Stranded With a Billionaire

by Jessica Clare

  She rolled her eyes. “Forget I asked. So when are we doing this?”

  He glanced down at his watch. “Now?”

  “Now? Don’t you have to interview the other employees?”

  “The consultant’ll take care of that. I hired him for that reason. You and I have other plans.”

  Brontë stared up at him, her expression a mixture of wonder and consternation. “You’re not good at people telling you ‘no,’ are you?”

  He pulled her close again, his hands resting on her lower back. “I’d rather hear you saying ‘yes.’”

  Her breath caught in her throat as his intentions were made clear. And she slid her hands up the lapels of his suit and then tugged on his coat, lowering him down to her mouth. “I’m definitely more of a ‘yes’ girl.”

  “So this is a yes, then?” Logan leaned in close.

  “Do you need more proof?” She ran a finger down the front of his tie, and his nerve endings lit up at the brush of her fingertip. “I told you I like you. I’m not exactly sure that we’re a good fit, but I’m willing to see where this goes. ‘Fortune favors the bold’ and all that.”

  His hand slid to her ass, cupping it. “I love it when you talk Plato to me.”

  “Virgil, baby. Virgil.” Her lips brushed his.

  “Mmm. I wish we were somewhere private right about now.”

  She grabbed him by his tie and began to drag him to the back freezer. “Come with me. I’m wanting to test that ‘fortune favoring the bold’ thing right now.”

  He allowed her to lead him in by his tie. They entered the walk-in freezer, and he immediately felt the chill through his jacket and clothing.

  “Cold in here.”

  “I’ll warm you up,” she teased. “Come here.” And she gave him a slight push, knocking him against a large box of frozen burger patties.

  A crate shifted nearby, and he sat down on it, dragging her down with him. “You sure you want to do this here, Brontë? Once I start kissing you again, I’m not going to stop.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and pretended to consider it for a moment. “Think anyone is going to follow us into the kitchen?” Her fingers lightly trailed along his ear, distracting him.

  “Not if they value their jobs,” Logan said. “I made it quite clear to the consultant that we were not to be disturbed.”

  “Then we don’t have anything to worry about,” she said in a sultry voice, and leaned in to kiss him.

  He tilted his head back in anticipation of the kiss, but she stopped just before her lips met his. “You don’t have anything else to tell me, do you? Secret marriage? Bodies in the backyard?”

  “I’m afraid that I am alarmingly dull,” he said in a dry voice. “No kids. No wives. No bodies in the backyard.” His hands rubbed up and down on her round ass through the seat of her jeans. He loved her curves. She was so damn sexy and vibrant.

  “Seems like I’m getting the raw end of this deal,” she said teasingly, nipping at his mouth. “You sound terribly boring.”

  “Terribly, terribly boring,” Logan agreed. He grabbed that messy bun of her hair and dragged her mouth to his. She’d been intending on a light, teasing kiss, but he made it slick and deep and wet. He was determined to show her just how much he wanted her.

  Brontë whimpered low in her throat. “Your mouth makes my panties so wet.”

  God, that was erotic. He groaned. “Plato again?” he asked between kisses.

  “Brontë Dawson,” she replied huskily. “I hear she’s got a thing for tall, dull guys.”

  “It’s a lucky day to be a dull guy.” He took her lower lip in his mouth and sucked on it, enjoying her moan in response and the way she arched against him, straddling his lap as he sat atop the crate.

  She rocked her hips against his, rubbing deliberately over his rock-hard erection. “I don’t suppose you brought condoms?”

  He had brought one, just in case. “We’re good.” His hands slid to her front, and he cupped her breasts through her T-shirt, his thumbs stroking her hard nipples. She had such high, perfectly curved small breasts. He loved them, and loved that she was confident enough in her body not to change a thing.

  Her gasp of pleasure was a thing of beauty . . . and incredibly loud in the small, cold room.

  Logan kissed her hard again. “We’ll have to be quiet unless we want to broadcast to your coworkers exactly what you’re doing with your new boss.”

  “I’m thinking they’ve already guessed,” she said between kisses, groaning as his fingers continued to skate over her nipples. “And I’m thinking I don’t care that much. I just want you.”

  Her words made his cock ache with need. He groaned against her mouth, letting his hands slide to her jeans, and he paused there, waiting to see her reaction. They were in a walk-in freezer, after all. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she wanted to continue this some other time.

  But she brushed his hands aside and undid the buttons of her jeans, shoving them down her hips even as they continued to kiss, her lips moving over his with the same desperation he felt.

  She broke the kiss after a moment, then slid out of his lap and shucked her jeans, tossing them to the floor. Skimpy panties cupped the curves of her ass, and he couldn’t resist running a hand up the bared flesh of her smooth thighs. So beautiful. So sexy.

  “I want you, Brontë,” he told her in a low, husky voice.

  “I want you too, Logan,” she breathed, stepping in close and straddling his hips again. “Make love to me.”

  Before she could sit down in his lap again, he undid his belt and unzipped his slacks. He shoved his boxers down, freeing his cock from the restraints that were making him ache. The bite of the cold air was bracing, but not so cold that it was disturbing. But when she moved in close and slid into his lap again, her warm thighs hugging him and the hot cradle of her sex cupping his cock, he groaned. She felt so good. Strange that he’d missed being with her this quickly. He could take or leave most women. Relationships were time-consuming and not worth the effort. But Brontë was different.

  He pulled the condom from his wallet and tore it open, shifting the warm, delicious woman in his lap so he could roll it on. She pressed her breasts to his face in response, and he bit at her nipple through the fabric of her shirt.

  She whimpered, the sound making his cock throb in response.

  And then the condom was on. Thank God. He needed to be in her, now. Logan ran a finger up the seam of her sex—she was already wet and waiting for him. With a groan, he pushed aside the fabric of her panties, exposing her slick pussy. He rubbed a finger along her folds, watching her reactions until she was moaning against him, her fists clutching his lapels.

  “Please.”

  He sank home inside her.

  She cried out softly, and he inhaled at the sensation of her, so tight and hot around his cock. She felt so good. “Brontë,” he murmured, his hands going to her hips and dragging her upward and then slamming her back down again. “My Brontë.”

  “Yours,” she whispered, her hips following his lead. She began to buck and ride him, increasing the motion of his thrusts with her own hip movements, until he was pounding into her, and she squeezed her eyes shut tight with pleasure, gasping with every thrust. “Yours, Logan.”

  He came with a groan, unable to hold back. The fucking had been quick, brutal. And she hadn’t come, he realized, even as his own release flooded out of him. But she only kissed him and rubbed her body against him, still rocking even though he was no longer thrusting. Telling him that it was all right, that she’d enjoyed herself even if she hadn’t come.

  But he was going to make this good for her, too. He slid a hand between them and stroked down her belly until he felt the damp nest of curls. Then he pushed his thumb deeper until he hit her clit, and began to rub.

  She stiffened against him, her fing
ers digging in, her eyes going wide. His other hand moved to the back of her neck, and he pulled her in for a searing kiss, silencing her cries even as he began to rapidly flick her clit with his thumb, bringing her over the edge.

  She didn’t last long, either. Her tense body began to shudder almost immediately, her groan of his name swallowed by his kiss. Her pussy spasmed around him, clenching him tight like a vise.

  And then she was falling against him, replete.

  He pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she absently trailed her fingers over his jaw.

  “Can I make a suggestion to my new manager?” she asked in a drowsy, sated voice.

  “Ask away.”

  “I recommend tossing out this food,” she murmured. “I don’t know that I could serve it to anyone after knowing what we just did in here.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll take that into consideration. But you’re not going to be here to serve it, Brontë. You’re going to be with me.”

  “I shouldn’t go with you, but I’m going to anyhow. The others are going to talk a mile a minute if I leave with you for a week.”

  He wanted to tell her that it’d be more than just a week, but there was no sense in alarming her if she was still skittish. “You can tell them you’re doing training at my corporate office if anyone asks.”

  “I’m not sure they’d approve of that kind of training,” she said with a wry smile.

  “They wouldn’t dare say anything to you,” Logan said. “Not if—”

  “Logan,” she said in a warning tone.

  “You’re going to the corporate office to represent your company for a few business meetings,” he told her, smoothing a hand down her backside. “A few friendly, intimate business meetings.”

  And night after night in his bed.

  ***

  Getting out of the restaurant was more embarrassing than Brontë had imagined. Her cheeks were flushed a bright red as they left the kitchen. Logan had raked a hand through his hair and straightened his clothes, and he looked fine. Her? Her mouth red from his kisses, and her hair was loose around her shoulders. She was pretty sure her jeans were dirty from where she’d tossed them on the floor, too, but she supposed that didn’t matter.

  Everyone was staring at them as if they knew exactly what they’d were doing. Sharon was giving Brontë a highly suspicious look, the other waitresses were giving her mystified glances, and only the consultant was acting as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

  The consultant turned to Logan. “The next employee on the list is Marj Davis.”

  Logan straightened his tie, barely glancing at the woman that stood nervously. “I’ve got another appointment to get to. I trust you’ll be able to handle it from here?”

  Brontë studied her nails, positive that her cheeks were lit up like a string of Christmas lights. She peered at Marj’s face, but Marj seemed relieved that she wouldn’t be meeting with Logan after all.

  Sharon was still staring at Brontë, though.

  “Everything’s under control, Mr. Hawkings,” the consultant said. “I’ll send you my full report in the morning.”

  “Excellent,” Logan said, adjusting a cuff link as he turned toward the door. He paused, glanced at Brontë, and turned back to the watching group. “I’ll be taking Miss Dawson with me.”

  And there it was. The looks of the other waitresses turned from confused to knowing. Brontë gave them all a hesitant wave and then bolted for the door as soon as Logan opened it. Everyone knew she’d just made a ‘special’ arrangement with the boss. Everyone. Her cheeks stung with embarrassment. Her earlier bravado about not caring what they thought vanished instantly.

  “Well,” she told him as soon as they stepped out on the street. “That’s going to make things awkward when I have to go back to work.”

  He frowned down at her, as if just now realizing what she meant. “Should I have the consultant speak to them?”

  “What? No!” God, she could just imagine how that conversation would go. “Let’s just forget about it. I’ll give it a few days to die down before I come back. I’ll talk with the manager about clearing my schedule.”

  “I’m clearing it.” He put a hand on the small of her back, directing her to a waiting black sedan.

  She stopped, looking up at him. “For how long?”

  “Indefinitely. I want you with me.”

  Her mouth opened, and then she snapped it shut again. Hadn’t she been so excited to take a vacation? To get away for a few days? This was just an extended one, really. “And I’ll have my job when I get back?”

  “You will,” he agreed.

  Of course, if she and Logan didn’t work out, that would make returning to work doubly awkward. She tried not to think about that. “A happy life consists in tranquillity of mind,” she reminded herself. If that philosophy worked for Cicero, it would work for her.

  Logan moved to the door of the sedan and opened it for her, gesturing for her to enter. Brontë eyed it. Black, shiny, and brand-new. It screamed money. Totally not her kind of ride. She pulled her keys out of her purse and jingled them. “I drove myself here.”

  Logan extended his hand, palm up.

  She gave him a curious look. “You want to drive to my apartment?”

  “No.” He grimaced and looked at his watch, clearly torn. “I wasn’t lying, Brontë. I do have a meeting I have to get to back in the city. We don’t have time to go back to your apartment. I can have someone drive your car back safely.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You want me to go with you? Right now? I don’t have any of my stuff.”

  A hint of a smile curved his mouth, and he slid on a pair of Oakley sunglasses. “I need to go, but I’m not letting you out of my sight again. So, yes, I want you to come with me.”

  “I’ll need clothes,” she warned him.

  “I have credit cards.”

  Yeah, so did she, but they were pretty much maxed at the moment. Brontë crossed her arms and studied him. “So you’re going to buy me a plane ticket, put me up in a hotel, buy me clothes, and pay me a salary, all so I can spend time with you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That puts all the power in your hands, don’t you think?”

  The smile he gave her was feral. “I didn’t get where I am by letting others have control.”

  Yes, but what did that mean for a relationship, exactly? “I don’t like being a kept woman.”

  “Think of them as necessary expenses for my new . . . philosophy consultant.”

  She snorted.

  He grinned, and for a minute, he didn’t look like the confident, aloof billionaire. He looked like a mischievous little boy. Her heart melted, just a little.

  “All right,” she grumbled and stepped forward, handing him the keys. “But if you start picking out my clothes, I’m leaving.”

  “I don’t know a thing about women’s sizes,” Logan told her, pocketing the keys. “You’re safe on that count.”

  Brontë slid into the sedan, noticing the plush black leather seats. The windows were heavily tinted, the interior immaculate. A man in a black suit and sunglasses nodded at her from the driver’s seat.

  Logan slid in beside her and shut the door.

  “Where to?” The driver glanced at the mirror, his gaze on Logan.

  “Airport.” Logan rested a hand on Brontë’s knee, the gesture intimate and possessive. He looked over at her and that arch smile returned to his mouth. “Ever ridden on a private plane?”

  “Never. You have one?”

  “Two, actually.”

  “Naturally,” she said. “Let me guess. Two, just in case the other needs an oil change?”

  He chuckled.

  That wasn’t a no. Brontë laughed and shook her head. He was impossible.

  Soon enough, they were at the airport and crossing the r
unway to a large plane. She’d thought he’d have a tiny plane, but this seemed like a regular-sized one. Just for one person?

  The interior was like nothing she’d seen before. Thick, beige carpet covered the floor. On one side of the plane was a wet bar of some sort. On the right, two enormous leather chairs sat across from a table and two additional chairs. A large flat-screen TV was set into the wall, and the entire back of the plane was closed off, with a door barring it. She gawked at the interior, clutching her purse close. This was so not what she was used to.

  “Have a seat,” Logan told her, brushing his fingers over her lower back again. “If you’re tired, you can take a nap in the bedroom after we take off.”

  “Bedroom?” She looked at him incredulously. “You have a bedroom on this thing?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes I have to take late flights. It makes things easier.”

  No kidding. She supposed having your own flying apartment did make things easier. Brontë sat down in one of the chairs, trying not to seem too intimidated.

  Chapter Eight

  Warm lips brushed her cheek. “We’re here.”

  Brontë stirred, embarrassed that she’d fallen asleep in the car. “We are?”

  “Yes. We have just enough time to get you situated upstairs, and then I have to head off to my meeting.”

  Yawning, Brontë blinked her eyes rapidly, trying to wake up as she followed him out of the car. She stood on a wide sidewalk, the street lined with cars up and down both sides. All around her were tall, elegant buildings. Nearby was an awning and a doorman stood below it, waiting.

  Logan leaned over the car and spoke into the window. “Wait here. I won’t be long.” Turning back to her, Logan took her by the arm and began to guide her toward the building with the doorman. “I’ll show you my place, and you can get comfortable.”

  “Do you have to go?” She asked, glancing uncomfortably at the doorman as he opened the door for them.

  Logan ignored the doorman and headed into the lobby, then toward the elevator. “It’s a meeting I’ve rescheduled twice already. I won’t reschedule it again.” When the elevator dinged, they stepped on, and Logan pushed the button for the forty-fourth floor. “When I get back, we can go out to dinner.”