The word future hangs in the air like a dangerous and exciting bubble. Did he mean our future?
“Well do you like it?” I ask gently.
“It’s business. It lets me travel, it lets me collect from my trust fund, but it’s not what I want to do for the rest of my life. No way. It’s suited for my older brother Martin. I mean, he really likes the numbers. And Ryan really likes the travel and money, so he doesn’t care about much else, but I need something more. I’m not sure what, though,” he says. He looks wistful and I have a desire to tell the driver to turn around, head to the hotel. I want to take him to bed and hold him and tell him all about my dreams and how he can be part of those, but we arrive before I can say anything.
“Are you ready?” he asks, as he holds the door open for me.
“It’s just dinner. I’m a big girl,” I tell him, tracing a finger over the collar poking out from his beige cashmere sweater. He scans the restaurant behind me and then drops his lips down to mine, kissing me so tenderly I feel like my feet lift off the floor. The maître d’ interrupts us by clearing his throat.
“Can I help you?” he asks haughtily, looking us up and down like we’ve walked into the wrong restaurant.
“Reservation for Beliem,” Chris says. “Anne Beliem. We’re here to join her.”
The maître d’s expression changes instantly. “Oh, Mr. Beliem, right this way.” He calls over to a woman at the bar who sweeps over and takes our coats. We follow the maître’ d to the back of the restaurant, Chris holding my hand reassuringly as we pass most of the tables and there’s still no sign of his mother.
“You’ll find your party in there, sir,” the maître d’ says, gesturing toward an archway that’s half obscured by thick curtains.
“Mrs. Beliem?” Chris asks. “In there?”
The maître d’ is walking away and Chris stares after him. A loud roar of laughter erupts from behind the curtain.
“I apologize in advance,” he says as he leads me through the curtain.
Beyond the curtain is a private room with a large dining table in the middle. I recognize Chris’s brother, Ryan, right away, and to my relief, Chris leads us in the opposite direction from him. At the head of the table is a smartly dressed, attractive woman, who I assume is Mrs. Beliem. Her hair is blonde and cut in a bob that frames her soft face nicely. She smiles when she spots Chris, and her eyes light up as he bends down to kiss her on the cheek.
“Mom, this is Weaver,” he says. “And this—” he waves around the room— “is not what I was expecting. At all.”
“Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Chris,” she retorts. “When was the last time three Beliems were in Manhattan together? I couldn’t not call your aunts and uncles. And lucky for us, your cousins were in town, too.”
Chris introduces me around the room to his various relatives. I know I’ll never remember any of their names, but mine is on their lips already, as if I were the guest of honor, the topic du jour. When his elderly aunt mentions how romantic it is that we met in Paris, I detect Chris shooting an annoyed look toward Ryan, sipping a gin and tonic across the table with a Cheshire grin across his face. My palms are clammy, and I start searching for any excuse to leave.
“Weaver come sit by me,” Mrs. Beliem calls across the room.
Chris squeezes my hand in a reassuring gesture, and I walk away. Into the lion’s den, it feels.
Mrs. Beliem is patting the seat next to her, and I have no choice but to sit down. Perfectly timed, a waiter appears at my shoulder and asks if I’d prefer white or red wine. “Red,” I say. I want to say, “Thank you so very much and keep ‘em coming, brother” but I simply say, “Thanks.”
“It’s so nice to meet you Mrs. Beliem. Thanks for inviting me,” I say.
“Call me Anne, dear. And it’s all my pleasure. I never get to meet any of Chris’s friends. Not that he has many lady friends, though,” she says, an air of regret in her voice. “Tell me something about yourself. Have you lived in the city long?”
I’m pleasantly surprised that Anne is easy to talk to. I tell her about growing up nearby on Long Island and how I stayed close to home, going to college here in the city. She asks about college and I tell her about my program, and outline a little for her my ultimate goal, opening up a trendy youth hostel when I have enough money for it. It’s all going so well. Chris is smiling at me from across the table where he’s talking to an aunt, and I feel comfortable, like instead of this being a test, it may end up being the beginning of a nice relationship with Anne. But then that familiar, accusatory voice sounds at my side.
“But how do you spend your time now, Weaver? What have you been doing since graduation?” he asks, and under his breath I hear him add “Aside from my brother.”
“Well, I tried to break into the industry, working in a pretty nice hotel and restaurant for a year.” I’m speaking to Anne now, my back half-turned to Ryan. “But it was brutal. Long hours, low wages, and it became clear after a year that it wasn’t going to lead anywhere. But I still have my plans and I really hope soon I’ll have enough money and be able to–”
“It’s like pulling teeth from you,” Ryan interrupts me, and Anne throws a severe look in his direction. I reach for my glass and take a sip because I’m not sure how to respond to his so obvious aggression.
“Did I hear you guys talking about plans?” It’s Chris, coming to sit by my side. “We do have some very special plans coming up.” I look at him, puzzled, and I hold my breath. Kate’s words are ringing in my ears: If he drops to a knee and proposes, run!
“I was going to surprise you later, Weaver, but no time like the present. How’d you like to fly over to Paris with me in the morning?” he says, a twinkle in his eyes.
I’m shocked by the suddenness of his invitation, but here in front his family, I’m not going to ask for details. We can discuss them later. I feel a shiver of excitement because I realize that’s exactly what couples do.
“Lucky girl,” Ryan sneers. “Seems like this relationship is already paying off for you.”
I squeeze Chris’s leg under the table when I feel him jump at Ryan’s comment. While I appreciate his instinct to throat punch him, I’d much rather handle this on my own, especially while meeting his mother for the first time.
“I agree, Ryan,” I say. “I’m so lucky.” I turn to Chris and say, “I’d love to. Thank you so much. You know I’ve only been to Paris once, and the trip was too quick.” I lean in and give him a kiss on the cheek, making sure to inhale deeply his scent and warmth.
Anne’s eyes light up when she hears me say that, and she’s reaching for her cell phone in her purse. “Oh Weaver, you have to give me your email address. If you’ve only been once, I have a million places that you must see. Chris here,” she says, pointing over to her son, “isn’t much a museum lover. He’s more like his father, an outdoorsman. His idea of a weekend in Paris is sitting at Bar Hemingway sipping whiskey when the Louvre is just blocks away.”
As I give Anne my details and she chatters on about all the sightseeing and restaurants I need to visit, I see Ryan seething, clearly disappointed that Anne has taken a liking to me and he hasn’t managed to ruin this evening. I’m glad Chris hasn’t confronted his brother, but from the corner of my eye I see his jaw is clenched and he’s unsettled. I don’t know the entire history between these two, but it’s clear I’m Ryan’s latest pawn in the spiteful game he’s playing with Chris. While I enjoy the rest of the evening, planning our Paris itinerary with Anne and loving the feeling of Chris’s hand gently rubbing my back, I feel Ryan’s eyes on me, noting everything I say, every move I make. When dessert is cleared from the table and Chris asks me if I’m ready to leave, I practically dash for the door.
How is this my life? That’s what I keep repeating when I plow through my apartment after dinner, searching for my passport and throwing clothes into a suitcase. It’s what I literally say when I leave Kate a voicemail and tell her to make a reservation for me and Chris
at her restaurant. And when a black town car pulls up to my building on Monday morning, I may ask the driver who takes my bags and holds the door open for me. How is this my life?
But when I slide into the backseat and see Chris sitting there, a folded newspaper in his lap and two cups of steaming coffee in the cup holders, I don’t wonder anymore. I just sink into it. Today this is my life, I think. I’m heading to Paris for a week with Chris and I’m not going to ruin it by questioning it.
I fly first class for the first time in my life, and at first, I feel awkward, trying to hide my excitement when I drink the complimentary mimosa and read the menu of breakfast choices. But when I can’t decide between the poached eggs or crêpes with fresh berries, Chris asks the flight attendant to bring me both and then wraps his arms around me, laughing. He tells me he loves my excitement and experiencing everything through my eyes. He’s grown so used to these perks, that he takes them for granted. Not with me. Not this time.
I doze off in the car from the airport to Paris, so when I step out of the car in front the hotel, I don’t realize where we are. I’m in awe of the hotel he’s chosen, Le Pavillon de la Reina. It’s covered in ivy and looks like a seventeenth century mansion right in the heart of Paris. But when I turn to look around me, that’s when my breath catches, because right across the beautiful square of Place des Vosges, I see the slightly rundown building where I rented a stuffy studio months before. Where Chris and I spent our first night together.
After he pays the driver and hands off our bags to the bellboy, he wraps an arm around my waist and leads me through the fairytale courtyard. “What can I say?” he says. “Your boyfriend thinks of everything.”
The room itself is rustic. There are wood beams crisscrossing the gabled ceiling and a giant marble fireplace across from the king-sized bed. Despite the traditional French touches like an old chandelier hanging in the center of the room, the wall paper and bedding are contemporary, in bold patterns of yellow and grey. I open the door to our private balcony, and looking across the Place des Vosges, I can just make out the small dormer window from that studio apartment. The one I stared out of four months before falling asleep with Chris, then a stranger, beside me.
* * *
The light is coming in through the casement windows, and it warms my face. I’m lying on my side, perfectly cozy in the luxuriously soft hotel sheets and thick duvet, and barely awake. It’s not the sun on my face that’s woken me; it’s Chris’s fingers, trailing up and down my spine. Every morning I’ve woken up after him, and every morning I’ve caught him staring at me, touching me, waking me up with his kisses and caresses. This morning is no different.
He nestles closer to me, pulling me back up against his chest. He moves my hair aside and kisses my neck, so softly. It’s a game we play: how long can I pretend to sleep while he turns me on? I feel his erection nudging into my ass, and his hand slides down my thigh, his fingers swipe at the smooth skin behind my knee, and then up again to rest on my hip. I feel him touching his cock underneath the sheet, and then a soft grunt escapes his lips before he’s lifting my knee and placing my leg over his. Then his fingers, I feel them sliding through my folds, still wet from his cum just hours before when we fell asleep. He slides up and down, and I try to stay perfectly still, continue the allusion that I’m sleeping. But then his finger slips inside me and starts pumping, and I know I can’t keep up the ruse much longer. I feel his breath coming in faster bursts over my ear, and his kisses on my neck are getting rougher, more frantic. When he takes his finger out of my pussy and starts sliding it over my clit, I can’t stay still any longer. My hips start rocking back into him, and I speak for the first time.
“Morning,” I say, my voice rough from sleep and the building excitement I feel between my legs.
“I’m sorry,” he responds sarcastically. “Did I wake you?”
A shudder rips through my body as me makes direct contact with my clit, and he laughs.
“We have a busy day.” He’s talking to me as if this is just a casual conversation, but I hear the strain behind his words as his cock rests at my entrance. “I have to take the train up north.” He doesn’t enter me, he stays right there, so close, and I feel him stroking himself while he swirls the head around my dripping pussy. If I were to move just an inch, he’d be inside me, but the suspense is too good to end.
He’s better at this game than I am. All I manage to say is “Yeah.” My head is too filled with lust. Finally, he eases into me, and I feel the slick steel slip inside me in a smooth motion. His hand is kneading my breast, and with the sun pooling on my pillow, and the soft sheets riding up and down my body as he rocks me, my senses are flooded with warmth and security. He’s moving so gently, so slowly, that I’m surprised when I feel the early stirrings of an orgasm.
“I want you to remember this all day,” he whispers, keeping the same, slow rhythm. Only his hand, tightening around my breast, betrays his growing need. I whimper as I feel his thick head slip past my g spot, and I want him to do that again. But he pulls all the way out, causing me to gasp. He enters me again, but just the tip this time, giving me quick, short strokes. I press my hips back, urging him on, back to the spot that’s screaming for attention, but he abandons my breast and holds down my hip, maintaining the short thrusts.
“Tell me what you want.” he says hoarsely. “I’ll give you what you need, but you have to ask.”
“I want to feel all of you.” I hear the breathy words coming from my mouth, but they feel separate from me. My body feels full, humming with energy waiting for release. “Deeper.”
It’s like I tripped a wire. Suddenly he’s flipping me onto my belly and he’s on top of me, nudging my legs open with his knees. He flings my arms above my head, grabbing both wrists with his large hand. I feel him sliding his cock up and down my seam, his body pressing against every inch of me. I feel him, smell him, everywhere. I hear his sharp intake of breath as he thrusts into me, this time, with his entire length. He has one hand on my hip, and he tips my hips up, fucking me at an angle that hits so deep, I know I’ll be feeling the ghost of it on the train with him later.
“Like this?” he grunts, pistoning faster and faster, his breath coming in short bursts. Just like that, I think, but I can’t speak, because he’s dragging over my g-spot again and again, giving me exactly what I wanted. My fingers are flexing in front of me, looking for something to grab as the orgasm starts to creep upon me, but he has my hands trapped. The way he slowly builds it up, it’s so intoxicating, that when I finally start to come, finally set on the path that will end with fireworks and explosions, I’m dizzy, completely out of mind from longing, and all I can do is take it, take what he gives me and ride it through.
I feel his other hand sliding under my tummy and landing on my clit, and with just a few swirls over the hood, my whole body tenses, my pussy feels so full, and he must feel it too, because he winces. “How do you do that?” he says, his words forced out through his exertion. “How do you get fucking tighter?”
The sound of his voice and his fingers. My burning wrists from his hands holding them tight, and his cock, scarping over my g-spot in an unrelenting rhythm. It all coalesces, and I feel myself tumbling. The feeling starts in my pussy but travels everywhere, ping-ponging against every nerve and flashing behind my eyes. And I feel him too, his rhythm misses a beat, and he’s gone quiet, the grunts from before having ceased. I feel him pound into me a final time, and then he’s still and groaning. Hot jets of his semen shoot inside me, and I feel coated with his warmth, filled up so completely by him. He lies on top of me, little aftershocks making his muscles jump, then I feel him shift his weight, allowing me to breathe easier. Then he finds my lips. He takes my top lip between his and sucks. Kisses the corners of my mouth, my eyes, and then back to my mouth, where our tongues tangle and I can feel a smile break out across his face.
He rolls us both over back onto our sides and spoons me, peppering kisses on my cheek and neck. We lie like
that quietly, spooning, and fall back to sleep in the soft sheets and warmth of the sun.
15
Chris
The day started out brilliantly, in bed with Weaver at the hotel. Like most of my grandfather’s demands, this one turned out not to be as urgent as he’d first suggested. When Weaver and I were walking through Charles de Gaulle on Monday morning, I received a text from him that he was “indisposed” for a few days, but “definitely, absolutely, it was completely imperative” that we meet at his estate in the country on Wednesday. And then Wednesday morning I received a text: See you Thursday. I didn’t mind at all since it gave me and Weaver time to ourselves.
I had prepared Weaver as much as I could for Alexandre Beliem, the Beliem family patriarch, CEO and Founder of Beliem Enterprises, but really, I knew there was no preparation that was adequate enough. He was an octogenarian who had worked hard, achieved enormous success early in life, and has been having his way for decades. The man was fixed in his ways and mercurial, and I never knew which Grandad I’d find behind his estate walls.
Weaver was naturally speechless when we arrived at the estate. The long entry drive from the road up to the house is a mile-long, lined with oak trees that are hundreds of years old. The house itself is a nineteenth century château, with square towers at each end and set on a grand terrace. If I hadn’t taken Weaver to Versailles earlier in the week, I probably could have convinced her that this was it.
“Are you kidding me?” she says. “Chris, I knew you were rich, but I thought it was exclusive-cam-girl-arrangement rich not château in France rich! It must have been wild to run around here when you were little.” I love seeing Weaver excited, and experiencing everything through her eyes this week has been more fun than I could have imagined. In fact, more fun than I think I’ve had in the last few years, but I can’t share her excitement right now.
The Billionaire’s CamGirl Page 13
