Snowed In with the Billionaire

by Lila Monroe

  “Where to next?” I ask. He nods straight ahead.

  “If I’m right, there’s a lake about a quarter mile away. Five minute walk. Should be frozen over at this time of year.” He looks at me and grins. “It’s a beautiful sight.”

  We’re happy tonight, I can’t help singing in my mind. And I hope it’s true.

  “Lead the way,” I say, trying to look cool and collected. Just little ol’ me, a professional grown-up lady who acts like a sugar-addled toddler come wintertime. We hike down one hill and up another. One thing is for sure: snow is much more beautiful to look at than to walk in. A couple of times, I put my boot in a deeper drift and nearly topple over. But every time that happens, Ace grabs my arm and steadies me with that trademark grin. It’s perfect.

  After a few minutes of exertion, during which I manage to completely overheat (thanks to my thick down ski jacket, bulky wool scarf and hat), we reach the lake. It’s in the middle of a big ring of pine trees growing close together. Pushing a couple of snow-heavy branches aside, we look out across the frozen expanse. I set my foot gingerly on the ice and slide it back and forth.

  “It seems solid,” I say. Ace leans down and picks up a handful of snow, shaping it into a ball. Something about the way he’s looking at me makes me back away toward the safety of the trees. Oh no. I knew it. I knew it and I still let him lead me into this trap.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I say, trying to make my voice sound dangerous and threatening and just ‘don’t fuck with me’ enough to keep me safe. As I back away, I almost fall over and land butt first into a snow bank. So sexy, I know.

  “Think about what?” His fake-innocent expression doesn’t fool me. Those are Bambi-Satan eyes.

  “I’m warning you.” I crouch to grab some snow for myself, attempting to casually pack it into a ball behind my back, which isn’t easy.

  “Now, now. Proper Southern ladies don’t start fights,” he says, advancing slowly. I back up a few more steps, adjusting my grip on the ball of snow I’m still hiding.

  “Maybe not. But we’re very good at finishing them,” I say, then throw my snowball as hard as I can and take off running. I hear a thwap and Ace’s startled laugh—I must have gotten him!—and the crunch of his boots as he chases after me. A snowball zips right by my head. Reaching down, I mound together another few fistfuls of snow and spin around, throwing the ball as hard as I can. Ace ducks, and looks impressed.

  “You have a good arm,” he says. “Most impressive.”

  “I was junior varsity softball,” I say, feeling a little proud. But my preening moment gives Ace the opportunity he needs. He launches a snowball, which hits me in my shoulder with a smash. “Ow!” I cry, pretending to actually be hurt as I bend down, rubbing my fake injury. Ace comes rushing over.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to throw so hard. Are you all right?” He sounds instantly concerned. It almost makes me feel guilty for lying to him.

  Almost.

  “Sucka!” I stand up and hit him square in the chest with another cleverly constructed snow missile. It leaves a damp patch of powdery snow on the front of Ace’s jacket. His eyebrows shoot up in disbelief.

  “You pulled a fast one.” He says it like it’s the sexiest thing of all time. I take off, skirting the edge of the lake. I’m just thinking about my next move, when I accidentally step onto the ice. My foot shoots out from under me, and I crash hard. I actually spin around a couple of times before I end up sprawling flat on my back. My vision blurs and shakes. Ace calls my name, and he’s crouched beside me in an instant. “Paige. Are you all right? Can you sit up?”

  Gently, he places a hand under my head and helps me. I blink and feel a little woozy, but I can tell I’m all right.

  “I’m fine. Just help me up,” I say. As soon as I put weight on my right foot, though, I know I didn’t get out of this scratch free. “Ow,” I moan, lifting my throbbing foot off the ground. Ace wraps my arm around his shoulders and helps me hop to a tree stump. He takes off my boot and my sock, and studies my rapidly swelling ankle.

  “Does this hurt?” he asks. He puts pressure on it. I wince.

  “It’s not great.” Instantly, he eases off and packs a little snow on the injury. I hiss at the cold, but I don’t pull away.

  “I think it’s a sprain. Does this feel any better, with the ice around it?” He looks up at me, his dark eyes full of concern. That really takes my mind off the pain.

  “Much better,” I say.

  “Let’s get you back,” Ace says. “And I’ll make sure you’re all taken care of. I know just what you need.”

  I’m sure he does, but as he scoops me up in his arms, I can’t help coming up with a few ideas of my own.

  Chapter 7

  We’re back at the lodge, with a fire crackling in the hearth and some steaming mugs of spiced cider on the coffee table. There are worse ways to sprain your ankle. Ace kneels before me, bandaging me up. Normally, I’d wave off anyone’s help and hobble back to my room to doctor myself. I’m not really comfortable being taken care of; I prefer it to be the other way around. But Ace knows a lot more about sprains than I do. Besides, I’m relaxing before a roaring fire in my robe, being fussed over by a billionaire. These opportunities only come around once in a lifetime.

  And as much as I’ve been trying to convince myself that this thing between us is just a fling, the way Ace is taking care of me almost makes me wish it could be more.

  “How’s the cider?” he asks, finishing his job. I lean back and take a sip.

  “I think if musical domination doesn’t work out, you have an incredible future as a barista.”

  “That’s the greatest compliment I’ve ever received.” He takes his own mug and sits on the couch next to me. “How’s the ankle?”

  “It’s wrapped so tight I’m on my way to being a mummy.” I shift my leg across the cushions. Ace wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me against his chest.

  “First rule of a sprained ankle: don’t move.” He tilts my chin up so I’m looking into his eyes. It might just be the cider, or maybe the fire crackling nearby, but it feels like the room just got a whole lot hotter. “You’ll have to stay lying down.” He kisses my neck, then lightly bites the skin there, giving me goosebumps. “I’ll do everything I can to make you comfortable.”

  “Everything?” I repeat, tilting my head back as his lips trail a blaze of heat down between my breasts, feeling the rumble of his laugh reverberating through my chest.

  “Your wish is my command.” He takes my hand, twining our fingers together. I run my thumb lightly across his palm.

  “Does your hand ever hurt?” I blurt, and then inwardly cringe; how stupid am I to bring the accident up? “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”

  “It’s fine. And not really. Sometimes it takes me longer to do things than I’d like. As if I can’t get my hand to wake up fast enough.” He shakes his hand and splays his fingers. “Did you see the tremor? It’s in my wrist, happens whenever I stretch too far too fast.”

  “What happened exactly?” I ask, reaching for my cider again.

  “Our tour bus crashed. The driver got tanked while we were playing the gig. By the time we noticed anything was wrong, he was on the highway, weaving back and forth across the lanes. Then a truck came out of nowhere, and bam.” He strikes his hand against the side of the couch. “That was it. My arm was crushed, tendons severed, wrist shattered. The pain was so bad I blacked out. After that I had surgery, physical therapy, everything. It pretty much healed. But pretty much isn’t enough when you’re a professional drummer.” He sighs; there’s a deep pain in his voice now.

  “Why wasn’t it enough?” I take a deep sip of cider, hoping Ace will keep talking. Instead he pauses, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. But a moment later he clears his throat and continues.

  “The drummer’s the heartbeat of a band,” he says. “He keeps the pace. He sets the rhythm. If you’re off by even a fraction of a second, that’s it.
Everything else falls apart around you.” He’s quiet again, lost in the memories.

  “You really loved it,” I say. He nods.

  “Feeling myself at the center of the music—I felt irreplaceable. And then, in one second, it was all gone.” I remember him trying to drum to the music yesterday, trying to catch some piece of his past. “I haven’t talked to anyone about it in a long time,” he says, the passion in his voice replaced by loss. “I sometimes forget how much I miss it.”

  I stare into my cup, wishing I knew what to say. “I’m sorry you had to give that up.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to apologize,” he says, too-brightly. “It’s stupid feeling sorry for myself. Sometimes it hurts, sure. But if it hadn’t happened, I probably wouldn’t have started my own label. I’ve discovered so much amazing talent over the years, and really given these artists a chance to focus on their music. I’ve got no right to complain.”

  I turn to look at him, running my fingers along the strong line of his jaw. I really am starting to like the stubble. “Do you still play?” I ask.

  “The drums? No, that’s another guy.” He shifts beside me, suddenly restless. “But there are other instruments. Hold on.” Ace gets up gingerly, careful not to disturb my leg, and rests me back against the pillows. “Close your eyes and listen.”

  I do what he tells me and wait. I’m expecting the speakers to start up, to hear another song he’s been mixing and producing. Instead, piano music floats sweetly through the air. Stunned, I sit up and look across the room. Ace sits at the grand piano, his hands moving across the keys. His head is bent over as he plays, eyes closed, lost in the music.

  I’ve never heard this song before. It’s soft and sultry at the same time. It makes me think of a warm summer’s day, sitting in the shade of a porch with a jar of sweet tea on hand. I can almost feel the heat on my skin as I close my eyes.

  I get up, using the couch’s arm for support, and gently pick my way over to the piano. Ace is so deep into his playing that he barely notices when I sit on the bench next to him. His fingers stroke the ivories and dance across the black keys. When he finishes, the last note reverberates in the air, dissipating like smoke from a candle.

  “What was that called?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. It’s just something I’ve been working on for myself. I’m still trying to come up with a name.” He tugs lightly at a strand of my hair and then tucks it behind my ear. “How about ‘Girl with the Afternoon Hair’?”

  I shake my head. “Come on, don’t tease me.”

  “I’m not.” His eyes are full of that crackling intensity as he looks at me. “I think the song was just waiting for you to hear it.” Before I can bat away the compliment, he pulls me close and kisses me.

  His lips on mine are scorching, needful; I sigh as his hands caress my breasts, sliding down to squeeze my ass as I straddle him, his cock hard against my thigh. My nipples tighten as he pulls my robe open and his hot mouth makes its way down my neck. I gasp as he begins to bite and suck at my breasts.

  “I want you,” he whispers against the hollow of my neck, kissing me.

  “Couch,” I whisper. Ace grunts his agreement, and carries me to the sofa. We tumble onto the cushions together, my robe falling away from my shoulders. His eyes never leave mine and the intensity burning there almost takes my breath away.

  I pull at his shirt, impatient to get it off him. His body is just as breathtaking as I remember it. I stroke his chest, trailing my fingers down to his nipple, and pinch. He groans as he kisses my neck, and his hand reaches down to stroke me through my panties. Locking my legs around him, I move his hand away and grind my hips into his, gasping as he thrusts back against me. Even through his jeans, I can feel how ready he is. I want him to fill me, want to get lost in the rhythm of our bodies. Ace pulls back just long enough to tug away my robe, tear off my panties, and toss them aside.

  “God damn,” he growls, his voice hoarse as he takes in the view of me spread naked on his couch. “You’re beautiful, Paige.”

  As he tugs off his jeans and underwear, his eyes never leave mine, and I can feel my heart pounding under his smoldering gaze. I reach forward to wrap my fingers around his length, but he stops me. “Later,” he whispers. “Right now I need to be inside you.”

  Before I can agree he’s spreading my thighs apart, moving over me to press his hard, ready cock against my pussy. God, yes. I’m wet and aching when he slams inside me, and I gasp as he fills me up; it’s almost too much. “Paige,” he groans, easing into a deep, delicious rhythm. But he’s holding back, being careful of my swollen ankle—and right now, that ankle is the last thing on my mind. I need more, faster, harder. Now.

  “Fuck me,” I demand, digging my fingers into his back. I may not know who this feisty new Paige is, but dammit, I like her style. “Fuck me harder, Ace.”

  He groans in response and pulls back just long enough to reposition my legs so that now my injured ankle hangs over the back of the couch, and my other foot is flat on the floor. I’m spread completely open now, totally exposed to him, and his lust-darkened eyes rake over me hungrily. “I’m gonna give you exactly what you want,” he growls.

  And then he does.

  I close my eyes as he thrusts deep and hard, my hips rising in perfect sync to meet his, pleasure taking me far from my thoughts.

  “Oh God,” I groan, my nails raking down his back. “Don’t stop.” He pistons deeper into me, deeper than I thought anyone could go. I moan beneath him, a delicious pressure building right at my core. My hands slide to his hips now, insistent, pulling him faster and harder into me. “Don’t stop, Ace, fuck.”

  “You’re so fucking hot,” he gasps, speeding up even more. “I love watching you take my cock. Fuck. You’re perfect.”

  He dips his head down to take my nipple into his mouth and sucks at the sensitive bud as he thrusts into the perfect spot, and I feel myself rapidly losing all control.

  “Suck me,” I moan, breathless and eager as his teeth tug at my other nipple. I’m overwhelmed, sensations radiating through every nerve in my body. I move my hands to grab his ass and listen to him groan as my pussy tightens around his cock. “Oh, fuck,” I moan. “Ace, I’m coming—”

  “I want to watch you,” he growls, pumping faster. “Come for me, Paige.”

  I gasp at his command and draw my nails down his back as the pressure goes down to the core of me, so close, oh God—

  “Fuck,” Ace groans, slamming hard into me again and again, slowing down, his breaths going harsh and irregular. “Come with me, Paige. Come.”

  Our eyes lock, and I see him hesitate just before he shudders, gasping as comes in waves, stroking into me with every jolt of ecstasy. His pleasure stokes mine, and I cry out as my orgasm swells and crashes, thrusting to meet him as I climax so that his cock is filling me completely, pounding right into the center of my bliss. Ace pulls my lips to his, our tongues desperate for each other as I grip his shoulders, digging my nails into his back until he slows and finally stills. We lie there, both gasping for air.

  I can say without a doubt in my mind that I’ve never been fucked like this before.

  When we’ve both relearned how to breathe, he slides under me, pulling me on top of his warm, naked body. We lie together on the couch, my head on his chest, luxuriating in the moment.

  I’ll be honest, my sexual experiences before this one have been pretty tame. Ace is the first man who’s ever paid so much attention to what I wanted. So I guess as far as flings go, I couldn’t have lucked into a better one. Though I wish I didn’t have to keep reminding myself that a fling is all this is, all it will ever be. Get over it, Paige.

  I’m trying to.

  I trail my fingers along Ace’s arm, tracing the musical notes.

  “What’s the story behind these tattoos?” I ask.

  Ace cocks an eyebrow. “What do you think they mean?”

  “Well, there’s a bleeding rose on your chest. A heartbreak tattoo. You loved
a girl named Rose, and she left, so now it’s a bleeding rose. And the music on your arm,” I say, touching the musical notes again, “is the first song you ever wrote.”

  “Good choices.” Ace sounds impressed. “Wrong, but good.” He touches the rose. “The Bleeding Rose was my first band in high school. And this,” he says, stretching out his left arm, “is Fur Elise. First song I ever learned on the piano.” He hums the music—da da da da da da da dum daaaa.

  “Full of surprises,” I say. “Not many rockers have Beethoven on their arm.”

  “I could make some joke about dating classical composers, but I’m a little too relaxed right now.” We’re silent a minute or two, basking in the glow. “Just think,” Ace muses, trailing kisses along my shoulder. “Douchebro girl.”“Is that going to be my superhero identity? Can we not think of anything better?”

  “What about Sex Goddess? Would that work?” he whispers in my ear.

  “Very acceptable. I should order monogrammed sheets and napkins with SG on them. Lavender thread, I think. Mom would certainly like that.”

  Ace laughs. I love the way it rumbles in his chest against my cheek. “When I first met you, I thought you were so prim and proper. Such a good girl.” Then he says, almost surprised, “And you are. But you’ve also got a wild side to you, Paige. Don’t bury it.”

  “I think it’s been excavated. Thoroughly,” I say. “Though I’ll have to put it away now and again. It’s not much use in a business meeting, or at one of the society soirees.”

  “How about right now,” Ace says. “On top of the piano?”

  “So long as you don’t give me any lines about ‘making music together,’ then yes.”

  Chapter 8

  Several hours later, we’re back on the sofa with all our clothes on and a blanket over our legs. I watch the fire, enjoying the afternoon sun slanting across the wooden floor.