The Proposition--A Sexy Billionaire Romance

by JC Harroway

  This is what well-fucked truly feels like.

  I sigh a happy, sated sigh, the emotional impulse as unexpected as the man himself. Perhaps he’s a good-luck charm, if I believed in luck. Perhaps letting loose, embracing my wild side, is good for me, allowing me to achieve some much-needed work-life perspective. Either way, I can’t deny I feel more alive, more enthused for the months ahead than I have in years.

  I shampoo my hair, hair that Cam wrapped around his fist as he pounded us both to oblivion that last time, sometime in the dark early hours. He fell asleep soon after, splayed on his stomach, his muscular back and tight buttocks a visual feast I struggled to tear my eyes from. I was so energised, my mind so focused, I worked through the rest of the night. Even now I’m in no way tired, although pulling all-nighters isn’t that unusual for me. When you run an international firm, sleep is an expensive luxury.

  But could I afford another luxury, one in the form of a sexy Australian with grey eyes who reminds me I have needs? I slide my soapy hands over my skin, an idea forming. He said he was free and easy. No work commitments, money clearly no issue. The way he threw it around last night, almost as if trying to offload as much as possible, perhaps he’d be up for a whirlwind tour of the globe with stopovers at all the international M Club establishments? We could continue this arrangement for a few weeks... A way to explore the sexy side he’s unleashed in me. A way for me to keep this feeling, this newfound perspective, alive.

  My proposition takes form in my mind as I towel dry and comb through my hair. A month, six weeks ought to be enough time to work my man toy, as he put it, from my system. I’d have to make the sex-only proviso crystal-clear. My one trip down the aisle confirmed that relationships and I definitely don’t mix. I have no desire to repeat that mistake. I don’t need a relationship, which in my experience is just another way to fall short of someone’s expectations.

  If Cam agrees, if he too wanted more than just one fantastic night, he could accompany me while I toured my international offices to ensure everything is as I like it—ticking along like clockwork and expanding on our year-by-year profits.

  A sex-only arrangement.

  ‘Amazing sex,’ I say aloud, catching my laughing reflection in the fogged-up mirror—eyes bright with excitement, hair tousled and damp the way it was last night after our first shower, when Cam fucked me from behind in this very spot, ordering me to tweak my nipples hard until I saw stars right before I came.

  The man was some sort of sex god, a G-spot genius, and I his willing, eager-to-excel pupil. But I didn’t simply want to excel. I wanted to be top of the class.

  I smile at my reflection—a feline smile.

  I’d show him I could let go.

  I’d ruin him.

  Dressed in my favourite floaty Capri pants and a silk spaghetti-strap top in deference to another stunning Monaco day, I make discreet enquiries at Reception for Cam’s whereabouts. There was no answer when I knocked on the door to his suite, just down the hall from mine. Even if he hadn’t made a splash in the gaming room last night, he’s pretty unforgettable—his height, his commanding presence, not to mention his fuck you air of flouting convention and living the good life.

  I find him in the club’s gym, the sole occupant. He’s ignoring the Shirts must be worn at all times sign, performing chin-ups on a bar facing a wall of mirrors. And I don’t blame him. If I had his body, every inch cut slabs of muscle draped in golden skin, a gorgeous, intricate tattoo covering one shoulder, I’d watch myself move too. I’m instantly damp between my legs just from one glance at his sweaty torso.

  In fact, there’s no reason I can’t enjoy the show for a few hedonistic seconds. My pulse throbs through my sex while I watch, hypnotised. His back muscles flex in unison to drag his long, built frame up the foot or so required to place his chin above the bar. Sweat runs in rivulets down the bumps of those muscles. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, keen for another taste of the skin I sampled last night.

  That happy sigh is back, thankfully silent and in my head, but again it strikes me I haven’t felt this rejuvenated in years. Cam’s the kind of man who makes a woman feel feminine. It’s effortless for him—his sheer size, those calloused hands, the formidable sexual prowess I’ve now experienced, plus his nurturing, caring side and impeccable manners.

  Enough looking.

  I’m on a plane out of here shortly. Time is money. I want his answer.

  I approach with confident steps, although my belly twists with uncharacteristic nerves. What if he turns me down, or has a life to get back to in Sydney, or thinks I’m too old for him beyond one anonymous night? The pinch of disappointment speaks of the calibre of Cam’s brand of fucking. But I’m a big girl. A grown woman. I tell myself his refusal would be no big deal, that there are plenty of other Cams in the sea, although the shaky quality of my breathing confirms it’s a lie.

  But I’m not giving up yet. I’m used to getting what I want, and this will be no exception.

  I meet his eyes in the mirror, and just like last night the eye contact feels like a physical waveform buffeting me with his aura. With all the eye contact we’ve shared since, the physical intimacy, I should be over the starry-eyed phase by now. Bloody hell, I’m not sixteen.

  Cam drops to the ground, not a hint of surprise on his face, as if he’d been aware of me staring from the doorway. He’s probably used to women hounding him for more sex the morning after.

  My brain scrambles to recall exactly why I’m here, other than to watch his ripped body work out while I drool.

  ‘Has working all night refreshed your appetite?’ he says, grabbing a towel. He wipes sweat from his face and chest and then slings the lucky piece of towelling around his neck. ‘Women don’t usually hunt me down before breakfast.’

  I drag my eyes away from the bulge of his cock, visible through the thin fabric of his workout shorts, all but panting at the memories of that spectacular part of his anatomy. ‘I only worked half the night. The other half—’

  ‘I remember what you did the other half,’ he interrupts, flashing that grin that reminds me he’s in his twenties.

  ‘And I didn’t need to hunt you down,’ I say, stepping closer. ‘After your antics at the roulette table last night, purchasing a bright yellow supercar, you’re something of a celebrity—all I did was ask for your whereabouts at Reception.’

  He tilts his head in acknowledgement of my statement, his own stare taking a similar swoop of appraisal down the length of my body. ‘Did you receive the replacement dress and lingerie?’ I can tell that, like me, he’s remembering what he did while my ruined dress and torn panties shackled my waist.

  I free a groan in my head, the remembered sound of fabric ripping sending delicious spikes of pleasure to my core. I fight the urge to kiss him in that way that seems to drive him crazy—my tongue surging against his, a scrape of my teeth along his decadent lower lip.

  ‘I did. Thank you.’ At the crack of dawn this morning, shortly after he left, there was a knock at my door. I rushed to open it, secretly hoping to find Cam on the other side, but it was a hotel porter delivering a garment bag. ‘The replacement wasn’t necessary—how did you even do that? It’s Sunday morning.’

  He arches one brow in that noncommittal way of his. ‘I have my methods. As you know, money opens doors.’ His mouth flattens, a hint of cynicism in his expression.

  ‘So, did we leave something unfinished? Did I leave my boxers in your room...?’ He laughs and I join him, more certain than ever that spending time with him will be good for me and therefore good for business. It’s been an age since a man made me laugh, since I laughed full stop. I deserve to celebrate such a landmark victory over my father’s firm, and I want to celebrate with Cam.

  ‘I have a proposition for you,’ I say, letting him have it straight between the eyes. Now I’ve seen him again in the flesh, I’m even more set on my course o
f action. I need the next few weeks to run as smoothly as clockwork, professionally speaking, and, with Cam around as an after-hours distraction, my mind would be clear, my focus sharp and my energy restored.

  Bloody hell, Orla, he’s not a multivitamin!

  ‘Oh? Sounds intriguing,’ he says. ‘Why don’t we discuss it over breakfast? I’ll just jump in the shower and meet you in the restaurant.’

  My body clamours to join him in the shower, my mouth parched for another taste of his talented, thick cock. I swallow, suddenly ravenous. ‘I don’t eat breakfast, and I’m flying out to Zurich in—’ I check my watch ‘—ninety minutes.’

  He’s not remotely disappointed with this news. My stomach plummets. No woman wants to be so easily forgotten.

  ‘Okay—well, shoot, then.’ He leans one hip against a nearby weights machine, the fabric of his shorts stretching across his crotch leaving nothing to the imagination, and grips the ends of the towel around his neck. A perfect pin-up pose for a raunchy, get-you-wet calendar. And I don’t need my imagination—I have fresh and vivid memories to keep me warm.

  Of course, I’d rather have the real thing...

  ‘You said last night you were on a pleasure spree of luxury travel. Does that mean you’re free of other commitments at the moment?’ We haven’t talked about what we do for a living. We haven’t talked about anything.

  ‘I’m free as a bird. What do you have in mind?’

  ‘I wondered if you’d like to join me on a tour of some of the other M Clubs. I’ll be travelling for work for the next five-to-six weeks... Perhaps we could have some fun along the way...?’ I trail off from my perfect sales pitch, concealing most of the desperation from my voice, and I silently thank every single business proposition I’ve ever made for getting me through this sexy proposition without so much as a voice wobble.

  ‘Well, that’s intriguing.’ His eyes glow. ‘So you enjoyed your walk on the wild side, huh?’

  I arch my brows. ‘And you didn’t?’ He couldn’t keep his hands off me. I have the soreness between my legs as a trophy of his insatiable stamina.

  ‘Fair point.’ He grins. ‘But aside from the obvious pleasures,’ he looks me up and down, ‘what’s in it for me?’

  I splutter. Gape. I didn’t expect him to play hardball. I’m used to telling people how high to jump.

  ‘You said it yourself—you spent half the night working. Have you even slept? You don’t have time for breakfast...’ He shrugs, his point illustrated.

  I roll my shoulders back, defensive—his censure reminds me a little too closely of my ex-husband’s complaints. ‘I don’t need more than a couple of hours’ sleep.’ But he’s right; my work habits do make me rather a dull travelling companion.

  ‘As good as last night was,’ his eyebrows flick up in that roguish way, ‘I’m not interested in spending the next six weeks watching you working in between snatched naps only punctuated by the odd fuck. I prefer my dates—’

  ‘We wouldn’t be dating.’ My temperature soars. How dare he see me so...clearly?

  He ignores my interruption. ‘I prefer my hook-ups to have a pulse, to have the energy to offer me a few scraps of attention and to be awake long enough for us to have a good time.’ His lip curls in that playful way he’s so good at. ‘I’m old-fashioned like that.’

  I bristle, lifting my chin. ‘I know how to have a good time. You just said so yourself about last night.’ It wouldn’t sting quite so much if his assumption wasn’t true, but I’d never admit such a thing.

  He steps closer, his beautiful eyes holding me captive. ‘You’re right,’ he looks me up and down in a way that makes me feel naked again, ‘you look too put together to be as hot as you are, but once you let your hair down the sex part was great.’

  ‘But...’ I say, because I know it’s coming, despite his compliments.

  ‘But, when I woke up and reached for you because I wanted more, you weren’t there.’

  I fist my hand on my hip. ‘I work odd hours because of international time zones.’

  He nods, but continues. ‘And when I found you working before dawn this morning, I assumed we were done, that the sexy woman I’d spent the night with was safely tucked away, normal service resumed.’

  ‘Normal service? What does that mean?’ Didn’t I prove I could have a good time with the right incentive?

  ‘It means this.’ Cam waves a finger at me. ‘You’re back to being immaculate and untouchable. Perhaps last night was a one-off. Don’t forget I saw your idea of fun yesterday—until we left the casino it was hardly thrilling. But perhaps I’m judging you harshly.’ He folds his arms behind his head and stretches out his back. ‘Why don’t you help my decision-making process by coming to a party?’

  My stomach drops with disappointment. This should be in the bag by now. ‘I told you, I fly out soon, and what kind of party happens at ten in the morn—’ I break off mid-flow, realising my mistake with a full-out blush.

  No. I grind my teeth in frustration. He’s wrong. I can have as much fun as the next person...

  His twisted mouth tells me he finds me amusing, but then his face turns sincere, eyes alight with that flicker of challenge I recognise from when he was buried inside me, instructing me to fondle my nipples or touch my clit.

  ‘The kind on a superyacht—the Monaco Yacht Show is in town. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. And it’s party time twenty-four-seven on board those things. How else can prospective buyers fall in love with the benefits of owning a floating luxury hotel?’

  The depth of my irritation catches my breath even as I long to project a go-with-the-flow attitude. I can’t go to some debauched gathering at ten in the morning—I have to work, vet a press release cementing my deal, catch a plane...

  I grip my temples. Listen to me. He’s seriously considering my proposal and I never concede this easily. I remind myself of what happened when I cut loose last night, of my elation this morning when I opened my emails to find Jensen’s was on board. Relaxing the reins a little had paid off then; why not now? Plus, I can’t have sexy, carefree Cam thinking I’m a decrepit old dullard.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he says, gripping the ends of the towel once more and buffing his astounding pecs, ‘you come to the party so we can discuss this proposition of yours further, and I’ll ensure you get to Zurich today—I have a plane.’

  I almost roll my eyes—of course he has a plane—but stop myself in time. ‘I have a perfectly adequate first-class ticket...’ But isn’t this what I hoped? That he’d consider my outlandish plan?

  He shrugs. ‘That’s the offer on the table—take it or leave it. What’s it going to be, princess? Party or goodbye?’

  The desire to have things go exactly my way shunts my pulse higher as I stare, while he simply grins. But I can have things my way. All I have to do is go to his stupid superyacht party, drink some champagne and take his private plane to Zurich, with or without him—I can get some work done on board, have a decent sleep in a proper bed.

  ‘Come on, you know you want to.’ He winks.

  My annoyance builds at his self-assured smile—he knows he has me over a barrel. Not a position I’ve previously enjoyed. But with Cam... My head spins with all the sexy ways I can make him pay. Ruinous ways...

  ‘Okay,’ I sigh, ‘I’ll come to the party.’

  His eyes light up. ‘I’ll meet you out front in ten minutes, after I’ve showered,’ he says, pushing away from the weights machine, all male swagger.

  ‘Great.’ My tone is sarcastic. I can’t believe he’s playing hardball.

  But he didn’t say no...

  He keeps walking in my direction, slow and studied like a panther. I’m hit with a wave of his body heat, the scent of his fresh, manly sweat and undertones of pure, sexy Cam. Damn, he’s worth waiting for and he knows it.

  He grips my chin, his thumb swiping my b
ottom lip, and then he tilts my face up to his kiss, which is slow and thorough, as if he’s relearning how our mouths slot together. I suck in a breath—unbelievably I’d forgotten how good he is at kissing, how it’s almost a full-contact sport—all strong, demanding lips and probing tongue. How he dwarfs me, one hand practically swallowing my entire jaw and half my face, and how, when he pulls away, his eyes glassy with that now familiar desire, I want more. Want it never to end.

  How can I crave him again? How do I have any more orgasms left in me? How can I convince him to say yes?

  He pulls away, not unaffected by our chemistry—I see it in his eyes—and now I’m looking forward to this party, to proving him wrong, to showing him I’m worth his time.

  ‘Give me ten.’ His voice is husky, his breath warm on my wet lips.

  I nod, too scared to trust my own voice because of the lust raging through my bloodstream.

  * * *

  I’m not surprised to see him driving the low-slung, sleek sports car he bought last night, even if it does look as if it belongs in some futuristic movie. The sight of him behind the wheel makes me wish I was someone who employed dirty tactics. I want to ride him right there in the front seat.

  ‘So this is your new car?’ I say as he lifts my suitcase into the back. My stomach sinks a little when I see his solitary brown leather messenger-style bag next to it. No suitcase.

  ‘Yes. It’s a supercar, remember, a Python—custom-made.’

  ‘Is everything super-sized with you?’

  He waggles his eyebrows and I laugh.

  ‘I’m glad you appreciate the finer things in life,’ he says. He’s talking about himself, so I shake my head in mock disgust, although I’m smiling.

  ‘So what are you going to do with it?’ I ask about the car.