The Billionaire's Kiss

by Olivia Thorne

  My knees are buckling. My insides are fluttering.

  “I sooo shouldn’t be doing this… trying to make you come… you shouldn’t come for me… don’t… don’t come for me…”

  As soon as he tells me not to come, that’s all I can do. It’s a little orgasm, but it’s enough to completely obliterate any other thought in my head. Little pulses of pleasure shoot from my pussy to my toes and fingers all the way up to my head. I cry out, my eyes still closed, and try to keep my balance.

  While I’m still coming, his other hand grabs mine and puts it right on the front of his pants. Underneath my palm, I feel the outline of his shaft pressing against the fabric. Big, thick, very warm.

  That sensation just intensifies my orgasm, making me come a little harder at the end.

  “And you shouldn’t be touching my cock like that… shouldn’t be cupping it in your hand… shouldn’t be running your fingers across it like that…”

  It’s like I’m hypnotized. I can’t do anything but what he says. I’m too awash in pleasure… and I love the feel of that big, thick pressure in my hand way too much to let it go. I stroke softly up and down, loving the length of it, loving the way it strains under my touch.

  I feel his fingers tugging my thong down my thighs.

  I don’t protest. I just keep stroking his shaft, my eyes closed, my lips slightly parted, knowing I shouldn’t be doing this, but WANTING to, deep inside me to my very core.

  I hear a ziiiiiip and I feel him shift his hips, and suddenly my hand is touching hot, satiny-soft skin stretched tight over the biggest, hardest cock I’ve ever felt in my life.

  I stroke him softly all the way up to his crown.

  He’s wet. His big, swollen head is slick with pre-cum.

  oh god oh God Oh God OH GOD

  I want to look at it, but I don’t want to break the spell. I don’t want to stop, and I’m afraid if I open my eyes, I will freak out and run away, and I don’t want to. I want more, I want –

  I want him to fuck me.

  On cue, there is the crinkle of ripping foil, and I feel his fingers rolling a condom down his shaft. My hand strays down to his sack, and I gently cup him and play with those big, heavy balls, letting them loll around in my palm.

  Suddenly his hands are on my ass, under my thighs, lifting me up in the air. He’s so strong – it’s like I weigh nothing to him.

  I circle my legs around his waist, and he slowly lowers me, one arm circling my waist now.

  Something thick and blunt presses against my lips –

  And then he’s inside me.

  Just the head at first, but Jesus that’s big enough. I gasp out loud, overcome by pleasure and the tiniest bit of pain.

  Now he’s easing inside me… inch by inch… pulling out, letting my juices slick down his shaft, easing back in…

  “Oh God,” I whimper, and bury my head against his shoulder as he keeps sliding inside me.

  He keeps going on forever, it seems. So deep… so deep inside me…

  And so thick. Filling me up. Pressing against me from every direction inside. Such glorious, hot, sweet, fuckable pressure.

  Finally he’s full inside me, and he starts to gently rock. An inch out, then balls deep. Two inches out, two inches back in. Three inches… four inches… five inches… six… more… each stroke getting progressively longer… deeper… hitting places deep inside me…

  I’m moaning, I’m sighing, I’m groaning. I lean backwards, my hair hanging free in the air as he holds me with his big strong arms and just fucks me. Fucks me so good.

  He pulls me back up with one arm, never missing a stroke, and pulls my face to his.

  He’s kissing me now, angrily, passionately. Rough and urgent.

  I kiss him back, both of my hands on his smooth face, letting him inside me, both inside my mouth and between my legs.

  Actually, I didn’t let him inside me so much as he took it. Just possessed me – fucking me, kissing me so deeply.

  We break off the kiss, and for the first time I open my eyes.

  He’s looking right at me, his face contorted in pain and pleasure.

  His beautiful eyes… that scowl on his face like he can’t believe how good I feel…

  I come immediately.

  I scream and shriek and hang onto his neck with my arms. Over his shoulder I can see the lights of Hollywood – that is, between my eyelids fluttering closed and open, and my eyes rolling back into my head. I’m holding onto him for dear life, my legs wrapped around him like I’m riding a horse, his cock pumping inside me furiously, rocking in and out.

  As soon as I stop moaning, he withdraws his cock (No! No! Leave it in, please God, leave it in!), then stops and unwraps my legs from around him. I’m confused – he didn’t come. Or at least it was the most quiet male orgasm I’ve ever heard.

  He sets me on the ground without a word, then turns me around. His hands pull my dress completely off my shoulders and down my body.

  I’m standing there naked in the cool Los Angeles air, with only a pair of high heels and a necklace on.

  The only problem is, there are about twenty people on the other side of the glass, laughing, drinking, flirting, angling to do later what I’ve been doing for the last ten minutes.

  Of course, I freak out.

  “Oh my God – oh my God – ” I whisper in rising panic, clasping my arms over my breasts.

  “They can’t see you,” his voice says gruffly, commandingly.

  “But – ”

  “Or hear you,” he says, anticipating exactly what I was thinking: all my loud screams as I was coming just a minute before.

  “How do you know?!”

  “Because I designed the damn building.”

  “But – ”

  Before I can say anything else, he pulls my arms roughly away from my chest, bends me over, and plants my hands against the glass.

  His hands glide down my arms and cup my breasts, supporting them, fingers tweaking my nipples.

  Then I feel his cock between my thighs… his head pressing against my lips…

  Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

  He’s inside me again, and it feels soooo gooooood.

  First he starts off with a couple of thrusts, just to get his length all the way inside me. Then he starts circling his hips, kind of ‘swirling’ his shaft inside me, hitting a whole bunch of new places I didn’t even know existed. I’m moaning with every new sensation.

  Eventually he starts thrusting again – but with this new angle, his head is rubbing right on my g-spot, and the entire length of his shaft is caressing it with every stroke.

  I’m standing there, hands pressed against the glass, eyes half-closed, drunk on pleasure and the feel of him gliding over the most pleasurable parts deep inside me. This powerful man, this billionaire architect, inside me, fucking me. A complete stranger, now like an animal, possessing me, owning me, using me, making me come over and over, with nothing I can do but surrender completely to the pleasure he’s bringing me.

  And all the while there are twenty people just a few feet away. If only they could see me – completely naked, legs spread wide, palms pressed against the glass, with the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met behind me, fucking me against a window in public in full view of everyone – yet no one can see us. Completely safe.

  The incredible turn-on of it all, the imagination of what their reactions would be if they saw me getting manhandled and fucked on the other side of this glass, revs me up so high I can’t bear it anymore.

  “Oh God – oh fuck – oh FUCK!” I scream again as I start coming once more, this time harder and more powerfully than the rest.

  No one notices.

  No one turns their heads to look.

  No one knows I’m having the best orgasm of my life, just a few feet away from them.

  I guess my cries are too much for him, because he starts groaning and bellowing like some primordial beast. He sinks deep inside me with one last powerful thrust, his hips slappi
ng my ass, and shouts as he comes. I can feel his thick base suddenly explode, get even thicker – can almost feel his cum travel up his shaft with every pulse, every spasm.

  My orgasm, which had been dying out, suddenly crests into another one as I feel him spurting inside me.

  Through my haze of ecstasy, I secretly wish that he wasn’t wearing a condom so that I could feel the hot splash of his cum inside me, filling me up.

  He leans over my back, groaning, as the little contractions go from two a second, to one a second, to one every few seconds, to intermittent little pulses. He kisses my back, then my neck, and softly caresses my breasts.

  Chills tremble across my skin.

  Then he’s standing up straight… his cock is withdrawing… and it’s gone.

  He turns me around and kisses me, long, deep, slow, sensual. His hands rove over my naked body, clutching my ass, caressing my skin.

  When he pulls away, I keep my eyes closed for a few seconds. I’m still mesmerized. All of this is a dream.

  All of that couldn’t have just happened… could it?

  I guess I am that kind of a girl… with the right man.

  When I finally open my eyes, he is smiling down at me. The condom is gone, his cock – still hard – is back in his pants. He is holding my dress in one hand, my clutch in the other.

  He presses them against my bare chest and I grab them to me, covering myself, self-conscious now.

  He leans over and gives me one more kiss.

  “That was incredible,” he whispers in my ear.

  I nod, unable to speak. ‘Incredible’ is an understatement.

  “See you soon,” he grins, and turns on his heels, walks to the opposite end of the colonnade, and is gone.

  4

  WHAT THE FUCK?!

  I stand there in complete and utter shock. The best sex of my life, and the guy – the incredibly hot, powerful, rich, brilliant guy – walks off, leaving me naked, on a ledge in a secret passageway four stories above Sunset Boulevard.

  WHAT THE FUCK?!

  I hurriedly pull on my dress, embarrassed at what I’ve done. I look back at the people beyond the mirror, but they’re completely oblivious. At least I don’t have any witnesses to my shameful predicament.

  Except the douchebag who just walked out.

  I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe I let him do that to me.

  And then he just walks off!

  The fucking ASSHOLE!

  JERK!

  GODDAMN PRICK!

  I pick my panties up off the cement walkway. It’s dusty up here, so there’s no way I’m putting them back on. I open up my clutch to stuff them in –

  And realize something’s wrong.

  It’s a little light.

  I look inside.

  My wallet’s there – no money is missing –

  But my cell phone’s gone.

  Holy fucking shit, I am going to KILL Grant Carlson if I ever run into him again.

  Then my mind starts turning.

  No, I’m going to make Grant Carlson absolutely miserable AS SOON AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE. Famous architect or not, he’s fucking going DOWN.

  I go to the end of the colonnade, the place he exited from. For an instant I’m afraid that you have to trigger some secret sequence to get out, the way he did with the other door. I begin panicking that I’m going to be stuck out on this ledge and die of thirst – or worse, I’m going to have to pound on the glass until someone comes to get me, and then I have to explain what the hell I’m doing out on the ledge in the first place.

  But then I see the handle.

  I open it… click.

  The door leads to another shadowy alcove. Fifteen feet away, I can see the brightly lit ballroom lobby.

  I check the other side of the door. Nope – no handle. Another secret doorway.

  I make sure I’ve got everything (except for my cell phone – grrrr) because I’m sure as hell not getting back out on that balcony once the door closes. Then I let the door close and make as graceful an entrance back into the ballroom as I can, hoping that nobody realizes I just got nasty in a secret passageway. In front of twenty people on the other side of a mirror. And that I’m currently going commando.

  I leave the party, get my car from valet, and head back to my apartment.

  Time to put my war paint on.

  5

  One other thing I kinda neglected to mention: I’m a former hacker.

  I started playing with computers when I was seven. I messed up my Dad’s computer, and boooooy was he mad. But rather than punishing me, he just bought another one and was like, “Eve, the broken one’s yours. Do whatever you want with it, but do NOT touch mine again.”

  Within three weeks I’d learned how to install different operating systems, was messing with UNIX, and yada yada yada. You don’t care.

  Suffice it to say, by fifteen I was a full-on hacker. I breached the Department of Defense’s website. I was a high-ranking member of Anonymous (hackers who try to right societal wrongs). My specialty was fucking up revenge porn sites and torching the owners’ bank accounts.

  Then, when I was 17, my buddy Mailin got caught.

  Mailin was the closest thing I had to a boyfriend in high school, though we never kissed or even held hands. But we were inseparable. He was a hacker, too, though not as good as me. Which is why he got caught. He was sloppy at covering his tracks. We never, ever did any harm – just getting inside government and corporations’ web servers was the thrill – but the FBI didn’t see it that way.

  They actually came to his house and arrested him. It was on the news and everything. I didn’t see him for days. I was frantic. When he finally got back home, he told me, “They offered me a deal. I promised never to hack another US government website again, or any corporation… and I have to work for them for seven years. Then I can do whatever I want.”

  “Seven years?! You have to work for the FBI for seven years?!”

  “It’s either that or go to jail for twenty.”

  For the first time, I realized that what I was doing wasn’t a game. Or, at least, it was a game – but with some really serious consequences if I broke the rules and got caught.

  The way I saw it, getting caught wasn’t worth it.

  And if the FBI would let Mailin get off the hook for 20 years because of what he could do… then I was pretty sure somebody would pay me beaucoup bucks to do the same thing for them.

  I went to MIT. Breezed through all the undergraduate courses in two years. Started doing graduate level classes, even though they wouldn’t officially admit me into the graduate program. Got recruited my senior year for the internet security firm I work for now. Been there three years. Wore my white hat the entire time. Never broke the law, never colored outside the lines, never went rogue again.

  But some asshole billionaire had just fucked me over – literally – and the white hat wasn’t going to cut it. So I reached back in my closet, dusted off the black hat, and put it back on.

  It fit me just fine.

  Time to go to work on Grant Carlson.

  Asshole.

  6

  The Hollywood Charity Gala was on Saturday night. I started work the second I got home and pulled an all-nighter with the aid of lots of coffee.

  I know that probably sounds horrible to you, but I’m a computer geek. Twenty-four hours of hacking is my version of getting drunk at the club and going to an afterparty.

  I won’t bore you, but by Sunday evening, I had poked into every nook and cranny of the internet I could find, searching for ways to fuck Grant Carlson up.

  He was a slippery character, I’ll give him that.

  All of his major bank accounts appeared to be offshore holding companies. I traced 27 accounts back to St. Lucia, the Seychelles, and Samoa. I found out he owned astounding amounts of property in every major city in the world – Paris, New York City, Los Angeles, Hong Kong, Tokyo, Moscow, Buenos Aires, Mexico City, London, you name it. We’re talking
hundreds of millions of dollars.

  And that wasn’t even counting his family’s construction companies.

  But the most useful thing I found was his private phone number. It was a satellite cellular provider out of Switzerland, registered to a company that had nothing to do with any of his corporations.

  But I could tell it was him. I hacked the texts and read them. Lots of boring business stuff. Texts from a couple of famous supermodels and A-list Hollywood actresses.

  I didn’t know whether to be jealous or feel despondent that those women were my competition.

  Then I remembered they weren’t competition at all. Grant Carlson was a fucking asshole. Fuck competing for him. I was going to torch him to the ground.

  The coup de grace was I hacked his phone’s GPS coordinates for the last 48 hours. He was still in Los Angeles. And guess where he was Saturday night, from 10PM to 11PM?

  The Dubai Hotel in Los Angeles, California.

  Eve drops the mic and shouts, “I’M OUT, BITCHES!”

  I sent him the following text through a number I activated online, through an untraceable account:

  St.Lucia, Seychelles, Samoa. Guess what all these things have in common?

  27 things, actually.

  I want my fucking phone back, asshole.

  Then I waited.

  I didn’t hear anything.

  It was Sunday night, though. I had gone almost 36 hours without sleep, I was exhausted, and I had to work in the morning.

  So I went to bed, confident that Grant Carlson was going to mess his britches when he woke up the next morning.

  7

  The thing that infuriated me, though, was I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

  Couldn’t stop thinking about the sex. His cock. His kisses.

  Couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d done, what he’d said, how he’d smelled, how he’d felt while he was inside me.

  Couldn’t stop thinking about me being naked, in public, having mind-blowing sex just feet away from people who couldn’t see me.