The British Billionaire Bachelor

by Maggie Carpenter

  The year that Belle turned sixteen, the newly elected President appointed her father to be a part of the Ambassador’s staff at the United States Embassy in London, and the family was relocated. It was a glamorous, exciting move and Belle was overjoyed. She’d often fantasized about visiting London, and she loved the bustling, historical city the moment she stepped off the plane.

  The agents and casting directors were utterly taken with Lucinda, and the beautiful young American girl was immediately in demand. Belle’s mother became completely consumed with Lucinda and the exciting, unexpected upward curve of her career, leaving Belle to her own devices, and though she was attending a private school and enjoyed all the trappings her father’s position offered, Belle found herself alone for hours at a time, and spent the time wandering through the parks, exploring the many eclectic shops and old arcades. She began keeping a diary, and writing humorous short stories about the characters she would stumble across.

  One day, she had told herself, I’m going to be a writer.

  And then she met Furio.

  It was at a small, intimate, elegant dinner party for a visiting Italian delegation. Belle had just turned seventeen and was still a virgin, though her sexual awareness was in full force. Furio was standing with his back to her, talking animatedly to her mother. His stance was dignified, tall and straight, and his head a mass of tight black curls.

  She was drawn to everything about him; his posture, his measured yet excited gesticulations, his wide shoulders prominent in his flawlessly tailored suit. When her mother saw her staring she crooked her finger, inviting Belle to join them. Furio turned to face her and Belle’s heart stopped. His dark brown eyes seemed filled with a deep fire as they sparked across the room, zeroing in on her, and his full, extraordinarily red lips broke into a smile. Everything in her wanted to know what it would feel like to kiss those lips, and lay her head against those broad, welcoming shoulders. Heart in her mouth she moved forward, hoping against hope her mascara wasn’t smudged and every hair on her head was in place.

  They ended up seated next to each other at dinner, and though they spent the entire meal deep in conversation, later, when she tried to remember what they talked about, she couldn’t remember a thing.

  It was after dinner when her mother announced Lucinda would sing for the gathered crowd, when Furio made his move. A few years older than Belle, Furio was consummate and artful in his seduction of the opposite sex, but Belle had already decided he was the one. The man to whom she would offer herself up for her very first time.

  When the guests moved to the music room to take their seats, all eyes upon the astonishingly lovely adolescent standing behind the piano waiting patiently to sing, Furio gently pulled Belle from the room into the empty hall.

  “I must be alone with you. Do you wish this too,” he asked, nuzzling her neck.

  Belle felt her knees grow weak, and was amazed that the physical response she’d heard so much about, and had always thought preposterous, was surprisingly true.

  “Yes,” she breathed. “I do. Come with me.”

  It was a risk, but the heat between her legs and her pattering heart propelled her forward. She knew Lucinda’s singing would keep everyone entertained for at least half an hour, followed by the bowing and scraping which would last for another half an hour. Even the staff would be transfixed by her sister’s extraordinary talent.

  Taking Furio by the hand, she led him up the winding staircase and down the long hallway to her room. There were no servants anywhere to be seen, and the distant sound of applause told her Lucinda had just been introduced.

  Darting into her room she locked the door behind them, and a moment later suppressed a squeal as Furio lifted her effortlessly into his arms and carried her to the bed. Laying her down gently, he quickly stripped in the darkness, then slowly, laboriously, peeled off her clothes, kissing and cooing as each item of clothing was tossed aside.

  “Furio,” she whimpered, as he nibbled on her nipples, “I need to tell you something.”

  “I know amore mio,” he crooned. “This is first for you, yes?”

  “Ooooh yes, Furio. How did you...?”

  “Is okay–I will be good–gentle. A moment there is pain, then pleasure.”

  Pain and pleasure. The words echoed through her mind as her young, passionate, accomplished lover devoured her body with patience and kindness. By the time his cock pressed at her dewy entrance demanding admittance, she was so filled with a deep and heavy carnal yearning, the momentary stab of discomfort was obliterated by the intense feeling of relief as he sliced inside her.

  “Furio... I love it...” she murmured, lifting her pelvis to meet his thrusts, gripping him as he rode her.

  “No pain no more, yes?”

  “No pain...”

  “Now I take you,” he declared, grabbing her wrists and pinning them at the sides of her head. “Now you will love it more,” he promised.

  His thrusts grew in tempo and power, and every time Belle attempted to lift her arms she was met with a firm, “No!”, and his hold refusing release. She loved his authority, loved his power, loved that he was–as he had so aptly vowed–taking her.

  “You close your eyes now–you–how you say–you surrender and you will feel very good orgasm soon. You understand?” he whispered, his breath hot in her ear.

  “Yes, yes, Furio.”

  “Is good–close them now. You do as I say and you will be very happy.”

  As she flickered her eyelids down, she immediately understood. The blackness engulfed her, and there was nothing but his control, his delicious, tantalizing, scintillating control, and the overwhelming feeling of something strange and magical happening inside her.

  “Oh my God,” she uttered, “it’s going to happen.”

  She had attempted to masturbate many times but had never achieved a climax, just the shadowy presence of one. This was more than a shadow. This was a fully formed orb floating around her, ready to burst.

  “Of course–amore mio–surrender to me–surrender to la sensazione.”

  The sensual Italian words sent a hot shiver through her sex, and when he leaned in, whispering them again, it sent her tumbling into her moment.

  “Sì è vero,” he moaned, feeling her orgasm ripple against his cock.

  Unable to stop from crying out as her spasms shot through her body, there was a fleeting moment of worry that someone might hear her, but the sound of Furio’s groans were louder still, drowning her out, and she ceased to care.

  When it was all said and done, and he was holding her, kissing her neck and face, Belle stared at his eyes, the brown of his pupils looking black in the dark room.

  “I’ll never, ever forget this,” she promised softly. “Thank you.”

  “I don’t go back for a week. There will be more–if you want.”

  “I want,” she replied.

  They had showered quickly, dressed, and furtively returned to the music room, happy to discover that Lucinda’s performance was over and the bowing and scraping had begun. They hadn’t even been missed.

  The week that followed, Furio and Belle stole as much time together as they could, wherever they could, and on each occasion Furio introduced her to more joys from his box of tantalizing tricks. On their last meeting he slipped a blindfold across her eyes, tied her hands above her head, and led her down a path of erotic delights, culminating in his tongue dancing against her sex, sending her into orgasmic splendor.

  “I absolutely adore you,” Belle said, tears in her eyes as she lay curled against him, wallowing in both her post-orgasmic serenity, and sadness that he was about to return to Italy. “I don’t want you to leave.”

  “I am happy and sad at this,” Furio replied. “I mean–I don’t wish you to be sad, but maybe a little bit? I too, don’t wish to say goodbye.”

  “Of course I’m sad, more than just a little bit,” she admitted, as the tears took hold and rolled down her cheeks.

  “Belle it is impor
tant–I must warn you,” he began cautiously.

  “Warn me? About what?”

  “Not every lover will be as me,” he said gently, kissing her wet tears.

  “Of course not. How could anyone ever be like you?” she mumbled.

  “This is not what I mean. You are special, you like things other girls do not.”

  Propping herself up on an elbow, she frowned at him, unsure of his meaning.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You and I–we like the sex games. You liked when I tied you, yes?”

  “Oh yes!” she declared. “It was heavenly.”

  “Okay–so most men–they not like to do these things. Most women too. You–me–we are different. You will learn about this. You must not expect the same with other boys you meet. You understand?”

  Losing herself in his chocolate brown eyes, she nodded her head slowly.

  “I think so.”

  “So, do not be disappointed. Other men–they will be–more–plain making love. It is not their fault.”

  “Okay,” she sighed. “I just wish our time together wasn’t over.”

  “Perhaps one day we meet again, yes?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Si. Much I hope so too.”

  Separating from Furio broke her young heart, though the multifaceted city of London and the attentions of other eager young men were a helpful distraction, but over the months and years that followed, Furio’s words proved true. She ached to be held and taken, craved for a man to order her eyes closed and to surrender to la sensazione. All her feelings, her hopes and dreams for another lover like Furio, she wrote about in her secret journal.

  By the time the family returned to Washington, Belle had grown into a poised and independent young woman, while Lucinda had become a hellish teenager. Unable to tolerate her moody, temperamental sister who was given to fits of uncontrolled rage, she left her family and moved to Beverly Hills, enrolling at UCLA where she took creative writing classes and journalism, determined to make her own way in the world, determined to become a writer, determined to be successful, determined to show her mother that she had just as much to offer as Lucinda, and the intellectually gifted Josephine.

  The years ticked by, and to her dismay the writing path never evolved, the rejection letters piling up in a manila folder that lived in her bottom desk drawer. Selling real estate had been her salvation. She was bright and bubbly, and exuded integrity, traits that served her well. Success followed naturally, but as flourishing as her career had been, she’d not sold anything significant that set her apart.

  Lucinda, however, had starred in her first Broadway musical, and Josephine had borne the first grandchild. Now, surely, it would be her turn. She’d sell a multimillion dollar house to a billionaire.

  Yes–she needed this–very badly.

  At 6:15 p.m. when she heard the car pull to a stop outside her condo, she hurried to the door, opening it before her doorbell even chimed. Standing before her was a tall man dressed in full chauffeur’s livery that did little to hide his muscled body. He was not what she had expected and she froze.

  “Miss Somers?” the driver asked.

  “Um, well, yes! Last time I checked,” she laughed nervously, then wished the ground would open up and swallow her. To her great relief the chauffeur’s stiff face broke into a half-smile.

  “Ah. Yes. Quite. My name is Parker,” he announced with a slight nod of his head.

  His accent was almost as upmarket as Simon Sinclair’s and she wondered if he was Simon’s full-time driver, part of an entourage brought all the way over from England.

  “If you’re ready to leave...” he said, his smile growing.

  “Oh–yes,” Belle stammered. “Yes, thank you.”

  She closed and locked her front door and followed him to the car. It was a stretch limousine, and as he held the door open for her and she did her best to gracefully step inside, she couldn’t help but think about one of her all-time favorite fantasies; being spanked and seduced in the back of a limo as it drove through the streets of the city. Trying to push the image from her head, she settled in and glanced around. It had everything. A drinks cabinet, TV, DVD player, the works.

  “Please help yourself to whatever you desire,” Parker offered, “and if you require anything on the way to the hotel I’m quite happy to stop and get it for you.”

  “Thank you, Parker. I believe I’m fine,” she replied, trying to control her nerves and keep her voice steady.

  Looking at the drinks on offer she spotted a bottle of vodka.

  Maybe just a swallow, she decided. Taking a shot glass, she carefully poured a thumbnail of the liquor and downed it in one gulp. As it burned down her throat she took a deep breath.

  Just what I needed, she thought. Just enough to take the edge off.

  The car snaked its way around the wide sweeping turns of Sunset Blvd, and staring out at the darkening sky, she felt a ripple of something she couldn’t quite identify. It wasn’t a cold chill or a sense of foreboding, but a subtle feeling that she was about to embark on an amazing adventure. A short time later when the car pulled up to the valet at the five star hotel it happened again. Belle took a deep breath. As she stepped from the limousine, a short, thin, dapper-looking man wearing an argyle sweater vest and horn-rimmed glasses, moved forward to greet her.

  “Miss Somers, Cecil Havers,” he said, extending his hand. “We spoke on the phone. I am Mr. Sinclair’s secretary.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Havers,” she replied, shaking his hand firmly.

  He had a very pleasant smile and a kind manner, and could have been thirty or forty. His skin was pale, his hair thinning, and she sensed he was an efficient, organized person who probably had his very important employer on an exacting schedule.

  “If you would follow me, please,” he said, bowing slightly.

  Feeling as if she had been transported into some kind of Twilight Zone, she fell in step behind him, surprised at the quickness of his pace. The path meandered through the grounds, and as she had been in days past whenever she spent time at the Bel Air Hotel, she was enchanted by the beauty of the lush gardens and exquisitely lit landscaping.

  He led her through a gate and approached a private bungalow. Belle immediately noticed the door was open, and she spied the back of a man dressed in a tan sweater and khaki pants. If the man was Simon Sinclair, it was obvious he was nowhere near 60. He possessed the stance and physique of a man half that age, and a full head of chestnut brown hair.

  Damn. Why didn’t I Google him? she thought.

  Such a slip was just like her. She could be absolutely brilliant, then have moments where she lacked focus, forgetting things or not following through as she should.

  Cecil Havers walked in ahead, and as she tentatively stepped through the door behind him, she paused, not wishing to move further into the room without an invitation from the man in the brown sweater. In spite of their entrance he had not moved. His head was tilted slightly forward, and he appeared to be reading the contents of a manila file folder.

  “May I take your coat?” Cecil asked in a low voice, as he stepped behind her and closed the door softly.

  “Oh, yes, thank you,” she replied quietly, slipping it off and handing it to him.

  Cecil placed it neatly across his arm and walked towards his employer. Belle, unsure what to do, stayed where she was, her anxiety growing with every passing second. Her eyes had followed Cecil, and now she found herself staring at Simon Sinclair’s wide shoulders, and the alluring manner in which the thin, expensive sweater draped around his back. Unexpectedly, she flashed back to the evening she had first laid eyes on Furio–his same wide shoulders and similar posture. For a moment Belle was frozen in time, flooded by the same sensations she had experienced all those years before.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Sinclair,” Cecil said, his voice breaking the spell.

  “Yes?” the man replied without raising his head.

  “Miss Somers is here
.”

  “Ah–good. Thank you, Cecil. You may leave us.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The little man moved swiftly, nodding his goodbye as he passed her, still carrying her coat, and Belle nervously watched and waited as Simon Sinclair closed the folder from which he had been reading, and began to turn. She was rarely intimidated. She couldn’t recall the last time anyone had made her feel anxious or inadequate, but as he faced her, she felt a hot blush creep across her face. She half expected him to extend his hand and say, Bond, James Bond.

  “Miss Somers,” he said, gesturing to the sofa near him. “Won’t you please make yourself comfortable. What can I offer you to drink?”

  “Mr. Sinclair, it’s an honor,” she replied, walking forward, doing her best to regain her composure. The Twilight Zone circumstances coupled with the unexpected memory of Furio had completely unnerved her. “Thank you, I believe I’ll wait until dinner.”

  “As you wish, but please, take a seat.”

  Still on edge, she sat on the couch and did her best to look at him without seeming to stare. His eyes were a deep green–and large–framed by dark lashes that any woman would be happy to possess. He was at least 6’ and obviously athletic. Though his clothes were casual, they possessed a quality that could not be denied, and she found herself wishing she had followed Susan Caldwell’s instructions and worn a power suit.

  “I must say, it’s refreshing to see a woman dressed as you are,” he remarked, as if reading her mind and attempting to put her at ease.

  “Oh? Thank you,” she replied, surprised and relieved. Score one for being myself.

  “So many women these days think they have to dress like men to do business.”

  He was scrutinizing her, which did nothing to quell the crimson flush on her face.

  “I–uh–thank you,” she managed.

  “Now then, let’s talk about the fix,” he declared.

  “The fix?” she asked, a little confused.

  “Yes. The fix. I require exclusivity, and you’re concerned you’ll expend a great deal of time and effort to satisfy that requirement, and at the end of the venture have nothing to show for it and may have lost business in the process. Is that an accurate assessment?”