Lover Wanted: A Billionaire Boss Romance

by Rylee Swann

  I can’t decide if I want to do this. Fact is, I think I have to.

  That’s when I go into my bedroom to figure out what I’ll wear to this meeting. I stand in front of my closet for long minutes, horrified by my lack of choices. In the year or so I’ve been unemployed and heartbroken, I’ve put on some weight. My sexy clothes don’t fit me anymore.

  Speaking of weight… who’d want to watch me fuck someone? I mean, look at that belly! And, no oh no, is that a double chin? Is it too early to have a glass of wine? What? I’m not a lush, really!

  At least it’s springtime. That gives me some leeway as far as clothing goes. I can look good in a pair of shorts and a tight tee. I have plenty of sexy bras. When you’re as big busted as I am, you learn to buy several bras at a time when you find one that actually fits.

  Shoes, check. No problem. That sweet little pair of leopard print flats will do. They’re a knock off, but unless you look for the label, you can’t tell.

  So, what am I missing? Sexy panties. When you haven’t had sex in over a year — oh my god has it really been that long? — buying sexy panties doesn’t make it into the budget. Okay, so now I know what I’m doing for the rest of the day. Off to the mall to visit Victoria and find out what her secret is. To pay for them, I can miss a few meals, which will help with the fitting into my clothes problem. Two birds. One stone.

  Well, at least I have a plan.

  I already know I’m not going to get any sleep tonight. Too much nervous excitement and I have all of tomorrow to get through. Maybe I should go for a run. Who am I kidding? A jog is more like it. Nah, walking around the mall will be enough.

  I check how much gas is left in my reliable little Hyundai, then do some quick calculations and determine with fingers crossed and high hopes that I have enough to get me to the mall and back and to my meeting the following day. Yeah, did I mention I was on a tight budget?

  The price of a single pair of Victoria’s Secret panties nearly calls for a need for oxygen. Like when the oxygen masks drop down on an airplane and the passengers start frantically grabbing for them. I swear, for a minute I feel dizzy and see spots before my eyes. But, oh my god, they are so silky and lacy, and I have to have them.

  So, I fork over the eleven dollars and fifty cents plus tax and hope to hell that Mr. Doe… Michael appreciates the effort. I’m going to have to remember to call him Michael.

  Back home, I heat up the Ramen — no I wasn’t kidding about that — and toast and butter some bread. My new panties are on the counter, purposely left in plain sight so I can gaze upon them whenever I want. It’s been a long time since I’ve bought myself something pretty.

  Still no TV, so I power up my Kindle and settle in to read a Fifty Shades knockoff that I’d recently one-clicked during a free promotion. God bless indie authors. Well, five chapters in and I’ve already masturbated twice. Look out Amazon, another five-star review is coming your way!

  I love to tease myself, barely touch my lips and folds while I hold myself spread open wide. I like to see how long I can last before I have to start thrumming away into sweet, glorious bliss. I tease my little nub too. Just the tiniest of soft touching until I’m swollen and engorged. Even then, I dream of a man heavy against me, pressing me into the mattress, unrelenting and hard and thick, pummeling and thrusting. I have no chance to breathe, to think, I can only moan and writhe beneath him, caught by instinct and lust and the need to be driven, pounded into until I scream.

  All the while, my finger works at me, punishing my clit, and I spread myself wider with my fingers, demanding more of myself as I use one, two, three fingers to fill my empty hole. Then I’m working at myself with both hands, fingers madly teasing my clit while the fingers of my other hand pound deeper in and out.

  I’m moaning, crying out, gasping as my body starts to go rigid and that longed for, indescribable tingle starts deep in my belly and spreads outward. I buck and jerk as my orgasm takes me, and my fingers work to a fevered pitch. I prolong my orgasm for as long as possible by not relenting, my finger continuing to punish my now ultra-sensitive clit. Even in the afterglow, I tease and tickle it, bringing forth a head rush of sweet aftershocks. After all, I… very sadly… know my folds and sweet spots like no one else.

  Sated, relaxed, and drowsy, I slip off to sleep.

  CHAPTER 2

  On Thursday morning, I tear around my apartment trying to get everything done before I have to leave to meet Michael.

  Important stuff.

  Like showering and trimming my bush and then showering again.

  I don’t know whether Michael prefers shaved or trimmed, but since I hate the feeling of shaved nakedness, I go with a careful trimming. I’m still a little sore. I really worked myself over last night, but I manage to get it done without nicking myself.

  What other important stuff?

  How about trying on every single pair of shorts and shirt I own in every combination possible as I attempt to decide which looks best?

  Yeah, I did that. It took forever and then I needed another shower.

  I decide to go with my old favorite standby, black and white. Black shorts and a white scoop neck top that makes my huge breasts look even bigger. That ought to keep his eyes from straying to my rounded belly and thicker than I’d like thighs.

  On a whim, I once bought a thin silver necklace that clasps like a pair of handcuffs. I put that on too and check myself in the mirror while wishing I’d bought the matching earrings. Oh well, I’ll have to settle for my white gold studs.

  It’s afternoon when I realize I haven’t eaten anything yet. I fire up a grilled cheese sandwich, figuring that the butterflies in my stomach would appreciate the gooey treat. Eating, I glance up at the clock, and my mouth drops open.

  When did it become a quarter to five?

  I need to book it if I’m going to get to the Allegria in time. I spend the next ten minutes running through my apartment frantically looking for my leopard print flats. I finally find them near the door where I’d left them so I wouldn’t forget. Great, just great.

  I snort in frustration as I slip into my shoes, grab my over the shoulder handbag, car keys, and sunglasses, then dash out the door.

  It’s a typical hot, sticky late spring day, and I crank up the AC in my car, the extra gas that’ll burn be damned. I don’t want to arrive a sweaty, stinky mess to stand before Michael for his inspection. Traffic is as bad as I’d expected — traffic in Long Beach is always bad during beach season — and I arrive at five after six.

  Then I can’t find a parking spot.

  I finally enter the bright, airy, upscale establishment at eleven after six. Eleven minutes late, damn it! I like to be prompt, and this is no way to start a first meeting. First impressions are everything.

  The staff at the front desk asks if I need any assistance, and I tell them I’m meeting someone for drinks upstairs. They smile and wave me on.

  I dash to the elevator, but I’m too nervous to wait and climb the stairs instead. Upon reaching the landing, I take a minute to acclimate myself. You can enter the hotel bar from the boardwalk, and I’ve peered in on more than one occasion, promising myself that when I finally land a job, I’ll come here for a celebratory glass of wine or two. Funny how things go. Now, I’m still jobless but here for a job interview.

  The strangest job interview of my life.

  The hotel is beautiful. They spared no expense on the décor, and I find myself gazing longingly at the artwork and haute couture furnishings. Even the floor has that wonderfully ritzy clicking sound I love. If I could afford it, I’d have expensive taste, and if I could, I think I’d live here. I blink as my eyes finally focus on the bar.

  I blink again, resisting the urge to rub my eyes.

  I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Five men sit at the bar, facing the elevator, and each of them has a newspaper in hand.

  What?

  This Michael is a tricky, tricky bastard. He’s set me up. He must have! People these days us
e iPads or iPhones or whatever tablet has caught their fancy. People don’t bring newspapers to restaurants anymore.

  Right?

  Or has being poor for so long put me out of the loop?

  Nah, he set me up.

  I start to examine the men I have to choose from. They’re all distinguished in their own special way, and all are smiling at me. One of them has what I believe he thinks is a come hither look, and if this is Michael, I’m leaving right now. His come hither expression looks more like he’s constipated than sexy. But it’s not him, I’m fairly certain of this.

  So that leaves four to choose from.

  I dismiss another two as being too young. Michael said he was older and these two can’t be over twenty-five. I’ve narrowed it down to two. One of the two is wearing cargo shorts and a polo shirt with a Lacoste logo. My gut tells me it’s not him either. Mr. Michael Doe Man is wearing a silky black dress shirt and black jeans. I just know it’s him because, of all the smiles being sent my way, his is the cockiest and the most slyly pleased with himself.

  Oh, do I ever hope I’m right.

  I’m right.

  It would be so embarrassing if I’m not.

  No, yeah, I’m right.

  I slide up onto the empty stool at the bar beside Michael and tap his newspaper. “Nice trick.”

  “You’re late,” he says.

  He’s still smiling that goddamned cocky smile of his, but something behind his eyes says he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. “I know. I’m not usually. Sorry.” Remembering that this is a job interview, regardless of how unorthodox the job might be, I try for an expression of contrite mixed with professionalism. I hope it doesn’t make me look psychotic; I’m so nervous. I glance to the ringers Michael had placed at the bar. They’re still smiling, laughing, and now raising their drinks to us.

  “Did you make me wait on purpose?”

  “Honestly, no. I was a little nervous and getting ready took longer than it should have.” No point in lying.

  He nods. “How did you know it was me?”

  “Lucky guess?”

  His smile widens. “No, come on, really. Tell me.”

  I’m staring at him. I know I’m staring, but I can’t help it. This guy oozes sexuality and its working. It’s a dark, smoldering sexuality heightened by his black clothing and black hair, just starting to turn gray at the temples. A shock of it falls into his eyes, and I want to run my fingers through it.

  What’s wrong with me?

  I swallow and take hold of myself. “Did you know that your dimples show when you smile like that?”

  I elicit a chuckle from him. It rumbles from his chest and makes my clit twitch. “Of course, I know.” He smiles again, and his eyes travel down my body, lingering on my breasts before he meets my eyes. “What would you like to drink?”

  “Chardonnay,” I manage to say. My mouth has dried up, and I’m going to appreciate that first sip.

  He nods and motions to the bartender to place the order. We sit in silence while he continues to appraise me until my drink arrives. Gratefully, I take a sip and try not to gulp. “So, umm—”

  Thankfully, he cuts off my not so stellar attempt at conversation. “A little overweight and you need a better haircut, but you’ll do. Once you lose some weight, not more than twenty pounds, I’d say, you’ll be a cute petite little thing. The assholes eat up petite.”

  I think my ears must be broken. “Umm… what?”

  Did this guy just call me fat? A complete stranger who’s supposed to be interviewing me for a job? He’s so rude, and this is so humiliating. Maybe I should just cut my losses and leave right now. I don’t need this kind of abuse from him or anyone. Been there, done that. Didn’t have much fun.

  My expression must be giving away my thoughts. “It’s alright, relax. I think you’re delicious and cute just the way you are now, but you do want to be the best you can be for this job. The pay gets better.”

  I nod dumbly. Okay, the pay’ll get better if I’m supermodel thin. I guess that makes sense.

  Wait.

  Did he just say I was delicious?

  “You’re rude,” I blurt out.

  He graces me with another of his practiced smiles. “I’d rather call it abrupt… and honest.” He leans so close I can smell him. He smells like the ocean, and it’s turning me on. “So, tell me. Could you fuck me while someone watches?”

  That jolts me back to reality, and I stall by taking another sip of my wine. “Could you?” I parry.

  He laughs but stays close to me. His scent is heady, salty, and masculine. “Of course, I could. It’s my job. The question is for you, not me.”

  “Did you call them assholes?” I parry again.

  He watches me for a moment before nodding. “Ninety-nine out of a hundred of them are, yes. The one out of a hundred has a fetish and can’t help himself. Answer the question.”

  I lift the wine to my lips, but in a smooth move, the glass is suddenly in Michael’s hand. I look up at him, and he smiles indulgently. He wants an answer. “Umm… well, what kind of money are we talking about here?”

  He takes a sip of my wine and sloshes it around his mouth before swallowing. Very slowly, he leans toward me, like he’s about to tell me a secret. I lean forward in eager anticipation of his answer and am rewarded with his lips pressed firmly against mine. I jump in surprise, and he puts his free hand on my shoulder to hold me in place.

  My heart begins to pound as the kiss lengthens and grows more insistent. I haven’t opened my mouth to him yet, and he teases my lips with his tongue, probing, demanding that I make way for him. I do, and he rushes in, hot and tasting of the sweet wine. I can’t help sucking on the velvety softness. He growls deep in his throat in approval and starts fucking my mouth, his hand moving from my shoulder to the back of my neck to hold me steady.

  I imagine that everyone at the bar is watching us. It’s quite the display, and he’s not holding back. His kiss is forceful, rude, demanding, strangling, and I open my mouth wider to him, begging for more as I grow moist between my legs.

  Without warning, he stops and settles back onto his barstool. He looks completely unaffected, but I whimper as he breaks contact. He chuckles, the rumble of the sound curling my toes. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Yes?” I mimic, a bit dazed and unsure of what he’s talking about.

  “Yes,” he repeats, a smile growing on his lips. “You could fuck me with some asshole watching.”

  Frozen to the spot, the heat rises to my cheeks. Great. Now I’m blushing like a schoolgirl. How will I ever convince Michael that I can do the job if an impassioned kiss at a bar embarrasses me?

  He chuckles while my body tells me that I want his lips on me again.

  Everywhere.

  What is wrong with me? I ask myself for nearly the hundredth time in the past forty-eight hours.

  “The blush is sweet, but also an indicator that you haven’t done anything like this before. If you can do this — and we don’t know that yet, do we? — try to keep the blush. The voyeurs’ll eat that up.” He reaches out and traces a finger around my left breast. I gasp at the forwardness, even as my nipple betrays me and hardens. Then I remind myself that this is the sort of interview I should expect when the job is about letting men watch me fuck. I shiver as Michael’s finger inches closer and closer to my pert nipple. “Are you an exhibitionist?” he asks in a low rumble. “That’s what we have to find out, isn’t it?”

  “Ummm…”

  That’s all I can manage to say.

  Great.

  My throat has dried up, and I need a more liquid courage. I reach for it and my back arches, sending Michael’s finger right over my pebbled tip. I gasp at the shock waves his touch sends coursing through me and gulp down my drink, humiliated, watching the strangers at the bar over the rim of my glass. Can they see what’s going on? Are they watching? Will the bartender call the cops? Are we going to get kicked out?

  “Oh my god…” I b
reathe as Michael continues to rub my nipple with the pad of his thumb. I’m nervous and embarrassed, but I also have to admit, I love what he’s doing to me. It feels so good, and if I’m honest, I don’t want him to stop.

  He’s watching me with an intensity that makes me dizzy, my own eyes darting around like a frightened kitten. I know my face is beet red now, but I’m not stopping him, which must be good for the job interview, I hope.

  Unexpectedly, he tweaks my nipple then pulls away. I moan at the sudden sensation.

  Actually moan.

  In the middle of an upscale bar.

  Oh my god.

  Then I ruin it all by choking on my wine. I gag and cough and sputter while Michael watches.

  And nods.

  I’m so self-conscious. How many people saw what he was just doing to me? And now, of course, heads are turning in my direction as I attempt to get air past my spasming throat.

  With one hand, Michael takes my drink and sets it on the bar top. His other hand pushes against my knees to spread my legs apart, and I vaguely wonder if he’s about to perform a reverse Heimlich maneuver.

  His eyes darken even further as he reaches for me, but nowhere close to where I expected. He touches me lower. Much lower. And he’s watching me with that dark hooded expression as he presses his thumb against my sex, moving it in a small circular motion that starts a fire in me. I’m sure he can feel the heat even through my shorts.

  My immediate reaction is to back away, but the back of my barstool doesn’t let me get very far.

  “Stop, please…” I half whimper. “People will see.”

  He leans in close to me and breathes against my ear. “That’s the point.”

  Oh god. He’s so sexy.

  And his thumb is still pressed hard against me, moving up and down in what feels like tiny little thrusts.

  I want him inside me.

  But not out in the open.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  It’s the bartender, and I automatically try to push Michael away, but he holds steady and just keeps thumb humping me.

  “We’ll have another round,” Michael says, turning his head to the bartender with a shit eating grin on his face.