The Billionaire's Club Trilogy: Deluxe Box Set

by C. L. Donley

  “But I still have a week to go,” she weakly protested.

  “Have you looked at any media devices since you’ve been awake?”

  “No, and I think I left my phone in the front seat of your convertible, along with my dignity,” she shot back.

  They exchanged a knowing look that bloomed into a smile.

  “We were followed,” he informed her.

  Amara didn’t quite understand because she was a regular person.

  “By… the cops?”

  “By the paparazzi,” he chuckled.

  “Oh my gosh!” she guffawed. “When? Outside the hotel? I knew I felt like people were watching me.”

  He turned his laptop toward her, and she was confronted with grainy shots from various angles of a black girl in a fancy convertible, writhing around like a slut with no shame, wearing a yellow dress and looking conspicuously like her.

  Amara put down her bowl and leaned in with shock. She was mortified. It had felt poetic at the moment, while it was happening to her, but now she was watching it, and she looked like some kind of zoo animal trying to give birth. And now it was being plastered everywhere, probably replayed by randos, and everyone that had ever known her. Her parents, her co-workers, her college professors, people she went to church with. That old guy at the grocery store that always pulled a basket out for her when he saw her. She was pretty sure that guy had an internet connection.

  Amara sat on the edge of the window sill, her head in her hands.

  “So far it’s just pictures, no story. It’s still early, and no one knows who you are. Yet,” he echoed Dale’s words.

  “And if I go into work then they’ll figure it out,” she deduced, her voice still muffled by her hands.

  “Dale doesn’t want headquarters to become a circus.”

  “Oh my God, Dale has seen these…” she panicked.

  Dale?

  “Yeah, Dale saw them. What does that matter?” he asked.

  She dropped her hands from her face.

  “It matters to me that he thinks I’m a slut and that he’s seen my ‘oh’ face, that’s hella awkward,” she countered.

  “Well seeing as how you’ll probably never see Dale again, and he doesn’t consider you a friend in any capacity, I think you’re safe.”

  Amara tried not to seem offended by the outburst, but then again she didn’t see how she couldn’t be.

  She was going to make light of it but found she didn’t want to.

  She looked at him. He had apology in his eyes but said nothing more about it.

  He sighed. “We might be holed up here for awhile, in case this thing doesn’t blow over. I have a few events I have to attend, some of which can’t be canceled. Then I have a summit in Montenegro in three weeks or so. It’ll be a few days, but it might be wise for you to stay here. You’re a homebody, aren’t you Amara?”

  “Was it that obvious?” she said, echoing their beach conversation.

  “Only if you’re paying attention,” he grinned.

  The guy had a memory on him. She smiled, the gesture putting her at ease with him.

  “I have no clothes,” she lamented.

  He shrugged. She gave him a wicked glare, and he smiled again.

  “That can easily be remedied,” he finally said.

  “How? Online?”

  “The store can come to us.”

  “Ooooh!” her eyes were wide and childlike. “And the food too?” she added excitedly.

  “Well yes, but I think that’s just called ‘delivery.’”

  “Oh, right,” she remembered. She suddenly sighed.

  “You mean there really won’t be jet setting of any kind?”

  Grayson smiled. “Had your heart set on it, did you?”

  “It’s just that it’s so, like my life, that the one time I land a billionaire, he can’t take me anywhere.”

  “Come here,” he said.

  If his voice turned her on before, sex with him had sent it to another level like a guitar amp. She reluctantly complied as if he were bothering her, and resigned herself to his lap.

  “If the coast is clear in a couple of weeks, I’ll take you wherever you want to go. Deal?”

  He was wearing linen trousers and no shirt, and he smelled earthy and rich, like sexy oatmeal.

  “I think… it’s better just not to get my hopes up,” she said faintly, her eyes becoming drowsy. Grayson’s hands had begun roaming inside the cashmere robe, and she craned her neck to one side to accommodate his kisses that were slowly becoming more provocative.

  “Speaking of getting things up,” he flirted.

  “I haven’t finished my bowl,” she said.

  He released Amara from his clutches, and she grabbed her bowl from the edge of the table, returning to her place at the window sill. He sat facing her, and his erection was unabashed, as was her gaze on it as she chewed.

  “That thing right there?” she began between bites, pointing her chopsticks at his groin, “my new favorite thing.”

  “You mean this old thing?” he pointed to his own erection and Amara nodded. Then he stood up and shed his trousers so that he was completely naked. He watched her drink him in, this time with hunger rather than nervousness. His cock jerked in response. Her eyes didn’t stray as he walked towards her and grabbed her hand.

  “Finished yet?” he inquired.

  “What are you doing?” she smirked, setting her food down.

  “You haven’t seen the rest of the house,” he said, stripping her of her robe. Her nipples protruded through his worn vintage t-shirt. He lifted it over her head, and his mouth went dry at the brazen sight of her slightly larger-than-perfect breasts. Her locs collapsed out of the bun they were in and tumbled down her shoulders.

  “So rude, my mother would be horrified,” he teased. The boxers were cute. He left them on and grabbed her hand as he led her on a tour of the estate, which ended at an unassuming door in the hallway. Behind the door, he revealed a descending staircase that led to his master bedroom.

  “Are we meeting Colonel Mustard in the conservatory?” Amara asked, adopting an English accent.

  “Fuck, you didn’t tell me you did accents,” he growled. Amara giggled.

  Grayson had been wrong; it was better the second time.

  Now that they knew what to expect they gave themselves over to it freely.

  Amara was again a mixed bag of shy and aggressive, innocent and uninhibited. When she got on top, she kept trying to cover or close her eyes.

  “Can we turn the lights out?” she asked.

  “No,” he muttered.

  “What if I get so into it, that I slobber on you?”

  “Welcome to my world,” he said. She laughed. He smiled.

  Grayson went to work, learning Amara’s body. She was sensitive, but by no means fragile. Green, but completely confident in her body. He discovered that she liked being teased, which he wouldn’t have guessed. She seemed enthusiastic to try oral sex, and though it wasn’t really his thing, he let her. With very little learning curve she more than got the hang of it. His specialty however was making her come, which was his favorite, and also very very easy.

  They had sex again and again until they were spent, until the blue light of day was back, only this time it was dawn. They were technically in the basement, yet his bedroom had floor to ceiling frameless windows with a view. While the top level faced the westernmost part of the city below, this one faced the eastern forest trees on the opposite side, part property line and part privacy fence. It was so beautiful that Amara came and stood in front of it and wept, as came to be her custom every morning when she woke up in Grayson’s bed, his smart house setting her alarm at dawn each day. The first time she’d done it he crept up behind her and felt his way around her body like a blind man as he asked into her shoulder, “Are you okay?”

  “No. Yes. It’s very beautiful,” she summarized, eyes and lips swollen with emotion.

  “It is,” he whispered, his gaze feas
ting on the aesthetic, her blue-black silhouette underneath his white hands. The contrast was a visual buffet that evoked a wildness in him every opportunity that he’d had to relish it. It made him question what he knew about life, about history. That every pale-skinned explorer he’d ever read, who found themselves in a far away land, seemed to leave out such a conspicuous discovery as the dark-skinned woman suddenly spoke volumes, far more intriguing than what they included— old letters droning on about flora and fauna and… gold.

  Right. Like they’d never seen gold before.

  Now here was Grayson, having joined the same secret society. The kind that spouted ideals and then littered the planet with golden infants that could be from anywhere and nowhere. It was his last conscious thought before he drifted to sleep, the sun creeping up the horizon.

  Ten

  Chapter 10

  Later that day, the morning after the pictures were released, the first headline was created.

  “Grayson Davis Hot and Heavy In Public.”

  A handful of search engine friendly nouns. Well played. And who wouldn’t stop to read with a headline like that?

  “Grayson Davis’ Life is Better Than Yours.”

  That one was Amara’s favorite.

  Dale sent another text Tuesday afternoon: A’s now a TT on Webster, no name yet.

  TT as in trending topic.

  Okay. So maybe this thing wasn’t blowing over so easily.

  “Dale says you’re a trending topic on Webster,” he parroted aloud from the couch in one of the living areas.

  “I can’t believe no one from the third floor has blabbed on me yet,” she said, holding still while a seamstress adjusted the dress she was wearing. She looked like Kali the Hindu goddess of destruction with the flurry of arms around her shoulders and waist.

  Grayson told his personal assistant Bryan to find one of the best designers in the city with the earliest availability, and as usual, he’d worked a miracle.

  She was trying on a skin-tight tube dress that was blush colored, and she looked, in his estimation, exquisite.

  “It’s barely been 72 hours, so there’s still time… so far I like everything,” he said looking up, to no one in particular, momentarily distracted from his laptop.

  It didn’t matter what they put on her, she looked amazing.

  She often looked the opposite of what the outfit tried to convey. If the outfit was buttoned up and professional, it made her look buxom and dangerous. If it was bold and daring, she looked elegant and regal. In a simple, floating white dress she looked like smooth, dark temptation. If it was tacky or trashy, she simply elevated it. It was as though she was too much of a good thing, and no one knew a thing about designing for her.

  “Y’all don’t have any like… t-shirts and jeans?” she asked.

  “I’m not paying for t-shirts and jeans,” he said, the true meaning of his statement lost on their guests.

  The two of them shared a look.

  “What about pajamas,” she ventured.

  “Definitely not paying for pajamas,” he said with a raised eyebrow, “but thank you for reminding me. You brought lingerie, correct?” he directed at the designer.

  “Of course,” she replied professionally. “It’ll take a few days if you require a custom fit.”

  If the designer had an opinion, it was well hidden from everyone.

  Amara stared at him staring intently at his laptop.

  “Thought you were on vacation?” she pointed out.

  “I’m not working; I’m writing a speech.”

  “Hit me,” she said.

  He scoffed. “It’s not finished yet.”

  He was giving a commencement speech at MIT, at which time they would also be presenting him with an honorary degree.

  After he opted for a GED instead of finishing out high school, he’d had another meltdown and was expected to work at a local grocery store in place of school. Instead, he spent mornings and afternoons at the library teaching himself whatever he wanted to learn, which was soothing beyond measure. That Spring he received his scholastic test results, which were near perfect scores. The college recruiters soon followed, and that fall he was off to MIT on a full scholarship.

  He never graduated. He’d accepted a job at the NSA after hacking into their network. It was the most money he’d ever seen anyone make, at the time. So much for being a grocery store bagger.

  “Don’t you have people for this?” Amara asked.

  “I’d hire a certain someone, but she apparently considers getting paid to write some form of torture?” he recalled. “Besides, I’m not a politician. What kind of wunderkind am I if I can’t come up with my own ideas?”

  “It’s not about saying someone else’s words,” lifting her hair into a potential updo while looking at herself in the mirror. “Some people are just more gifted at bringing out what you actually want to convey.”

  “Be that as it may,” he looked up at her, “I’m not reading you my speech.”

  Amara put up her hands in surrender. “Fine. I’ll just be arm candy then.”

  He smiled and looked up, his midnight blue eyes devastating her. She stared back, letting herself be devastated, and a moment longer his eyes were drifting, she could only guess where. She chewed her bottom lip.

  They were locked in a game of sexual chicken, neither of them looking away. The tension rose around them.

  One of the younger assistants stifled a giggle.

  Amara would not be outdone. Deep down, or rather, very obviously and on the surface, she wanted to make the papers again.

  “You keep that up I’m gonna ruin this dress before you even buy it,” she threatened.

  “Well I certainly intend to.” he shot back.

  That got the seamstress’ attention.

  Grayson glanced back at his laptop, his poker face back in place. He really fucking liked Amara, he was realizing. He found himself wondering about her Myers-Briggs type all the time. She seemed to like him just as much, but honestly, he couldn’t tell, which he also liked. Their chemistry was off the charts, and she was becoming well aware of her worth to him. So far she was following a very typical pattern in the mistress phase. Except for the fact that with Amara, he was becoming very sick at the thought of her becoming attached to him. She mustn’t do that. He cared about her well-being after this was over. And he was starting to fear that he might need to give himself the same pep talk.

  The designer spoke up after a long bit of silence, “If there’s nothing else?”

  Grayson looked up, “My assistant Bryan will take care of you, thank you,” he said.

  “He already has. Have a good day sir.”

  They hustled and bustled like they were breaking down a scene in a high school play. Suddenly they were gone, as quietly as they came. Her new wardrobe was strewn about the living room as if the boutique had thrown up in it, albeit neatly.

  She stood there looking at him; the only sound was the sound of his typing.

  “How do I take this thing off?”

  “Rule number one, you will not be removing any of your clothing. Let a man unwrap his own presents.”

  “I don’t have any pants.”

  “Rule number two, pants impede access,” he retorted.

  She should be excited at his words, so why wasn’t she?

  Was the real Grayson really paying a million dollars to take away her independence? It just didn’t seem real.

  I guess this is why they say not to sleep with men for money.

  She hadn’t accounted for the fact that she may not be allowed to be herself for four weeks.

  “No snarky remarks?” He looked up from his laptop. Amara in her beautiful one of a kind dress looked… hurt?

  He sighed. He typed a little more, finishing his thought before closing the laptop shut.

  “Is this already too much for you? Because it’s been barely 72 hours,” he warned.

  His tone was concerned, his words calloused. She went from hurt fe
elings to puzzlement.

  Was this guy really that much of an asshole?

  Dale had tried to warn her about him. That he was a bad person to fall for, a tough man to live with. She couldn’t conceive of it then. But now…

  Was the man she met at work wearing a mask, or was this the mask?

  The man he was in bed could certainly be relied upon. That man had no agenda but their mutual pleasure.

  Maybe it was good to have a reason to want this to be over. She could uncover the man he actually was and be grateful to be free of him. And still walk away with a payday.

  The trouble was, the more they had sex the more she felt for him. And the more she felt for him, the easier it was for him to hurt her. He, on the other hand, seemed not to be affected at all. But then again, she hadn’t been trying to hurt him.

  “I’m just supposed to walk around the house all day like this?” she asked in disbelief.

  “You don’t have to walk around in anything you don’t want to,” he replied.

  So for the first week, she didn’t.

  She sometimes wore the lingerie, but it really wasn’t made to stay on all day.

  She was either naked or semi-naked most of the time, or wearing one of his discarded dress shirts or a vintage tee.

  “Slavery,” Mya merely said when Amara finally got around to her girls again later that week. She had quite a bit to catch them up on.

  “He’s a man, Mya,” Kim said. “Ignore her, girl that shit is way hot.”

  “The sex is… next level,” Amara added.

  “How would you know, virgin,” Kim chided.

  “Oh, I don’t know, how many times do you usually come in a night?” Amara bragged.

  “Oop!” Kim simply exclaimed, admitting defeat.

  “Slavery,” Mya repeated, not letting the subject die.

  Amara scoffed. “What am I supposed to do? We can’t leave, the press knows my name now, we’ll get mobbed.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Kim needlessly confessed.

  “You think if you weren’t there, if it was just him, he’d be holed up in his house like that? You think if you were wifey, he couldn’t call a damn helicopter to come get y’all and zip you to… wherever??”