. “Oh God, how do you do this to me?”

  Chapter 14

  It was a reasonable question. And I was buggered if I knew the answer. As far as I could tell, there was nothing about me that would attract—let alone hold—the attention of someone like Caspian Hart.

  Capacity for happiness notwithstanding.

  And, yes, I did remember every nice thing he’d ever said to me. Squirreling them away like string and marbles in a kid’s keepsake box.

  “I don’t know,” I told him. “But I like it.”

  He frowned, the pained line I so wished to soothe away appearing between his brows. “I don’t like it. I don’t want to want this. But I can’t stop.”

  Way to bring me back to earth with a bump. “Pro tip. When you’re attempting to negotiate a short-term, preapproved sexual encounter with somebody, maybe don’t tell them how much you’re resenting it?”

  He released me and sprang to his feet, leaving me sprawled and disheveled on the carpet like a virgin sacrifice. Well, except for the virgin bit, obviously. I sat up, hugging my knees and trying to protect what little was left of my modesty while Caspian paced.

  He looked irritatingly gorgeous. Those long, lean lines of his and his natural grace, the flow of muscles beneath fabric far too suggestive of the way they might shift and tighten against me when we moved together.

  If.

  If we ever moved together.

  Which was looking unlikely if he continued with the sub-Darcy “in vain I have struggled” crap.

  “I’m sorry, Arden.” He swept around and gazed at me with a kind of bewildered anguish that was as heartbreaking as it was frustrating. “I don’t mean to insult you. I’ve just never…”

  He seemed to run out of steam, so I tried to help out. “You’ve never fancied someone before?”

  “I’ve never been consumed by it before. Never taken beyond reason. Never allowed it to distract me.”

  “Sometimes I don’t know whether I want to hug you or punch you.”

  His lips curled into a wry, wary smile. “I wouldn’t advocate punching. Clearly there’s an art to it.”

  Goddamn him. The gorgeous impossible contradictory bastard.

  Refusing to smile back, though everything in me wanted to, I scrambled to my feet and curled up on the edge of the sofa. “Right. Well. We both want to shag. What are we negotiating here, exactly?”

  After a second or two, he sat down next to me. It was probably the most normal moment of togetherness we’d ever had, and at first, I didn’t know how to handle it. It said something about your relationship with someone when you were more freaked out by sharing the same piece of furniture than wanking for them down the phone.

  “I don’t want you to have any false expectations about what I expect from you,” he said. “And about what I can give you.”

  “Really? Because after that opening, I’m expecting a proposal any second now.” I gave him my most coquettish, under-the-lashes look. “For the record, I’m planning to say yes.”

  He pulled away. “This was a mistake.”

  Fuck. Fuck.

  “Nononono. It wasn’t. Tell me how it would work. Please. I’m listening.”

  “I’m not precisely experienced in this area myself.”

  “And what area would that be? The short-term, preapproved sexual-encounter area?”

  He was quiet a moment. “Arden, I’m not trying to hurt you or insult you. I want you. I want you very much indeed. But I am simply not accustomed to…to feeling like this.” I was about to make some crack about how we experienced emotions sometimes on planet Earth, but he went on gently. “And I’m not going to lie to you. I won’t pretend I enjoy being at the mercy of my inclinations. I won’t claim I’m not hoping that we can do this and then I will be free of it.”

  “You mean free of me.”

  He nodded.

  “So let me get this straight. You want to bang me silly until I’m out of your system and you can get on with your life?”

  Another nod.

  “Well, while that’s very flattering, I’m not entirely sure what’s in it for me?”

  His fingers curled lightly over my wrist. It was probably the closest he had ever come to a touch that wasn’t sexual and I didn’t know what it meant. Only that I liked it: the play of his skin against my own. “You get me out of your system too.”

  I stared stupidly at his hand on mine as if I was expecting a magic show, all rainbow light and sparkles of happiness flowing between us. Hastily looking up, I met his eyes instead. They were cool and composed again, just like he was. “But what if I don’t want you out of my system?”

  “You should. You will. I won’t be good for you.”

  By accident or design, his thumb was resting against my pulse point, the gathering heat its own caress. I heard myself make a shameless, gaspy noise. “I think that’s for me to decide.”

  “God, Arden.” He let out a harsh breath. “Are you always like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “So responsive.”

  It was a complicated question. Without going all Xtube about it, I didn’t see the point of not being responsive. Otherwise where was the fun? Having sex and not responding would be like going on a roller coaster and not screaming. But, no, I didn’t usually swoon when somebody touched my arm. “Um, maybe, but it’s…it’s different with you,” I admitted. “Maybe it’s a pheromone thing?”

  “What?”

  “I read in a magazine once that there’s something about…how people smell. Like if somebody smells delicious to you, you’re probably more than usually sexually compatible.” I leaned in a little and inhaled the fading traces of his cologne, that old-worldy mix of wood and spice and cocoa, and the clean, masculine scent of his skin. “And you always smell amazing.”

  He shuddered, eyes half closing in what could only have been pleasure, the promise of sensuality softening his loveliness like shadow. “Can we please restrict ourselves to the topic at hand?”

  “This is the topic at hand. What if you get me out of your system before I get you out of mine? What if I’m cyanide and you’re arsenic?”

  “Then we’d both be dead.”

  “Yes, but you’d be dead quickly and I’d linger in confused agony. I don’t want to linger in confused agony.”

  His lips twitched. “No, I can understand that. Which is why I believe we should agree on an end date.”

  “I don’t think we’ve even agreed on a start.”

  “We haven’t agreed on anything,” he said sharply, “because you keep interrupting.”

  I could have pointed out that he nearly kissed me. But I just apologized meekly—though probably not entirely convincingly—and waited for him to continue.

  “Do you have plans now that you’ve finished your degree?”

  “Um, you’ve met me, right?”

  “I assume that’s a no. In which case, why don’t you stay in London? In one of my apartments.”

  For a negotiated prearranged wossname, that seemed kind of intense. “You want me to live with you?”

  “No, in one of my apartments.”

  And that wasn’t much better. “Like your…your…mistress?”

  “No.” He sighed. “Like someone who is staying in the apartment of someone he knows.”

  “But I should pay you rent or something, right?”

  “Arden, believe me, you could not afford the rent. I’m simply offering you somewhere to stay so you don’t have to worry about accommodation or living expenses while you apply for jobs or internships and decide what you want to do with your life. Something I expect you would find difficult from Kinlochbervie.”

  I smiled at him helplessly,
warmed, charmed, as touched as I had been the first time he recalled some minor detail about my life. “You remembered.”

  “You knew I would.”

  I swallowed. What he was offering seemed…I had no idea. How were you supposed to think about something like that? And it wasn’t exactly like I could phone a friend. Nik would probably tell me I was nuts for giving the guy the time of day after he’d had me peremptorily chauffeured out of London.

  But I liked him and I wanted him. And he’d come for me when I’d needed someone. Needed him. Looked after me when he could have, well, not done that.

  “And this is the plan?” I asked. “I live in your place and you…uh…we…uh…and after a set time we stop?”

  He nodded. “I’m aware it’s probably not…not what is commonly done.”

  I could have responded with the you think he deserved, but he looked so uncertain I didn’t have the heart.

  “But,” he went on, “I’m afraid it’s what I can offer. I’ve tried to make it practically appealing for you. And I’d be very willing to provide additional financial support, although I suspect that would offend you. I assure you, however, it would be compensation for inconvenience rather than compensation for…services.”

  There were way too many things wrong with this. But, for some reason, what struck me just then was how seriously he was underselling himself. “Look, if I do this, it’ll be because of you, not because of what you can do for me.”

  He glanced away, blushing a little, hand tightening on my wrist. “I believe you. But I…I’m afraid I have some particularities—some limitations, perhaps—upon which I cannot compromise.”

  “Well.” I twisted my fingers back to brush against his. “I’m pretty sure that’s what being human is like.”

  “You know,” he said softly, “you could sell this story.”

  “Oh don’t start that again. First off, nobody would believe me. Second off, I’d look like a complete dick.”

  He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed the inside of my wrist. And while I was busy dying and melting and catching fire and stuff, he murmured, “Truth has no place in journalism. You really don’t have any notion how the world works, do you?”