Mr. Rich

by Virna DePaul

  Glancing over my shoulder, I point to his garage. “You have other cars in there?”

  God, why did I ask that? His sleek Audi is incredible enough. What if he’s got a Porsche or a Rolls-Royce in there?

  His eyebrows rise at my question. “Um, yes. A truck. And a couple of bikes. Motorcycles.”

  “Wait, you ride?” I can’t believe it. A health nut, filthy rich, and a rebel?

  “Hell yeah, I ride. I’ve got a Ducati. But I also have an old Harley I’m trying to get running again.”

  Holy shit, I think, my unease forgotten. “I love motorcycles. My dad used to collect old bikes. He was a mechanic, and motorcycles were kind of his specialty.”

  “Were?”

  “He died of a heart attack when I was sixteen. Now it’s just me and my mom.” Unable to help myself, I glance toward the garage and he grins. Sticking his hands in his pocket, he tilts his head in that direction. “Want to see?”

  “Sure.”

  “So you know a little bit about motorcycles?”

  “I know enough to ride one and take care of it so it keeps running,” I tease him with a laugh.

  “Well, then, maybe you can get it running.”

  When I see the bright blue Ducati, I swear I almost have an orgasm on the spot. “It’s gorgeous.” I take in all the sleek lines with proper appreciation, and then gasp when Bastian pulls a drop cloth off his other bike.

  “Wow,” I say when I see the classic black motorcycle. “This looks like a 1956 Harley-Davidson FLH Hydra-Glide Super Sport.”

  Bastian grins. “So you know the make and year. What else can you tell me about this bike of mine?” His voice is both teasing and challenging.

  Oh, that’s right; I’m just a girl. I’m not supposed to know these things.

  “Well, let’s see. You’ve got the Panhead engine they introduced in the late forties and the hydraulic front-end suspension that they’d introduced just a few years before this baby was made. I see you’ve added a custom seat that’s a little longer, to allow someone else to ride with you.”

  Ignoring the fact that I’m wearing a black dress, I crouch down next to the engine and take a look at what he’s already done to try to get it running.

  “So, you grew up around these things, huh?” he asks, standing over me.

  Standing again, I look around, then without even asking, I grab a couple of tools, then return to crouch next to the bike, making a few adjustments here and there as I speak.

  “Yep, my dad worked on them a lot when I was little. There are pictures of me sitting on his motorcycles or taking them out for rides with him when they were fixed and running. The thing with these old bikes is you have to keep on them. You can’t let them sit for too long. You can’t not perform regular maintenance, or else they’ll just die on you. At the same time, they’re a lot easier to work on, just like with older cars.”

  “Oh, so you know about cars, too, now,” he says, his voice sounding odd, and when I turn around, I see his gaze plastered not on what I’m doing to his bike, but the way my dress is riding up my thighs. When he catches me looking, he winks.

  “I know a thing or two.” I tinker with the bike for another minute, then stand and wipe my hands with a rag he hands me. “Give her a shot now,” I tell him.

  He looks skeptical, takes out his keys from his pocket, climbs on, and cranks her up.

  The bike comes to life instantly and purrs like she’s brand-new.

  “What did you do? That fast?” He looks at me in amazement.

  “There’s nothing wrong with this bike,” I tell him. “And if you have to ask what was wrong with her, you’ll never know. Best to hire a good mechanic.” I can’t deny I sort of feel like a badass for getting his bike running.

  “Or maybe I can just have you over more often and we can work on the bike together.”

  Am I seriously warped that working on this bike with him sounds almost as good as everything else I’ve done with him thus far?

  Almost.

  All of a sudden, seeing him on that rumbling bike, picturing him speeding down the road with me on the back, arms around him, his powerful hips between my thighs…well, let’s just say I’m more than ready to head inside his fancy house now.

  So I reach over, turn the engine off, then kiss him.

  Bastian

  It’s clear as day that Julia’s turned on by the fact I ride motorcycles. She’s turned on by the fact she got my bike running. As for me? Seeing her crouching uninhibited next to my bike, tinkering with it, I’m tempted to rip off her black dress and test out how well the bike withstands the rough ride I want to give her.

  But as much as I’d be up for that another day, right now all I want is her on her back, in a comfortable bed where we can spend hours just savoring one another. So I kiss Julia back, spearing her mouth with my tongue, tangling her hair in my hand, squeezing her breasts and ass, but as I do, I awkwardly maneuver her out of the garage and into the house. When we’re inside, I sweep her into my arms and carry her upstairs to my room, grateful I’d cleaned up all evidence that I’d been ill. Nothing like a thermometer and ginger ale bottles strewn everywhere to kill the mood.

  “I want you, Bastian,” she says in a low voice. She shimmies against me.

  I stroke my hands up her sides, cupping her breasts. I squeeze, and she moans. Leaning down, I kiss between her cleavage, licking along that line. She tastes like flowers and salt; it’s intoxicating.

  My hands rove some more. My fingers climb up her dress, but then she jerks away like I’ve stung her.

  “Um,” she says, blushing, “sorry. I’m ticklish.”

  I laugh, reaching for her. “I’ll be careful.”

  Now that we’re inside, she seems distracted, though, like she did when we’d first pulled up to the house. I tip her chin up. “What’s wrong, Julia?”

  She bites her lip. She fidgets. She makes an annoyed sound before blurting, “My underwear. I don’t want you to see it. It’s not…sexy.”

  That’s all? I laugh, but seeing her expression, I sober. “Julia,” I say as I kiss the side of her neck, “you’re bloody gorgeous and you just got my bike running, looking smoking hot while doing it. I don’t care if you’re wearing a metal chastity belt. I want you. I’ll always want you.”

  I keep kissing her, licking and nibbling. She sighs, her hands clenched in my shirt.

  “Can we turn off the lights?” she asks, her voice soft.

  Hell no, I think. I want to see all of her. But looking at her face, seeing how uncomfortable she is, I control my baser instincts. “Anything you want,” I say.

  Chapter 16

  Julia

  So much for feeling like a badass.

  Now I feel stupid, being self-conscious about wearing Spanx. But I can’t stand the thought of Bastian seeing me like that, so, lights off it is. Anyway, it’s kind of sexy, not seeing the other person but going by touch, sound, and taste.

  He switches off the overhead light, plunging us into darkness. His curtains block out the streetlamps outside, so I can only just make him out in the dark. He helps me unzip my dress, laughing a little when the zipper gets stuck, and I help him unbutton his shirt. It’s awkward and there’s a lot of fumbling, but he can’t stop kissing me at the same time. When I’m in my underwear, I shuck off my Spanx before he notices I’m wearing them, tossing them to parts unknown.

  Clad only in my bra, I help him strip out of his pants and down to his boxers. He takes me by the wrist. We tumble onto his bed. His sheets are silky and probably expensive, and I inhale deeply. They smell just like him. That turns me on almost as much as Bastian kissing me.

  I perch on top of him, his cock rubbing against me. We both groan. His mouth travels downward, kissing me between my breasts. He shoves my bra straps down and pulls the cups away, not bothering to unhook the bra. I don’t mind. His mouth is too hot, too devastating, and he licks my nipples until I’m moving against him.

  His hands wander, too, and when he
realizes I’m bare from the waist down, he swears. His fingers delve between my legs, feeling my wetness and stroking through my folds. I shudder. I’m so ready, and he’s barely touched me. I rock against him, trying to find friction.

  “Keep that up and we’ll be over before we’ve started,” he mutters in my ear.

  I rock against him harder. His hands grip my hips, trying to still me.

  “I need you inside me.” I’ve never said those words before, but the darkness makes me brave. And it’s true: I need him filling me, stretching me to the brim.

  I help him out of his boxers and he rifles around in his drawer, looking for a condom. He swears when he can’t find one. I can’t help it—I giggle.

  “What are you laughing about?” he growls. I can just make out the sheen of the foil packet in the light peeking through the edges of the curtains.

  “I’m laughing at you. Now are you going to keep growling, or are you going to fuck me?”

  Who is this person, I think, and what did she do with awkward Julia?

  “Oh, I’m going to fuck you. Until you come all over my cock.” His words stroke against my skin; I shiver and tremble, heat blossoming through me.

  He rolls the condom onto his cock, and I scoot up a little. I can feel him against my entrance, hard and hot. Taking him in my hand, I slowly guide him inside me, feeling a slight pinch. He’s so big, it’s almost unbearable—but in the best possible way. His hands are on my hips, letting me set the pace. Inch by inch, he fills me, until he’s completely inside.

  “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. His fingers dig into my hips.

  He’s leaned back into the pillows, and I place my hands on his shoulders for balance. Then I gingerly rock up, and then back again. Back and forth, his cock filling me. It feels almost like he’s growing harder and longer inside of me, and it sends a thrill down to my toes.

  I’m going slowly, and I know it’s driving Bastian crazy. His hands are gripping me tighter and tighter, like he’s trying to remain still. I close my eyes. Cupping my breasts, I tweak my nipples, and it sends a burst of warmth straight to my sex.

  “Are you touching yourself?” he growls.

  I nod, moving faster now. I need more—more of everything. More of him inside me, more friction, more movement.

  He covers my hands with his, playing with my breasts. He rolls each nipple between his fingers before pinching them. The bite of pain makes me moan out loud. Now I’m riding him, clutching at his shoulders.

  “I’m so close, Bastian, so close.”

  At that, his control snaps. He takes hold of me and starts fucking me so relentlessly that it’s as if I lose myself completely. All I know is Bastian: his hands, his mouth, his cock. He thrusts inside of me, and the noise of flesh against flesh only adds to how erotic this moment is.

  Sweat drips down my body. I reach down and stroke my clit. Pleasure screams along every nerve as I touch myself. I can feel his cock brush against my fingers.

  It’s too much. I can’t last a second longer.

  “Come for me, Julia,” he says.

  I do. My orgasm explodes within me, and I arch backward. I scream. I’m shaking and trembling and he’s still fucking me, milking every contraction. His cock still sheathed inside of me, it prolongs the pleasure until I’m drunk with it. I then feel him swear and he’s coming, too, and I don’t know how long I’m coming. It feels like eternity.

  Remaining inside of me, Bastian pulls me down for a furious kiss. It’s messy and there’s teeth and tongue, but I kiss him just as hard. His hands cup my ass, still thrusting slowly inside of me, like he can’t stop himself. It sends little thrills of pleasure up my spine, extending what was already an explosive orgasm.

  Eventually, I collapse against him. I’m exhausted, sore, and so well-pleasured I can’t even think straight. Bastian gently lifts me off of him, leaving to dispose of the condom before returning. He kisses me again, his fingers dancing through my throbbing sex.

  “I wonder,” he says thoughtfully, “how many times can I make you come tonight?” His fingers slide through my wetness, brushing my oversensitive clit just barely. “Three times? Four? More than that?”

  I want to tell him I’m too tired, but as he dips one finger inside of me, I realize that my body is his. I can’t say no; I don’t want to say no. So I kiss him and he fucks me with his fingers until I’m coming a second time, then a third, and then it all melts together into a dream of pure ecstasy.

  —

  I don’t know how much time passes. I can see a tiny bit of light peeking through the curtains, so I assume that dawn is near, but otherwise a week, a month, an eternity could have passed and I wouldn’t have noticed.

  Curled next to Bastian with my head on his shoulder, I dance my fingers lightly across his chest as he strokes my arm. We’re quiet, just listening to each other breathe. After I came more times than I thought was possible, we both dozed off. Now we’re awake, but it’s a soft kind of awake, where we don’t have to be doing anything but lie next to each other.

  It’s a lovely feeling, I have to admit.

  Bastian curls a strand of my hair around his index finger. “Can I ask you something?” His voice rumbles, and I can feel the vibration in my hand that still lies on his chest.

  “Go for it.” I’m not particularly awake for some in-depth conversation, but he can try if he wants.

  “You’re so freaking talented. Forget that you obviously have skill with motorcycles; I can could tell from how you talked about music that it’s your passion. Why would you drop out of college and get a job handing out samples at a grocery store? I can’t figure it out.”

  I stiffen. Out of all of the questions I expected, this one was not on the list. I realize that on the surface it doesn’t make sense. I had everything, didn’t I? A scholarship to attend college to earn my degree in musical composition, focusing specifically on guitar and singing. A part-time job waitressing to pay for living expenses not covered by the scholarship. I’d been so busy, but I’d loved college—the classes, my peers, even the dorm rooms—until I’d had to deal with him.

  Professor Elliot Macintosh.

  Professor and chair of the composition department. Award-winning musician whose works have been described as “brilliant” and “ravishing” and “potent.” The same professor who, after I refused to sleep with him, used the terms “pedestrian,” “unoriginal,” and “tepid” to describe my own musical talent. It had stung. I’d taken those words in, until I’d been suffocating with self-doubt. Yet I hadn’t given in to his bullying. At least, not until I’d heard the rumors that I’d attempted to exchange sex for a passing grade in his class…

  I was shunned and treated like a leper. My fellow students. My other professors. They looked at me differently. Sneered at me, not always behind my back. Quite simply, I folded under the pressure. Filled with righteous anger, I quit school, telling myself I’d go back eventually. That I just needed a break first. Time to get my head on straight. Then my mom had gotten sick and I had more practical things to think about.

  I mean, what was I really going to do with a music degree? Did I really think I had what it took to be a star?

  Now, five years later, I’m still working at a grocery store handing out samples and for all I know, will be until I die.

  My thoughts right now, though, are more along the lines of not telling Bastian any of this. What would he think of me being such a coward?

  Turning away from him, I mutter into the darkness, “I just didn’t want to be in school anymore, okay? There’s nothing else to tell.”

  Bastian goes quiet, and I want to believe he’s given up. Then he turns toward me, saying thoughtfully, “You work at a place like Cooper’s for years, as loyal as any employee, but decide to quit college just like that? I don’t understand.”

  I don’t understand it, either. How did my life end up like this? I was supposed to graduate and become a professional musician, maybe record albums and go on tour.

&nbs
p; “I was young and dumb,” I say shortly. “Now, are you going to keep grilling me?”

  He laughs a little, stroking my arm again. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just so curious about you. You’re the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met.”

  At that, I flip over to face him. I can just make out his expression in the darkness. “I’m the most interesting woman you’ve ever met? You’ve must have met a lot of really boring women.”

  “Maybe. But there’s something about you…” He links our hands together, and I shiver a little. “You’re different,” he says, as if he’s confused by this realization.

  I squeeze his hand. “I could’ve told you that. But now that you’ve decided to make this ‘ask uncomfortable questions’ hour, I have one for you.”

  He waits, clearly unaware of what I have in mind.

  “What’s up with the dick pics online?”

  He coughs suddenly, and I pat him on the back. Then he sighs, long and loud.

  “You found those, did you?” he asks, resigned.

  “Yep, and I was at a coffee shop, so you can imagine how everyone there thought I was a creep. You don’t seem like a naked photos kind of guy.” I know I’m pressing, but in this case? Tit for tat.

  “I’m not. But I used to be not a nice guy.” I can see him wince. “My lawyers are still sending cease and desist letters to sites hosting the photos, but I guess they just keep popping up.”

  I think of the photos, how sexy and intense Bastian looked. Not to mention how nice his cock looked.

  I reach down, lightly massaging him through the sheet. “I’m just glad the photos didn’t lie,” I say in a low voice.

  He lets me fondle him for five more seconds before he growls and flips me onto my back, then kisses me until I gasp and surrender.

  Chapter 17

  Julia

  The next week starts as usual: me handing out samples and wondering when I can see Bastian again. After he dropped me off at my place, I basically did nothing the rest of the weekend except think about him. I’d laugh at myself if I weren’t so freaked out by how much I’m falling for him.