My Roommate, the Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 3)

by Serenity Woods

  Somewhere, Uncle Matt is banging his forehead on the table.

  Remy’s lips curve up. “It is okay, Albie. I am not going to flounce out of the room just because I meet one of your past conquests.”

  “Bex isn’t a conquest. She’s a friend. And for the record, I’d love to see you flounce.” I get Dixon’s feet out of the bag.

  “I am interested, that is all,” she says. “Was it a one-night stand?”

  “Remy…”

  “Oh, come on, tell me.”

  I pause, hands on hips, and study her. “That’s one of those questions women ask and then get annoyed when the guy answers.”

  “I promise I will not do that to you, Albie. If I ask, it means I would like to know.”

  I’m not convinced, and besides, I don’t betray confidences. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

  “Aw. Spoilsport. But you stayed friends?”

  “Of course.” The question puzzles me. “Why wouldn’t we?”

  Remy looks intrigued. “She did not ask to see you again?”

  “No. It was one of those things. We’d both had too much to drink—it was someone’s birthday and we were in Auckland at a nightclub. I think. The memory’s a bit vague. But anyway, it doesn’t have to lead to anything.”

  The notion obviously mystifies Remy. “I suppose not.”

  “It’s not only men who can divorce sex from love,” I tell her. “Believe me. I’d never get laid if that was the case.”

  “How many one-night stands have you had?” she wants to know.

  I roll my eyes. “There’s no way I’d answer that. Even if I’d kept count, which I haven’t.” I pull on the feet and then his paws, then take out Dixon’s head.

  “More than ten?” she asks.

  “Remy…”

  “More than a hundred?”

  “Jesus.”

  “What?”

  “Will you stop?”

  “I am fascinated,” she protests. “I want to understand.”

  “There’s nothing to understand. I like sex, and so do a lot of women, as it happens. Not everyone’s looking for forever. In fact, in my experience, very few are. Or very few are with me, anyway. I don’t say it self-pityingly, I’m just stating a fact.”

  “You are gorgeous, and you are rich. Why would girls not want forever with you?”

  “You don’t,” I point out. She thinks I’m gorgeous? Now I want to kiss her even more.

  “I am different,” she says.

  “Tell me something I don’t know.” I smile.

  Her brow furrows. “Have you slept with anyone at the Ark?”

  “Christ, no. Leon would have me horsewhipped if I got involved with anyone I work with. If he found out about it, anyway.” I grin.

  “He can hardly talk. He is with Nix now.”

  “Yeah, but that’s different.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that was never going to be a short-term thing. He’s crazy about her, and always has been. That’s different from having a fling with someone when you know it’s never going to last.”

  “So you do not have one-night stands with people you work with?”

  I lift Dixon’s head, then pause. “I haven’t yet.”

  She’s sucking her bottom lip, and her eyes have turned sultry. Now I’m confused. A moment ago she was telling me off for looking as if I wanted to kiss her. Now… she looks as if she’s thinking about it.

  Clearly, the idea of a one-night stand isn’t something she’s pondered much on before.

  “You do not mind if a girl has had one-night stands?” she asks.

  “No. Why would I? As long as everyone practices safe sex, what’s wrong with one-night stands if both parties are single and consenting adults? Nobody expects a woman to be a virgin on her wedding night anymore. How boring life must have been back then.”

  Most of the girls I’ve been with are the same as me—if we want sex, we choose a partner, or a partner chooses us, we sleep with them, and we part the next day. I assume my friends are the same. Izzy’s never talked much about other men, but the other girls at the Ark talk occasionally about guys they’ve hooked up with for the night. It’s the way of the world nowadays. Thank God.

  Remy’s lips curve up. “I suppose.”

  “Have you had any one-night stands?” I ask her, curious, pretty sure I already know the answer.

  “No,” she replies.

  “They don’t have them in France?”

  She gives me a wry look. “I was… how do you say it…”

  “Prim?”

  “Albie! I was demure.”

  “That means prim.”

  “No, it does not. Prim implies I turn my nose up at the thought of being exciting.”

  I smile. “It doesn’t sound like you.”

  “It’s not. Okay, maybe it was. My parents were very strict and brought me up to believe nice girls did not have casual sex.”

  I consider the notion that she’s not into casual sex. “You’ve only had relationships?”

  “Yes. Pierre was my third, and the longest.”

  “He was well-hung?”

  “Mon Dieu. The longest relationship, Albie. It is hard enough speaking in a language that is not your first without someone leading you astray.”

  “I like leading you astray.”

  “I am getting that.”

  I smile. “So you’ve never had a one-night stand? You don’t know what you’ve been missing.”

  “I am beginning to see the appeal.”

  My eyebrows lift. “Oh, you are, are you?”

  She frowns. She’s giving this some real thought. I didn’t expect to be having this conversation at eleven o’clock in the morning in the office next to the children’s ward.

  “I did not think I would be able to separate love and sex,” she says thoughtfully. “Other people do it all the time, though. A lot of my friends in France were on Tinder, and some of the friends I have made here are, too. They hook up with strangers for sex. I never understood why they would want to do that; it seemed cold and clinical. But I like sex. I have not had any in a while. And maybe it would not be so bad to stop this…” Her brows draw together as she looks at my mouth. “Longing.”

  This is backfiring on me big time. I feel a tad faint. “Jesus. I’ve got to go and meet kids in a minute. You can’t send me out there with the horn.”

  “The horn?”

  “With an erection, Remy.” I blow out a breath, close my eyes, and try to calm down.

  “I thought you wanted me to say what was on my mind. To be clear.” Her voice holds a touch of laughter.

  I open my eyes again. She’s smiling, the minx. “I do,” I tell her. “Thank you for being so open. I just wish you’d done it when I was in the car.”

  “Sorry, Al-bear.” She almost purrs the word, which doesn’t help the erection situation at all. “I am being very unfair. It is just… you took me by surprise.” She gestures down my body, presumably referring to when I got undressed.

  I’m rarely one hundred percent convinced of anything where girls are concerned, but I’d be willing to put my house on the fact that she’s attracted to me. The gorgeous Remy De La Vieuville is considering having her first one-night stand with me, Albie King.

  Now I’m mentally giving Uncle Matt a high five.

  And now it’s time to declare my position. I heft Dixon’s head in my hands. “Remy, we’re not going to have a one-night stand.”

  A silence falls between us. For a man who has trouble deciphering emotions, I have no problems working out Remy’s because they’re written all over her face. Embarrassment at her admission, regret at having spoken, puzzlement—maybe at why I’d sleep with someone I hardly know after a party but not with her—and disappointment, too. She’s disappointed. I was right—she does like me.

  “Oh,” she says. Her cheeks stain pink, and she drops her gaze.

  I pull on Dixon’s head and look at her through the eyeholes. “I want more than that
,” I tell her.

  Her jaw drops. I don’t wait for her to reply, though. I walk past her and out into the corridor, and even though she can’t see it, my lips are curved in a smile.

  Chapter Eight

  Remy

  I follow Albie out of the room in a daze.

  I can’t believe I practically proposed we have a one-night stand and he turned me down! But only because he wants ‘more than that.’ What the hell does that mean?

  There can’t be any more than that. I’m leaving in three weeks. Actually, it’s only a little over two weeks now.

  I said we should have a one-night stand. Oh dear God, what is wrong with me? He’s doing something to my head. He’s definitely doing something to other parts of my body. When he lifted my chin and looked into my eyes, tingles ran all the way through me. I’ve never felt such desire for a man, not even for Pierre, and I thought I loved him. But Albie… I yearn for him. It’s not a word I’ve ever used before, or ever thought to use about myself, especially where a man is concerned. But it’s an appropriate verb. I yearn. You yearn. He, she, it yearns. I conjugate it in my head while Albie stands talking to Bex outside the ward. Even in the costume, he moves with his easy grace, and I can hear his distinctive deep voice, his husky chuckle. I remember my earlier thoughts, that nobody could find a dog suit sexy. Oh, Remy, you silly, silly girl.

  He turns then, and extends Dixon’s big paw to me. “Come on,” he instructs. “Let’s get started.”

  I take his paw and let him lead me into the first room. And thus begins the most amazing, shocking, emotional day of my life.

  I meet children with broken bones, ones who’ve had surgery, some who’ve got chronic illnesses, others who are recovering from respiratory illnesses. Kids who’ve had operations on their eyes and stomachs and even their hearts. All of them bar none are thrilled to meet Dixon the Dog. Many of them have the Ward Seven characters clipped to their breathing equipment or their machines or their beds, and lots of copies of the books lie around, donated—Bex tells me—by Matt King and his brothers. Albie also gives out wrapped presents, which turn out to be DVDs of the cartoon shows and plush Ward Seven toys.

  “They’ve raised so much money for sick kids over about thirty-five years,” she tells me at one point, while Albie is having his photo taken with each child in the room. “They’re amazing guys. I love them all.”

  I glance at her, seeing her watching Albie fondly. “How long have you been doing this job?”

  “About four years now. I love it,” Bex says. “It’s just amazing, seeing the kids’ faces when one of the Ward Seven characters walks in. I know we’re not exactly saving lives here, but it’s nice to be doing something to help, you know?”

  I nod, thinking how rewarding it must be. All these poor children, and their caregivers, who sit by their side day and night, having to watch their kids suffer. I watch Dixon give one of the moms a hug, making her laugh.

  “You like him, don’t you?” Bex is smiling.

  “Dixon?”

  She chuckles. “Albie.”

  “He is very unique.”

  “That’s a great way to describe him.”

  I chew my bottom lip. “I am not… um… treading on any toes, am I?”

  Bex stares at me, confused. Then her eyebrows rise. “You mean me and Albie? God, no. We’re friends, that’s all.”

  “Only I thought you and he…”

  She gives a wry laugh. “Jesus, that was years ago. My boyfriend dumped me in the middle of a night out. I was upset and angry, and I wanted to leave the nightclub, so Albie walked me home. We’d been drinking all night, and we were both pretty drunk. When we got to my apartment, he gave me a hug, and I kissed him and wouldn’t let him go. I liked him—he’s a nice guy and he’s gorgeous, but we were just friends and there was never anything between us in that way. I didn’t care at the time; I just wanted to hurt Paul, so I invited Albie in. He was very sweet about it, but even though he was drunk, and it would have been so easy to fall into bed together, he said he wouldn’t take advantage of a friend like that. I started crying, real crying, you know, snot and everything. He came in and held me until I fell asleep on the sofa. He took my shoes off and covered me with a blanket, waited until one of my roommates came home, then left. He’s one of the good guys. He visits hospitals all over the North Island every weekend, doing this. You grab him with both hands, Remy, if you have the chance.”

  She goes over to the beds to take photos of Dixon with the kids, leaving me with an open mouth and a thudding heart. Albie never said he slept with her, I realize. He didn’t want to embarrass Bex by telling me what had happened that night.

  And now he’s here spending time with sick children. If he wasn’t so infuriating, I’d think he was a saint.

  I’m quiet for the rest of the time there, especially when we enter the rooms with the very young children. Dixon drops to his haunches and speaks softly to them when they’re shy, and I get a lump in my throat when they lift their arms to him for a hug.

  One of them, a toddler with a respiratory problem, is on a nebulizer that has a Carmel the Cat attached to it. His mother looks exhausted, and when he starts crying and tugging at his mask, I can see the tears in her eyes as she tries to stop him taking it off.

  “Can I help?” I ask her, and when she nods, I pick the little boy up. He must only be seven or eight months old. I cradle him in my arms, and he quietens and looks up at me with big blue eyes over the top of his mask. I sing him Nous n’irons plus au bois while I rock him, and when I look up, Dixon is watching me, although he turns away as the song comes to an end.

  I give the child back to his mother, feeling a strange twist deep inside. Pregnancy and childbirth must be hard enough without having a child’s illness to deal with. I can only imagine what these men and women have to go through.

  We finish making our way through the rooms, and eventually all the presents are given out and it’s time for us to leave. We wave goodbye to the children in the final room, and make our way back up the corridor to the office.

  Albie takes my hand and pulls me with him into the office, and Bex closes the door behind us. He pulls off Dixon’s head and breathes a sigh of relief. “It’s hot in there.” His hair is damp and curling around his temples, and his face is flushed. His hazel eyes are bright, almost green today, as he turns his gaze on me. “Are you okay?”

  I’m so full of emotion I can barely speak. It’s all been so unexpected—the children, Albie’s kindness to them, the story Bex told me… My bottom lip trembles, and then I burst into tears.

  “Aw,” he says, and he pulls me into his arms.

  I slide mine around Dixon’s waist and bury my face in his furry chest. “Je suis désolée,” I squeak.

  “It’s okay. I get it. It can be tough, especially the first time.”

  “They are so young, Albie.”

  “I know.” His voice is husky.

  “It is not fair.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s shit. And I wish I had a magic wand that could make them all better, but I haven’t. I don’t have the talent to be a doctor either, or to do what my dad does. This is the best I can do.”

  “It is amazing, Albie. You are amazing.”

  “I’m really not. But it’s nice that you think so.”

  He holds me for five minutes or so, during which time the door opens behind me, and I feel him gesture to whoever’s come in—Bex, presumably—and she goes out again, closing the door gently.

  “That was a lovely song you sang,” he murmurs. “What was it?”

  “Nous n’irons plus au bois. It means We’ll Go to the Woods No More.” I rub my nose. “It was written by Madame de Pompadour for the children of the village of Evreux when her lover gave her the Palace of Evreux. He was King Louis XV. Today it is called the Élysée Palace, the home of French presidents.”

  “Oh, that’s interesting. It’s a beautiful song for children.”

  “It is, if you overlook the fact that
the phrase ‘the laurels are cut’ refers to the closing of whorehouses that had a laurel tree branch over their entrances.”

  “Okay, not quite so good for kids.” He chuckles and moves back a little to look at me. Behind me, he takes off Dixon’s paws and drops them to the floor, then he cups my face with his warm hands. “Are you all right now?” He rubs his thumbs under my eyes, wiping away my tears. “Don’t cry.”

  His jaw doesn’t look as smooth as it did at the ball; he’s not shaved since then, and he has a few days’ scruff. I can smell his aftershave where the suit has warmed his skin, filling the air with the spicy scent. My gaze drops to his mouth.

  “Will you kiss me?” I say. Part of me wonders whether, like when Bex was upset, he’ll refuse and say he wouldn’t take advantage of me when I’m so emotional.

  But he doesn’t. Instead, his lips curve up, and he lowers them to mine.

  I close my eyes. His lips are warm, firm, and dry. He tilts his head a little to the right, changing the angle of the kiss, and I sigh and open my mouth to him, letting him slide his tongue against mine. Ohhh… I could kiss this man all day every day and never get bored. How does he do it? How does he set light to every part of my body? Just like a fuse in a cannonball in a children’s cartoon, the spark travels up my spine to my brain and back down my body, making my nipples tighten and giving me an ache between my thighs.

  Mmm… what would it be like to go to bed with him? To let him undress me, to have his lips on my skin, to have him go down on me… Oh yes, I’d like that, to have Albie King’s tongue sliding the way it is in my mouth down through my folds. To have his fingers stroking. I can’t feel much through the fur suit, but I’m betting he’s impressive down there. I want him inside me. I want this man more than anything I’ve wanted in my entire life.

  He lifts his head, and my eyes open dazedly. He kisses my nose. “And now I have to get changed with an erection,” he says. “Thank you, Remy.”

  “It is your fault,” I tell him.

  “You asked me to kiss you.”

  “You could have said no.”

  He rolls his eyes, moves away, and begins to tug the top of the costume over his head. When he gets stuck halfway, he turns to me and says, “Are you just going to stand there?”