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

by Serenity Woods

  “I like the way you look at me,” she says, stroking her hands across my shoulders. “You make me feel special.”

  “You are special.” Did Pierre not make her feel this way? I won’t ask, because I don’t want her thinking about her ex while we’re making love, but I wonder about how he treated her as I lower my lips to hers again. I get the feeling he thought of Remy as an acquisition, like his yacht or his sports car or his Rolex watch, something he could show off to his friends, that he could flaunt at dinner parties and social gatherings. The thought angers me. I’d still like to punch his teeth down his throat for treating her that way.

  He can’t touch her now, though. She’s my girl. The thought sends a fresh burst of passion through me, and I slide my hands around to her bottom and tighten my fingers on the soft muscles there as I press against her. The root of my erection nestles at the top of her folds, and she moans against my lips, clenching her fingers in my hair.

  If my shoulder was okay, I’d lift her and thrust into her here, but it’s too painful to do that, and anyway, I don’t have a condom. As amazing as it is having her like this, I want to get her into bed. I want her warm and dry and comfortable, so she doesn’t have to think about anything except the amazing orgasms I’m going to give her.

  I turn off the water, and she pouts and sighs. “Bed,” I tell her, opening the door and stepping out onto the mat, and her eyes glitter.

  It’s warm in the bathroom, but I’m worried about her being cold, so I wrap her in one of the big beach towels from the cupboard in the corner and rub her briskly, stopping every now and again to kiss her. When she’s dry, she does the same to me, looking up into my eyes when she brings the towel to my groin to dry me there. I close my eyes for a moment and revel in the feel of her hand sliding down me. She cups me, drying beneath, then gently strokes my shaft, the rough towel oddly erotic against my sensitive skin. Whoa, much more of that and I’m going to last about two minutes, and I have far, far too much I want to do with and to Remy De La Vieuville to squeeze into that short space of time.

  Tossing the towels aside, I take her hand and lead her out into my bedroom, closing the door behind us, and flicking on the switch that turns on the lights above the bed. Luckily, the room is moderately tidy. We have a cleaner come in once a week, and this morning she dusted and vacuumed, and the room smells of fabric spray and my aftershave. It’s a big room, large enough for an armchair and my PlayStation in the corner, next to my desk where I sometimes work in the evenings.

  But I pay no attention to any of that now, leading Remy over to the bed. I pull back the duvet and let her climb in, slide in beside her, and tug the duvet over us, tucking it around her.

  “Are you warm enough?” I ask, sliding my arms around her waist.

  She nods. Her hair is damp, and I suppose I should have dried it with the hairdryer, but she leans against me and kisses me, and I know she’s as hungry for me as I am for her.

  I’ve forgotten to close the curtains, and outside the wind is still howling, rain beating against the glass. But oddly there’s something nice about it being wet and wild outside, and us being safe and warm, and together.

  “Mmm, Al-bear,” she whispers as I stroke down her body, and I shiver.

  “Speak French to me,” I murmur, tipping her onto her back and kissing her neck, then down to her breasts. She sighs and begins talking, the French words as beautiful as her lace underwear and her entrancing perfume. What is it about the French language that’s so elegant? Her words fall around me like butterflies, her voice husky, making the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

  I kiss over her breasts and cover her nipple with my mouth, and she responds with an, “Ooh, la la!” and another stream of French as I suck, then tease the tip with my tongue and teeth.

  I could easily have tossed her onto the bed, slid straight inside her, and thrust us both to a screaming climax, but as much as I ache for release, this way is far better. Even though we’ve showered, I can still smell her perfume, and I nuzzle her neck and touch my tongue to her skin, filling my senses until all I can think of, smell, taste, feel, is Remy.

  “Ohhh…” Her words trail off as I slide my fingers down her tummy and over the beautiful, silky, bare skin of her mound. She parts her legs and looks up into my eyes, and I hold her gaze as I run a fingertip lightly up the heart of her, touching it at the top to the tiny button encased in its protective hood. Her mouth opens, but no words come out.

  “I’ve dreamed about doing this,” I tell her, repeating the action, making my touch so light I know she can barely feel it. Down to her opening, then brushing up over her bare, swollen folds, and tapping lightly on her clit. Her expression is full of something like wonder, her eyes hazy with desire.

  “Oh,” she says again as I continue to touch her. I lower my head back to her breast and tease her nipples for a while, still stroking lightly, until she’s writhing beneath me, her breaths short and ragged, as her hips try to push up against my hand. “Albie,” she breathes, “oh Mon Dieu, you’re making me ache…”

  “Tell me what you want.” I kiss her, her mouth, her cheeks, her eyebrows, back to her mouth. “Tell me what you need from me, Remy.”

  “I… oh… I want to come… please, Albie…”

  I relent and slide my fingers down into her folds. Fuck, she’s wet, and swollen, and I slip two fingers into her, gather up some moisture, then bring them up to swirl over her clit. She comes in less than a minute, her breath hot on my lips, fingers clutching at my arms, her clit pulsing under my touch. Her long, sexy moans make me hard as a rock, and I hold her tightly, drinking in her ecstasy and feeling her shudder. I’m sure all men feel smug when they make their girl come, but for me there’s also relief and pleasure, too, and I kiss her, stroking her until she’s done, and she exhales and falls back onto the pillow, limp and spent.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Remy

  I float back down to earth and open my eyes to see Albie’s lips curving up as he brushes them against mine.

  “Why are you smiling?” I ask, touching my fingers to his mouth.

  “Because I’m pretty certain you didn’t fake that.”

  My eyebrows rise. “Fake it? Sérieusement?”

  He shrugs. “If any man’s going to have trouble knowing if a girl’s faking it, it’s me.”

  “Albie, if you are always like this in bed, there is no way any girl is going to need to fake it.”

  He smiles, but I’m surprised at the ripple of jealousy I feel at the thought of him doing this to other women.

  “I suppose there have been a lot of girls in this bed,” I say, plucking the white sheets. I hope he’s changed them since the last one, whoever she was. He is a single guy, after all.

  He pushes up and leans across to the bedside table. After opening the drawer, he takes out a condom and returns beneath the covers, pulling them over our shoulders. “Not going there,” he says, ripping off the packaging and then rolling the condom on.

  “I’m jealous,” I tell him.

  “I can see that. I have no idea why.” He pulls me on top of him, and I stretch out along his firm, warm body.

  “Because you have loved other women,” I tell him, kissing his face, his jaw.

  “Not loved,” he corrects.

  “Fucked, then.”

  “Mon Dieu.”

  I try not to laugh and hold his chin so he has to look into my eyes. “Promise me you will never sleep with anyone else ever again when I leave.”

  His eyes are warm with amusement. “You want me to go into a monastery? Take vows?”

  “Oui. I do want that.”

  “And you’re going to become a nun in France?” He strokes my back. “What a waste that would be.”

  I kiss him, taking my time to delve my tongue into his mouth. I like being on top, being in charge of making love with Albie King. “Tell me none of your girls make you feel the way I do.”

  “I don’t have a harem, Remy. And absolutely, one hu
ndred percent, no woman has made me feel the way I feel when I’m with you.”

  Tears prick my eyes, the emotion still floating beneath the surface. I want to believe him.

  “You should know something about me.” He places both hands around me on my shoulder blades, then draws his fingers down my back. “I’m incapable of lying.”

  I shiver. “You could be lying right now.”

  “I’m terrible at it. You’d know immediately if I wasn’t telling the truth. I stutter. Hal and Leon used to think it was hilarious when we were kids. So you never have to worry that I’m keeping secrets from you. If you ask me something—if I tell you anything—you know it’s going to be for real.”

  He moves his hands onto my bottom and holds me as he rocks his hips, stroking the root of his erection through my folds. Mmm. This man fascinates me. He’s unsure of himself in so many ways, and yet his touch is skilled. Because he can’t read what they’re thinking, he’s taken the time to learn what women like. I suppose I should be glad he’s had so much practice.

  “If you touch another woman, I will chop off your hands,” I tell him.

  He starts laughing. “With a guillotine?”

  “Do not mock me, I am serious.” I know I’m being ridiculous. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. We haven’t even had proper sex yet, and we’re hardly committed to one another. But I can’t bear the thought of him loving another girl. “I do not want you to touch anyone else. And I do not want any other girl to do this with you.” Still lying on top of him, I open my legs and move until I feel the tip of his erection brushing my entrance. I push down just a little, so he parts my folds. And then I stop.

  He gives a long, helpless sigh.

  I brush my lips against his. “Promise me.”

  He gives me a wry look and rests his hands on my hips. I know he’s going to hold me and thrust up, so I take his hands and move them above his head, pinning him to the bed, being careful not to jolt his sore shoulder.

  We both know he could throw me off easily and take me any way he wanted, but he plays the game and pretends he’s my captive, his eyelids lowering as I give tiny thrusts. Repeatedly, I tease the tip of his erection, letting him enter me, then lifting up, my body gripping him and refusing to let him go.

  “Mmm… Remy…” He gives a half-sigh, half-groan, and closes his eyes. His fingers flex in mine. “Stop torturing me.”

  “After the way you tortured me? I do not think so.” Mind you, it’s backfiring a bit; I’m arousing myself as I do this. Ohhh, he feels amazing, and I know it’s going to be even better when he’s inside me. I shift so he slips out of me and rock my hips so he slides through my folds, circle my hips so his tip rubs on my clit, then let him enter me again, just a tiny bit.

  He’s breathing long and deep now, and he opens his eyes, fixing them on me. I look into them as I continue to tease us both, knowing I could come like this. I could come a hundred different ways with this guy. La petite mort, the little death, the beautiful orgasm, lies waiting for me. Mmm, yes, I could play with him all night and it wouldn’t be enough.

  One night, one week, one month, one year. It would never be enough to do everything I’d like to do with Albie King.

  “Fuck.” He flexes his fingers in mine again, his biceps swelling with the movement. “Remy… Ah Jesus. I’m only human.”

  “Aw. Pauvre Al-bear.” I take pity on him and push down so he sinks right into me, and I cry out with pleasure at the sensation of being penetrated. He gives a long, deep groan, and I push up so I’m sitting astride him, lifting my hands to sink them into my hair. Knowing he loves it when I speak French, I sigh and tell him what I’m really feeling as I move, things I wouldn’t tell him if I knew he understood. Albie, you drive me crazy… I’ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you… I don’t want to go, I want to stay here with you and do this with you every day, every night… I’m going to make love to you until you’ve forgotten all your other women, until all you can think of is me…

  Pleasure is making me tingle and tighten, and I start singing Je t’aime… moi non plus, the sexiest song in existence. Oh, he feels good deep inside me, and I’m only half-conscious that he’s letting me ride him, his arms still above his head, his gaze fixed on me as I sing. Oh yeah, this is hot, and I thrust harder, lifting my hands to my breasts and plucking my nipples. The song ends with the throaty sighs of a woman as she comes, and I echo the song as I finally clench around him, tipping back my head as the magnificent pulses overwhelm me.

  I’m left gasping, and I lower my head to see him looking up at me, his eyes intense, hot.

  “That’s a first,” he says.

  I lean on his chest and start moving my hips again. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve never had a woman sing before while she makes love to me.”

  I shrug. “It seemed appropriate. It is French and it is sexy.”

  “I know the song,” he says, amused. “You did an excellent rendition.”

  I feel self-conscious now. I just did what felt right at the time, and suddenly I wonder if I’ve made a cultural faux pas. “Are you mocking me? Did I do it wrong?”

  He laughs. “No, Remy.” He grabs my hair and winds it around his hand so I have to bend until my lips meet his. “You didn’t do it wrong.” He kisses me, long and luscious. “I think you’re the sexiest girl in the whole fucking world.”

  Pleased that I haven’t caused an international incident, I hold his hands above his head again and look into his eyes. They’re hot and full of desire. I’m turning him on.

  “I am going to fuck you now,” I instruct him. I like the swear word. It feels good in my mouth, Anglo-Saxon, guttural. “I am going to give you pleasure.” Bending, I kiss him, then kiss up his jaw to his ear and breathe into it. “Will you come for me, Al-bear?” I nip his earlobe, and he shivers. “Tell me,” I say.

  “Yes,” he whispers.

  “You will come for me?”

  “Yes.” His eyes are nearly closed, but I know he’s watching me. I move faster, so he’s plunging into me, nice and deep, and his fingers tighten on mine.

  “Tell me when it begins.” I bend and run the tip of my tongue along his top lip. “I want to watch you.” I lift up a little, examining his face with fascination. “Are you close?”

  “Yes.” His eyes are hazy, although he’s still looking at me with a kind of helpless adoration.

  “Tell me what you’re feeling.”

  “Tension,” he murmurs. “Deep inside. Everything tightening.”

  “C’est très beau?’

  “Oui. C’est très beau…”

  “Oh, Albie, you speak French beautifully. Say after me, tu m’excites.”

  “Tu m’excites.”

  “It means you turn me on.”

  “Tu m’excites, Remy.” For some reason his gorgeous accent gives me the shivers.

  “Baise-moi,” I tell him.

  “Baise-moi,” he repeats.

  “You want me to fuck you, Albie? But of course!”

  His lips curve up, and then he groans as I pick up the pace and thrust hard. His eyes close. “Aaahhh…”

  I feel him tensing beneath me, and I lean forward and kiss him. “Are you coming, Al-bear?”

  “Oh fuck, yes…”

  Delighted, I look down at his face and watch the pleasure contort his features, his fierce frown, the way his lips part as he gives long, deep, husky groans. I did that. I’ve driven him to the brink and pushed him over. I feel a swell of satisfaction.

  He pulses inside me, six, seven, eight times. He’s magnificent. I could watch him do this all day.

  Only when he’s done do I release his hands, and bend and kiss his lips.

  He slides his arms around my waist and lifts up, twisting and making me squeal, until I lay beneath him. He’s still inside me, and he kisses me passionately, delving his tongue into my mouth. Mmm… I wrap my arms and legs around him, wishing we could stay like that forever, warm in bed, him inside me, his
mouth on mine. If heaven is like this, I’ll happily stay there.

  But of course, all good things come to an end. He sighs and withdraws, lifts off me, and disposes of the condom.

  I blow out a long breath. “I want a whisky. Would you like one?”

  “Now?”

  “Oui.”

  “I’ll get it,” he says, and begins to rise.

  I pull him back, wanting to do this for him. A man deserves a reward after giving a girl two amazing orgasms. “No, it is okay. I’ll go.”

  I rise and pad out to the kitchen, pour us both a drink, pick up a packet of Kiwi cookies that are pink with sprinkles—they’re his favorites, although he’d never admit it to anyone—and return to his bed. He’s sitting up on the pillows now, the duvet across his hips. He smiles as I walk in.

  “You’re naked,” he says.

  I give him a strange look. “We have just had sex.”

  “I know, Remy. My memory’s not that bad. I’m commenting on the fact that you’re walking around the house without any clothes, and all the curtains are still open.”

  “Oh, let the neighbors look. I do not care.” I pass him his glass and put mine on the bedside table, sit on the bed with my legs crossed, and open the cookies. I offer the packet to him. He meets my eyes, smiles, then reaches out to take one.

  We crunch them quietly, while the wind howls, and the rain taps away at the glass. I push a few crumbs from my lip onto my tongue, conscious of him watching me. “I have done something weird,” I say. “Haven’t I?”

  “Not really.”

  “Other girls don’t get you cookies after sex?”

  “No.”

  “Aw. Quel dommage. You deserve to be spoiled.” I have a sip of whisky. “What was the name of the last girl you slept with?”

  He gives me a look that’s half-amusement, half-exasperation. “Why are you so fascinated with who else I’ve had sex with?”