Virgin Wanted (BWWM Billionaire Romance)

by Sierra Cole

  “Thanks so much, Trent,” I grin back at him, before stepping out of the car and heading towards the imposing building, set back from the busy street – the words Whitelaw Enterprises emblazoned on the tinted glass above its huge entrance.

  I look up in awe at the crazy building – the daringly modern architecture, the way the tint of the glass lets on nothing about what might be going on inside it, not to mention the ambiguity of the name; because ‘Enterprises’ could mean almost anything, couldn’t it? – and then I think again about the wording of the advert, and in particular this time I think about the third line, the one that says: You shall be very handsomely rewarded ...

  Could this finally be the lucky break I’ve been waiting for all my life?

  §

  Marcus

  “Oh, come on!” Greg laughs, punching me on the shoulder. “I mean, when was the last time you let yourself blow off any steam. It’s just a few drinks, man. It’s just work, work, work with you. It’ll be fun. I mean, when was the last time you had any of that, right?”

  Again, Greg explodes in laughter, and no matter how hard I try, I just can’t quite bring myself to join in. I just wish he’d leave my goddamn office.

  If he wasn’t the son of one of my biggest investors, I’d fire him in a heartbeat. But no, I’ve got to keep his dad sweet, by employing this total imbecile.

  I shoot a glance up at the clock. It’s nearly five o’ clock.

  “Listen, Greg,” I say, “I’ve got a meeting at five. I’ll catch you on Monday ...”

  “Don’t tell me you’re still pursuing Malchovic Finance?” he says incredulously. “Man, you don’t ever let anything go, do you?”

  I shrug, letting him believe that my five o’ clock is business related.

  “Well, old man, I guess I’ll leave you to it,” he adds, slapping me playfully on the back. “But if you change your mind, we’ll be at the Spearmint Lounge until late! Oh, and don’t forget – you’re definitely coming out for my birthday drinks next week. You already promised me that one, and I’m not letting you wriggle your way out of it, no matter what you say ...”

  I give him the very briefest of nods, and then, finally, he leaves me alone in the sanctity of my office, with only minutes left to prepare before my meeting.

  My meeting with Alisha.

  I slip the contract I’ve had my private lawyer draw up out of the desk drawer by my thighs and give it a cursory glance – not that I need to.

  By now, I know this contract by heart.

  I just hope she lives up to my expectations.

  Because I’ve got real high hopes for this girl ...

  §

  Alisha

  I take a deep breath then walk as confidently as I can into the large lobby, which is just about as empty as the building I normally work in. I feel a twinge of guilt, as I think again about Monisha, sitting there behind the reception desk today on her own, probably bored out of her mind, believing that I’m currently home sick with food poisoning (which is the excuse I gave her when I called up first thing this morning).

  “Can I help you?” the girl on reception says as I step up to the counter. Her long blonde hair is immaculately almost impossibly straight and her icy blue eyes make no attempt whatsoever to hide the fact that she’s looking me up and down as if she’s never seen anyone like me in a high class place like this before, making no attempt whatsoever that she obviously thinks I’m trash.

  I push my shoulders back, take a deep breath, and say my name as loudly and confidently as I can. “I’m Alisha Adams,” I explain. “And I’m here for a five o’ clock appointment with Mr Whitelaw?”

  “Oh, you’re Miss Adams?” she says, again making no attempt to mask her surprise. “You’re not exactly what I was expecting ... Well, anyway, take the elevator in the corner up to floor fifteen. Mr Whitelaw will be waiting for you in his office. It’s at the end of the corridor. I’ll call up now to let him know that you’re here.”

  And with that, she turns her icy cold gaze away from me to the phone in front of her, picking it up and dialing through an internal call, her perfectly manicured glossy pink nails tapping and clicking against the plastic buttons of the phone, as I turn, somewhat shaken, make my way towards the elevators.

  As I push the button and step inside, summoning floor fifteen, I wonder just what exactly she meant about me being not what she was expecting ...

  Does she mean she was surprised that I’m black? Or is there some other reason for her weird comment?

  I look myself over in the mirrored wall of the elevator as it rockets me upward toward the fifteenth floor, hoping that I’ve not got some major wardrobe malfunction going on. But no. To my relief, my homemade outfit seems to be holding up okay.

  And I’ve certainly chosen clothes to best show off my figure too – which, okay, might not be the most curvy or voluptuous you’ve ever seen, and if anything might be regarded as kind of skinny. But I’ve done the best with what I’ve got: the way I’ve re-sown this white silk blouse certainly shows off my small but pert breasts, and the cut of my redesigned skirt draws attention to my best asset, too: my ass.

  I turn my focus to my face and hair, hoping to God that my makeup hasn’t smudged or my hair hasn’t decided to defy the straightening I put it through this morning and spring up at some crazy angle. But no, as far as I can see, everything is still remaining nicely in place – my hair staying straight and glossy, and my big brown eyes shown off pretty nicely with the cat-flick eyeliner technique I diligently followed to the letter this morning on YouTube...

  Just then, the elevator pings loudly to announce that it’s reached its destination, and the brushed chrome doors glide open with a swish to reveal a long, empty corridor with a set of imposing frosted glass double doors waiting for me at the far end.

  That must be Mr Whitelaw’s office, I think nervously as I begin to walk slowly towards them. And as I walk, I wonder just what kind of a guy could want to spend a crazy amount of money on flying virgins in from all around the country just to interview them for ... what exactly?

  I feel another sharp stab of worry, as it dawns on me all over again that I don’t even know what the hell he wants me for. I need to make sure I don’t get my hopes up here. Because he’s most likely gonna be some creepy, ugly old guy with more money than sense, who will no doubt will want me to do something really disgusting and gross ...

  I’ve reached the set of doors by now – they’re just frosted enough that I can’t quite see through them, with a simple nameplate attached that reads: Marcus Whitelaw, CEO.

  I pause.

  Do I knock?

  Or do I just push them open and stride inside?

  In the end, I decide on the first option, reaching out a shaky fist and knocking timidly, three times, on the cold hard glass.

  “Come in,” a voice calls back – a surprisingly deep and sonorous voice, with just a hint of an accent that I can’t quite put my finger on.

  I gather my nerves, my heart hammering hard in my chest now, as I push open the doors and step inside.

  But even with every option I’ve considered so far, there’s one fact that I’m just not at all prepared for when I push open those doors ...

  Alisha

  Marcus Whitelaw is gorgeous, and I’m not one to use that word lightly. I’m talking the heart-stopping, panty-melting, unable-to-stop-myself-from-immediately-imagining-him-naked kind of gorgeous.

  When I first step inside the office, he’s standing with his back to me, gazing out on the sprawling city skyline below us that’s shown off impressively through the amazing floor-to-ceiling windows that make up three of the four walls of his office, but the moment he turns around to look at me? Well, let’s just say that his beauty hits me with the full force of a steamroller, knocking all the air from my lungs and all sensible thoughts from my head.

  He’s tall – way over six foot – and the immaculately tailored lines of his beautiful navy suit tell me that underneath that sumpt
uous blue cloth, he’s built too.

  But the absolute jewel in the crown is his face. It’s perfect, flawless (and did I mention gorgeous already?!). His big grey eyes pin me firmly in place the moment they set upon me and I actually feel myself getting sucked into them – like he’s sending out some kind of crazy traction beam. Meanwhile his thick, sensuous lips curl into the faint suggestion of a smile, lighting up his perfectly symmetrical face, which is framed exquisitely by thick blonde hair and the most chiseled, sculpted jawline I’ve ever seen before on man or woman, not to mention the most beautiful cheekbones, too -- cheekbones that would be the envy of any model. Even the dusting of light brown stubble that flecks his tanned, honey-colored skin only adds to the appeal, along with the way his collar is a little rumpled, and his tie is pulled open, giving me a tantalizing glimpse of his thick manly neck.

  And you know what’s weirdest of all?

  I feel my body responding to him – in a way it never does. You see, I guess part of the reason I’ve remained a virgin my whole twenty-one years of existence, is that I’ve just never found guys that attractive – certainly not the way all my girlfriends did back in college seemed to do, gushing and cooing over ‘cute’ boys and so forth. I just couldn’t ever quite see what all the fuss was about.

  But right now?

  Right this moment, staring into the eyes of this absolutely flawless, gorgeous man?

  Well, suddenly it’s like all those dormant hormones have kicked in at once.

  I can feel my nipples tightening beneath the cups of my bra, and my clit starting to throb in my panties, almost painfully.

  “Miss Adams?” he says, in that beautifully rich, low voice of his, the maddening trace of an accent making me wonder just where in the world he comes from, and I nod, unable to speak, still rooted firmly to the spot by his beautiful eyes. “Please, take a seat.”

  He gestures to the sumptuous tan leather chair that faces onto his large mahogany desk, while he casually strides around it and sits down facing me. And when I finally begin to walk again on my now-unsteady legs, sure enough I feel an embarrassing dampness in my panties.

  “Thank you so much for taking the time to come and see me, Miss Adams,” he continues, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk as he threads his long tanned fingers together, the glinting flash of his Rolex watch almost dazzling me for a moment as a beam of sunlight that’s cascading through the glass walls of this office strikes it dead-on. “I hope it hasn’t been too much of an inconvenience for you to travel all the way here from ... Where was it, Philadelphia?”

  Damn, I think, trying to ignore the weird ways my body is crying out to him, even the way he speaks is hot.

  There’s just something so damn sexy about how formal he is – how businesslike and polite.

  “I, uh, I’ve never been to New York,” I stutter awkwardly in reply, cursing myself at how clueless and small-town I sound right now. “So it’s been really fun just visiting somewhere new. Thank you for the opportunity ...”

  And I know I should just shut up here and let him do all the talking; explain exactly what the ‘job’ he’s advertising for entails. But for some reason I just keep on talking, feeling my mouth running on regardless.

  “It must have cost you quite a bit of money to do this. I mean, I can’t be the only girl you’ve paid to fly out here, right?”

  At this he smiles enigmatically and raises one thick, perfect eyebrow, resting his sculpted, stubble-flecked chin on his interlaced fingers.

  “Actually?” he says in that strange, captivating accent. “You’d be surprised, Alisha, by just how few girls there are in your ... position ...”

  The moment he says my name, I feel a shiver run down my spine. It’s crazy. The way my body’s responding, it’s like he’s hypnotized me.

  “So how many other girls have applied?” I continue, suddenly desperate to know the answer, even though I still don’t know what exactly it is he even wants me for.

  “I should admit there have been a few,” he admits. “But none as beautiful, none as perfect as you.”

  I feel another deep pang of embarrassment, my face flushing with heat as he says this.

  Is this guy for real?

  I don’t know what to do or say with a flat out compliment like that, and find myself just wishing I could somehow change the subject.

  “This is, um, an amazing office you have here ...” I offer meekly.

  He laughs, once again pinning me with his smoldering grey-blue eyes.

  “I’m guessing that nobody has ever told you how beautiful you are,” he says, slowly, deliberately, that deep voice of his resonating right through me.

  I shake my head, shifting uncomfortably in my chair, my clit throbbing even harder despite myself.

  “Have you ever had a boyfriend?” he continues.

  I feel my heart begin to drum, too. Is this kind of questioning really necessary?

  “Uh-uh,” I say quietly, shaking my head again, deciding to tell the truth.

  “And why is that, exactly?”

  “I don’t know,” I reply, hearing the trembling nerves in my voice now, just wishing to God he’d change the damn subject. “I guess I’ve just never been that into boys ...”

  Before now, I think. But Marcus Whitelaw isn’t a ‘boy’ is he? He’s a man ... The most beautiful, gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  Shit.

  I need to keep it together here. I still don’t even know what the hell he wants from me ...

  “What about girls?” he says with a playful smile, catching me totally off guard.

  The heat increases in my cheeks, sizzling now, as I shake my head again.

  “Girls either,” I say in an almost whisper. “So, Mr Whitelaw,” I continue, trying to summon any remaining scraps of confidence, “what exactly do you want from me? I mean, I still don’t know why you’ve even paid for my ticket here. What is it about girls ... like me that you like exactly?”

  At this, he sits back casually in his chair, obviously thinking the question over, taking his time before he replies.

  “That’s a good question,” he says slowly. “Well, Alisha, I suppose I should be a little more forthcoming about our possible arrangement. As you can probably guess, I am a very busy man. I have a lot of responsibilities here at Whitelaw Enterprises. And I imagine there was perhaps one particular word in my advert that drew your attention to it, was there not?”

  “There was,” I admit, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow me.

  “And what word was that, Alisha?”

  I blush even harder, squirming in my seat. Is he really going to make me say it?

  “Virgin,” I whisper.

  “That’s right,” he says. “Virgins fascinate me, Alisha. I find myself drawn towards the mix of innocence and curiosity that a girl like you no doubt possesses. After all, aren’t you dying to find out what all the fuss is about?”

  I turn my burning face away from him, unable to speak. But he continues on regardless ...

  “There’s nothing more intriguing to me than opening up a young woman to all the sexual possibilities – all the many things that lay before her. However, increasingly, as I’m sure you’re aware, a virgin is a hard thing to come across. And so I find myself in the rather frustrating position of having to advertise for one ... And even then, there weren’t exactly hundreds of suitable applicants if you know what I mean ... But enough about me. I want to know a little more about you, Alisha. Have you done anything at all with a boy?”

  I think hard about my limited experience: nothing more than a few fumbled kisses, a few awkward fondles, then shake my head, feeling my heart booming loud in my ears and my cheeks so hot now they feel like they might catch fire.

  “Very good,” he replies with a smile. “I think that you’re exactly what I’m looking for. So, I suppose you’d like me to explain a little more about the arrangement, correct?”

  I nod, totally lost for words – totally tr
ansfixed and pinned into place by this strange and captivating man.

  It all feels so unreal; like something out of a corny novel.

  “I would take possession of you for one week. And during that time, Alisha, you would be mine – to do with as I pleased. Do you understand what I mean by this?”

  “I, uh, I think so ...” I croak in reply.

  “I want to take you, Alisha. I want to teach you. I want to taste you. And by the end of the week ... I want to have you. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

  I can tell that he’s getting excited as he talks. There’s this devilish, animal glint in his eye, and I feel my palms going clammy and a cold sweat breaking out on my skin. I feel myself shaking my head and moving, too, getting ready to push myself up out of my seat and get the hell out of here. I mean, I guess I knew deep down that it was gonna be something sexual – something skeezy and creepy. But even so, I feel totally uncomfortable as he speaks, totally out of my depth, and now all I wanna do is leave.

  “I’m sorry,” I begin, pushing myself unsteadily to my feet. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake ...”

  “Oh, come off it, Alisha,” he chides, his voice growing cold all of a sudden and his mouth curling in a venomous sneer. “What the hell did you think an advert for a Virgin Wanted would be about? Did you think I was asking you to come here to help pet kittens?”

  “I’m really sorry, Mr Whitelaw,” I repeat, backing away from him now, feeling churned up, my head spinning, my stomach twisted with nausea, not to mention just a little bit afraid of him.

  And as I move away, he gets up from the desk too, walking out from behind it, striding quickly towards me, towering over me, his eyes so cold and piercing.

  “You’re telling me that you’re about to walk out on one million dollars?” he hisses.

  I stop dead in my tracks, scanning his face. But this is no joke – he’s being totally and utterly serious.