The Billionaire and The Virgin

by Bella Love-Wins

  “Sounds like you’ve got too much fucking time on your hands, bro. Maybe you should keep your mind on your own shit. Like whoever you said that pet sitter girl was that showed up on your terrace.”

  “She’s nobody.”

  “Like hell she is,” he scoffs out. “The way she showed up is exactly like the last five or six women you dated, and I’m using the word loosely here, because you don’t date. You dabble in women. And when you’re not dabbling, you’re booty-calling.”

  “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Dahlia is Vivian’s pet sitter. I don’t know her from a hole in the wall.”

  He opens my front door and turns as he steps out into the hall. “I give it seventy-two hours.”

  “Seventy-two hours for what?”

  He narrows his eyes at me and gives me a coy, dismissive smile. “You know what I’m talking about. Later, bro.”

  I release the door handle, and let it shut by itself.

  Damn right I’ll have her before seventy-two hours are up.

  6

  Dahlia

  I should know by now to never let Sheba, Daisy and Bailey go off-leash anywhere in Central Park.

  Especially Sheba.

  We’ve been out for a longer walk as it’s Saturday morning. They need the exercise and fresh air, as do I. The outer loop of the large, multi-acre area is several miles around, so even a twenty-minute mile pace would get us back home in well over an hour. I throw in a super-short stop in the off-leash park at the southeast tip of Central Park, and what happens?

  Sheba happens, that’s what.

  He’s the alpha of this pack, and he never lets me or Daisy forget it. Bailey, on the other hand, is laid back to the point of marshmallow. There isn’t much that gets her going anymore.

  I let Sheba off of his leash for one second, and what does he do? He bolts, chasing what I have to guess is a very unlucky squirrel. I don’t even get a chance to remove Daisy’s and Bailey’s leashes before Daisy herself takes off behind Sheba, dragging me and Bailey with her.

  “Sit, Daisy!” I shout, but she is more interested in catching up with Sheba, who crashes through a cluster of bushes and mud puddles, barking loudly as he follows his target.

  By the time Sheba slows down, we’re all covered in leaves, icy mud, and New York debris. He comes to a stop on the sidewalk next to Columbus Circle, sits at the side of the curb, tail thumping excitedly as he barks at the vehicles in the street that are waiting for the red light to turn green. Daisy finally stops dragging Bailey and me, and takes a spot beside Sheba. Grateful for the brief opportunity to get Sheba back on his leash, I take him into my arms.

  “What are you doing, boy?” I ask him, breathing heavily as he licks some mud off my face. “Why did you run off like that?”

  As I clasp the leash onto his collar, I should be asking myself why Sheba stopped here. Then I get my answer. The shame hits me as I see who he and Daisy are wagging their tails for. The back window of a black town car rolls down, revealing Jackson Knight with a look of amusement on his face.

  “You,” he says to me.

  I wipe my face with my free hand, but realize I’m smearing more mud across what’s already there. “I have a name, Mr. Knight.”

  “You walk those dogs this far away from the condo?” he asks, smiling. “Or are they walking you?”

  “We’re on our way home now,” I say, aware that I’ve ignored his question, and wishing the traffic lights would change so Jackson’s limo driver can finally move off and take him wherever they’re going.

  An unexpected look of concern flashes over his face for a split second. He turns to face forward, says something to his driver, then turns back to look at me. “You can’t walk all those miles looking like that,” he remarks.

  “We don’t need any help,” I answer, but his door swings open and he steps out. The traffic lights change, and his town car rolls off with the rest of the waiting vehicles.

  “Have you taken a good look at yourself?” he asks me.

  “What?” I ask defensively. “It’s just a bit of mud.”

  He shrugs off his spring jacket and wraps it protectively around my shoulders. “It’s not just mud. You’re soaking wet. And you’re freezing.”

  “It’s no big deal. Really, I’m—”

  “Just come with me,” he says, cutting me off. “You and Vivian’s mutts can dry off at my office.”

  “It’s fine,” I try to convince him, but we’re halfway to the crosswalk already. Daisy and Bailey are no help at all, following at my side with zero resistance. Even Sheba’s tail is flicking against my arm. He likes this guy?

  The crosswalk lights change, and Jackson puts an arm on my shoulder, guiding me across the kitty corner to the entrance of an office building. “Sterling is my driver. He’s finding a spot in the underground parking for now. I’ll make sure he gets you home once you’re cleaned up.”

  “I appreciate the gesture, Mr. Knight, but we’re all right. Besides, nothing at your office can get these mud stains out. And it’ll take hours for my clothes to dry off. We’re okay. Really.”

  “You’ll dry off, get a change of clothes, and my driver will take you home,” he repeats more firmly as he swipes his building access card over an entry control.

  “But I—” I start, however he flashes me a glance that tells me he won’t give in to my resistance. Jackson gestures toward the glass entrance door, so I follow his eyes in that direction. “What?”

  “Take a look at your reflection.”

  Adjusting my focus to the dark reflective glass of this ultra-modern office tower, I check myself out, and have to cover my mouth to quiet the horrific gasp that leaves my throat.

  Good Lord.

  I’m not just a mess.

  I’m a disaster. My hair is dripping wet, there are brown, dead leaves and mud everywhere, and shit, a small piece of tree branch it sticking out of one side of my head, just above my ear.

  “Fine,” I tell him, and the hot shame of his seeing me this way hits me hard. I bow my head and keep my eyes focused on Sheba and the leashes in my hand.

  “And you’re welcome,” he announces, leaning down to me with his lips close to my ear.

  “Right. Thank you for…helping me out.”

  Jackson nods over at the two security guards at the building lobby information desk. They politely wave him up, doing their best not to react to the sight of me. We take the first of two side-by-side marble elevator bays and step into the waiting elevator. Using his swipe card again once we’re all loaded inside, he presses the button to the fiftieth floor. I can’t look directly at him, but I know he’s watching the dogs and me, and he’s more than just a little amused.

  “Do all your pre-veterinary classmates take these kinds of torturous pet-sitting gigs, or is this your thing?” he asks when we’re halfway to his floor.

  “It’s not torture.”

  His eyebrows raise, adding to his quizzical expression. “Okay. Dangerous.”

  “Caring for Vivian’s dogs isn’t dangerous either. Sure, Sheba’s a bit of a handful, but they’re well-behaved, mostly.”

  On hearing his name, Sheba crinkles his little nose and stretches his body out in Jackson’s direction. It’s his way of letting people know he likes them and wants them to pet him. But Jackson doesn’t pay him any mind.

  “Sheba’s the handful?” Jackson asks. “The little puppy? Not this huge one that’s almost as big as a horse?”

  I nod. “Daisy takes her cues from Sheba.”

  “You’re missing the point, but okay. Follow me.”

  The company name, ‘Knights Capital Management Group’ is written in huge, silver letters as soon as the elevators open onto the floor. He leads me past a large, open-concept reception area, which is empty, and I assume it’s because we’re here on a Saturday.

  “Gemma, are you around?” Jackson calls out as he turns the first bend to a row of large fishbowl-styled offices—rooms devoid of any privacy at all, wher
e all four walls are made of glass.

  “Yes, Mr. Knight,” comes a voice at the end of the long hall. “Good morning.”

  A middle-aged blonde about my size emerges from one of the fishbowls and catches sight of us. I’m fully expecting her to size me up with a cold, judging glare. After all, I’m in the hallway of a classy, expensive office, soaking wet, tracking in filthy mud, and I have three dogs, not just one. The woman’s eyebrows do raise as we make eye contact, but I immediately relax because her face shows genuine concern more than anything else. She looks over at me and smiles politely. “Good morning, ma’am.”

  “Hi.”

  “Gemma, you’re not afraid of dogs, right?”

  “Um, that’s right, Mr. Knight,” she answers.

  “Great. This is Dahlia. Dahlia, Gemma.”

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Gemma greets me.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Miss Gemma,” I answer.

  “Take my neighbor’s pets and help get them cleaned up for me, will you?”

  “Of course, Mr. Knight.” She reaches out and takes Daisy’s and Bailey’s leashes from my hand, then gives me a nod as she cradles Sheba in one arm. “Hi puppy,” she says to Sheba, who goes willingly. “I’ll be in the break room. They look thirsty.”

  “Great. Thanks. Is Jace here yet?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s in his office.”

  “Thanks, Gemma.” Jackson turns back toward where we came from. “Come with me, doll,” he instructs me.

  “I shouldn’t leave them alone,” I tell him as we go past the elevators and take a bend down another corridor. This one is lined with frosted glass walls and mahogany doors, with boardrooms on one side, and larger, more private offices on the other.

  “The dogs aren’t alone. They’re with my assistant.” He stops at the office with his name etched onto a sign on the door. Jackson Knight. Senior VP, Investment Strategy. Pushing it open, he steps aside to let me enter. “I have to take care of a few things. Check the closet on the left for some clean shirts and slacks. They won’t fit you, but it’s better than what you’re wearing right now. The door beside the closet is my private restroom. Wait in here when you’re finished. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I don’t know what to say to him as I manage to make eye contact with his piercing blue eyes that stare down at me, but the words “thank you” tumble out, and I shyly slip past him to get myself put together again.

  Jackson walks off, and his office door closes behind me. I’m alone in his office, an unusual mix of glass, modern leather furniture and classic mahogany bookshelves, and one large desk.

  Just as he explained, I open the door on the left and find a walk-in closet with several business suits in dry cleaning bags on one side. There’s also a column of shelves with socks, toiletries, and brand new men’s office shirts still in their packaging. Grabbing a shirt, a pair of socks and one of the dry cleaning bags, I carry them into his private bathroom and hang them on the hook behind the door.

  Before undressing, I turn on the faucet at the sink, letting the water warm up.

  I can’t bear to look in the mirror, but also can’t not look. It’s worse than I thought. If there’s a God, he’ll do me the honor of opening up the ground and swallowing me up to save me from the extreme embarrassment of having to face Jackson and his assistant again. But that does not happen for me. I quickly get out of my outerwear and clothes, keeping on my bra and panties, which are the only items that aren’t muddy or soaking wet on me.

  Pulling one of the two clean hand towels from the nearby rack, I set it down on the counter beside me and wash my hands thoroughly before ducking my head under the warm water. It takes a couple of minutes to clean off all the foul-smelling Central Park mud, leaves and rain water. As I clear off the debris, I’m already expecting that it’ll cost an arm and a leg to take these clothes I’m borrowing from Jackson to the dry cleaners. Not that I have a choice now.

  Once I’m finished with my hair, I wrap the towel around my head and straighten up to dry it off. My thick, waist-length hair will need way more than this little towel can handle, even if it’s the plushest, most expensive thing to ever make contact with my body. It’s only on reaching for the second towel on the wall that I realize something that causes me to momentarily freeze where I stand—in just my bra and panties.

  I’m not alone.

  7

  Jackson

  I didn’t intend to find Dahlia half-naked in here, but now that I do, I can’t look away. She’s in my space, and the door is open. The girl is stunning, so I don’t stop staring, even if I should. Who uses a restroom with the door open? Apparently, Dahlia does. Not that I’m complaining, now that I’m watching and can’t fucking stop myself.

  As if on cue, my dick throbs in my pants. It liked seeing her the first time, and she was dressed then. The second time, well, she was soaking wet and in a robe. On my terrace. In my domain. What’s not to love about that? So of course, it’s straining to get out of my pants now that she’s in my fucking office, dressed in just her simple cotton bra and panties, looking like every curve and feature of her gorgeous body and beautiful face were put together just for me to enjoy.

  Dahlia takes a long minute to realize I’m here, and when she does, she practically jumps out of her skin.

  “What are you…I thought I was alone,” she says apologetically, using the tiny rectangle of hand towel to cover the front of her perfect body.

  It’s too late, because I can’t un-see what she’s already allowed me to see.

  “You could try closing the door to achieve that,” I mention, smiling with satisfaction as I return my focus to the file I was searching for on my office desk. “Besides, I saw a hell of a lot more last night.”

  “You didn’t have to look,” she squeaks, pushing the door closed with one foot.

  “That’s where you’re wrong, doll,” I say loud enough for her to hear me through the closed door. “No hot-blooded male is going to avert his eyes from a scantily-clad, gorgeous woman. Besides…my office, my view.”

  I don’t catch what she says in her answer, but I’m late for a meeting with Jace, who’s already waiting for me. He accuses me of being a workaholic every chance he gets, and knows I don’t give two fucks about being at the office on a Saturday. Jace, on the other hand, is in a rush to leave. My older brother hates the idea of having to come in on the weekend, after the countless twelve- to twenty-four-hour days of negotiation sessions we’ve had with Mont Blanc Holdings, Gerald, and the lawyers this week.

  “If you’re going to be much longer, Gemma is down the hall,” I inform her. “She can show you down to the parking level.”

  “I can get myself home,” Dahlia tells me on re-opening the restroom door.

  I don’t expect my own reaction when I see her there, standing in the doorway wearing my clothes. I shouldn’t have a response at all, given that the light blue button-down shirt and dark slacks would drown her tiny frame if she didn’t roll up the sleeves and pant legs. Still, I can’t help but let out a deep groan from the back of my throat. My fingers are itching to bury into her damp hair. Every instinct in me wants to close the space between us, drag her into my arms, and press her head against my chest as my hands explore her every curve while my lips take hers. The image of placing her to sit on my office desk, parting her legs, and wrapping them around my waist comes to the front of my mind. If I don’t get her out of my office right this second, I’ll end up balls deep inside of her, fucking her senseless on that very desk.

  I should be stepping away, but find myself approaching her. Dahlia pulls her hair over one shoulder and starts to dry off the back with the towel in her hand. It’s an innocent move on her part, but Christ, it exposes the delicate, long lines of her neck and collarbone under my dress shirt, and now I’m back under her spell. As I resume my staring, I see a barely noticeable dark spot at the base of her ear lobe. It slowly changes shape while I’m looking at it, rounding out at the bottom, and
elongating at the spot where it touches her earlobe. Gravity separates it from the base of her earlobe, and it drops to the edge of her shirt collar—my shirt collar.

  Blood.

  “You’re hurt,” I blurt out with what I feel is way more concern than warranted, but I can’t help myself. I’m in front of her a split second later.

  “What?” she asks, clearly confused, and maybe a bit scared too. “No, I’m not hurt. Really, I’m perfectly fine.”

  “You’re bleeding. Don’t move.”

  “What? Where? I don’t feel anything.”

  “Shhh.” Taking the towel from her hand, I get to her side and dab the spot on her ear to see what kind of blood loss we’re dealing with. A slight streak of red reappears, but the blood doesn’t pool this time. “Looks like a scratch.”

  “Oh. Yes, it’s probably from that last little stretch where Sheba ended up running off the path and took us through the miniature pine trees near the park exit.”

  I slip past her into the restroom and open the medicine cabinet for the box of adhesive bandages. “Vivian should add danger pay to whatever your rates are,” I tell her as I take one out of the box.

  “They’re really good most of the time,” she tries to explain, her eyes fixated on a spot on the wall in front of her as I take the bandage out of the wrapper.

  Dahlia seems to hold her breath when I reach forward, and her lashes flutter as my fingers press the bandage down on her skin to cover the scratch.

  “I don’t bite,” I whisper, but by now, my face is so close to the side of her head that I don’t stop myself from brushing my lips along the top of her ear. For an instant, Dahlia leans into my touch, but before I can react, she pulls away just as suddenly.

  “I should go check on the dogs,” she blurts out nervously.

  “You probably should,” I grunt out. “My assistant will see you out when you’re ready,” I add, and turn to leave before I end up taking things too far.