Fierce (Not Quite a Billionaire)

by Rosalind James

  When he reached a hand down to grab my thigh and shove it up, I stiffened again. But when he wrapped his arm around the inside of my knee so my thigh was pinioned all the way up by my head, I understood. And when he did it on the other side, had me pulled up tight, was driving so deep, I’d started to sing out again. I was yanking desperately against my restraints, trying to get closer, knowing I was too noisy, but completely unable to help myself, because this was it. This was all there was. And then he laced his fingers through mine again and held me down, and I exploded.

  Again and again, convulsing around the delicious friction, the pressure that filled me so completely. Getting all of him, so deep, so hard. Getting everything. And Hemi shuddering, swearing, low and dirty and so thrilling, seeming to grow even larger inside me, until I really didn’t think I could take it.

  “Yes,” he groaned. “Yes.”

  He was there, and I knew how much he’d needed to be, and that I’d done that.

  “Wow,” I finally managed to say when Hemi had untied my hands and pulled me to lie against his chest. I was still a little shaky, and he ran his hand over my hair, down my back, his touch soothing me. “Who knew it would feel like that? I definitely needed to be reading some better books.”

  I heard his low chuckle, and he was pulling the comforter up over us, settling me more comfortably against him. My hand came out to stroke the broad planes of his chest, and I wanted to touch him more, to feel him in the way he’d denied me tonight, but I was so sleepy.

  “Well, to be fair,” he said, sounding a little drowsy himself, or maybe just completely relaxed, completely unlike Hemi, “it’s not usually that good. I think that was you.”

  That woke me up. “Really? I was…OK?”

  “Yeh.” His fingers twined around a lock of my hair. “You could say that. Or you could say that you were bloody brilliant. How many times can you come?”

  His words had set up a lovely little glow, but I was still able to be embarrassed, too, even after everything we’d done. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had enough time to…to tell. Like you said. But everybody does that. Don’t they?”

  I felt the vibration of his low laugh all the way through my body. “Nah. They don’t. But it’s good.” He was stroking my thigh now, his hand moving over the curve of my bottom, and that tingle was right back. “Feeling sore?” he asked. “Inside?”

  “A little,” I admitted, flexing my legs and feeling the protest from my tender flesh.

  “We’ll take it easy tomorrow, then. Work you up to it.”

  “Work me up to it?” I levered myself off his chest to stare down at his face. His eyes were warm, and for once, there was an actual smile curving his lips. “How much more are you planning to do?”

  “Oh, baby.” The smile grew. “So much more. So very much more.”

  Sightseeing

  I woke without Hope.

  Waking in a strange hotel room was nothing new to me. But it was always my hotel room. I preferred to retain home-field advantage, and what I’d told Hope was true. I didn’t sleep with women. But she’d been nervous enough already the night before, and it had been important to let her stay in her own space, to give her that comfort. And then I somehow hadn’t managed to make it back to my room afterwards. I’d fallen asleep with the sound of her soft breathing in my ears, one slim leg draped over mine, her arm across my chest, and then I’d just…stayed.

  Where was she, though? The light coming through the curtains we hadn’t managed to shut last night told me it was barely dawn, the bathroom door stood open, and I couldn’t hear a thing.

  I was at the door to the living room on the thought, trying to ignore the relief I felt when I saw her sitting at the little dining table. With her laptop.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  It must have come out too sharply, because she started. “Oh. Hi.” She slammed the lid on the laptop, and I stared at it, then back at her.

  “Hope,” I said slowly. “What are you doing?”

  “Um...” She was looking a bit flustered. “Martine asked me to take care of something.”

  As I continued to stand and look at her, she jumped up. “So…did you want to get breakfast?”

  “No,” I said, and if it came out grim, it was because that was how I felt. “I want to know what you were working on.”

  “And I told you.” Her arms were crossed now over the white hotel robe she wore, and her eyes had narrowed. “A work assignment.”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “And your point?” She wasn’t looking flustered now. “Exactly what is it you’re thinking here? I find myself just fascinated to hear.”

  “You shut your laptop,” I pointed out. “You’re standing up.”

  “Well, you’ve got me there,” she said, and there was no question. I was getting those sparks again. “I am standing up. Color me guilty. What, I’m setting up my online dating profile, now that you’ve awakened my inner goddess?”

  When I didn’t say anything, she sighed. “OK. I’m going to tell you, on the principle I’m always trying to push with Karen, that open communication is essential to a mature, honest relationship. You might take note of that one. You want to know why I’m a little reluctant to share? Because Martine sent an assignment to me yesterday afternoon, and I didn’t finish it. I fell asleep after my bath, because I got a little…relaxed in there, you might say, and it was more work than I thought anyway. And then I wanted to be pretty when we went out to dinner, and I chose that instead. And I didn’t exactly want you to know that and think I was a flake, or that you’d made a mistake in getting Martine to hire me, and I’m nervous about my job anyway, so I got up early to try to finish it, and I still haven’t. So there you go. My dark secret for the morning. Happy?”

  “Oh.” I ran a hand over the back of my head and tried to think of what to say. “I think you lost me a couple stops back. I got distracted at the part about you getting relaxed in the bath.”

  “Uh-huh.” She was still trying to look severe, but that face wasn’t made for it. “I don’t think even your truly impressive line of dirty talk is going to get you out of this one. This would be a good spot to use that ‘s’ word again. You know, that one you’ve said twice already?”

  “Twice more than I’m used to saying it, and I’m not rapt about saying it again,” I muttered.

  “Now, see,” she said, “if I were a different kind of person, not the butterfly type, I’d tell you that you might not want to be quite so suspicious and dictatorial and make me mad so much, and then you wouldn’t have to say it at all. But of course, being a butterfly and all, I can’t. And did anyone ever tell you that you have trust issues? Remember my swan story? You’d have totally let me burn. I’m just saying.”

  “Anyone ever tell you that you’re bloody saucy?” I tried a glare, but I wasn’t sure I was too effective. “Saucy girls can get themselves in trouble. As I may have mentioned last night. And I’d like the butterfly back, please.”

  She was laughing now, not deterred a bit. “You only get the butterfly on special occasions. And you know, you might be a little scarier if you weren’t naked.”

  “And here I thought that was my best look. Wait, though. Are we bantering?”

  “You know what?” She smiled. “I think we are.”

  “Huh. I don’t banter.”

  “First time for everything, some people say,” she said, peeping at me from under her lashes. “For relationships, for sex, and even for banter. At least that’s what I hear.”

  Later on, of course, I realized that Hemi never had apologized. But he’d dropped it, and that had been something, hadn’t it?

  Well, no. The whole thing should have been a red flag, but what can I say? Hemi was distracting. Besides, he’d been so sweet after that, hadn’t balked a bit at my needing time to finish my assignment for Martine after he’d called down for our room service breakfast of coffee and croissants.

  So, no, I couldn’t stay annoyed with
him. Instead, I transferred my annoyance to Martine, because I was having to take time away from our stolen weekend to work. But then, she would have been expecting me to work on the plane, too, and I hadn’t been on the plane.

  I couldn’t complain too much about anything, though, when I was embarking with Hemi on another walking tour of Paris. Well, what was supposed to be a walking tour, except that we passed the shop windows of Chantal Thomass before we’d even made it five blocks. I couldn’t resist a peek, and Hemi saw me do it.

  He stopped. “Pretty, eh.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It is.”

  I wasn’t even talking about the window displays. I was just looking at the building. Three sets of curving windows rose in perfect harmony against a pale gray background, were edged by extravagantly thick curlicues of white plaster trim as elaborate as the frosting on a wedding cake. In Paris, it seemed, even the buildings looked good enough to eat.

  Hemi, though, had already moved past that. He had hold of my hand and was tugging me inside. “Perfect.”

  “We’re supposed to be looking at art,” I protested, attempting to shore up my rapidly weakening resolve. “And churches.”

  “I will be looking at art. At beautiful things, anyway. And you could call it research.”

  “You going into the ladies’ lingerie business?” I was still giving it my best effort. “Girls’ stuff is pretty different from boys’.”

  “It is, eh. Good to know.” He was already prowling the rooms of the chocolate-box shop with its tall, ornate pier-glass mirrors set against pink walls, the inevitable pink armchairs and crystal chandeliers, pulling items off shelves and racks as a frighteningly chic brunette saleswoman glided forward to meet us.

  “The lady requires a fitting room, please,” Hemi said, handing her an armful of garments.

  She took one look at the cut of his suit and his hair and was already moving to comply. “Certainly, monsieur. If madame would come this way?”

  When Hemi followed me through the door, though, and shut the pink velvet curtain behind him, I balked.

  “No,” I hissed. “What’s she going to think?”

  “That I want to help you choose?” He sat down on a pale-pink bench, looking much too big, too dark, and too fierce to be anything but incongruous against the quilted pink walls, with an expression on his face that I was sure was supposed to be innocent and didn’t fool me one bit. “What? Would you rather I sit in the middle of the shop and have you model for me out there? I’d love seeing you walk out to me in your undies, having you turn for me so I can see the back, but you may get a bit embarrassed, I’m thinking. I’ve noticed you do tend to get embarrassed over certain…acts, so I’m just guessing. But I’m thinking I’m right.”

  I had my hands on my hips now. “You are so…And anyway, if you’re in here, she’s going to think…”

  “Yeh?” he asked softly. “What’s she going to think?”

  “That I’m giving you a—” I stopped, because he had that smile starting around his eyes. He didn’t tease, and he didn’t banter? I had news for him. He did both.

  “Yeh,” he said. “She may. What d’you reckon? If I spend enough…”

  I went for sass. Whatever he said, I could tell he liked it. But I kept my voice down. “No. Absolutely not. Anyway, unfortunately for you, I don’t even know how. I’ve seen videos, of course, but I’m thinking there’s some technique involved, and alas…” I raised my shoulders in an extravagant shrug. “I’ve never had a teacher, have I? And we have all this art to look at and everything, so oh, well.” I sighed. “Maybe I can find somebody else to show me sometime.” And all right, I threw that one in there just to see what he would do. I could tease, too.

  What it did, in fact, was make him lose the casual expression. “No, you won’t. You’re not finding anybody else to show you. That’s going to be me.”

  I had to smile a little inside. He was so easy. “Is it? I’ll see if I can remember that. Well, if you want to watch…” I shrugged, pulled my sweater, another waist-length one, plain black this time, over my head with a little extra wriggle that wasn’t strictly necessary, then hung it on a hook before turning my back to Hemi and unzipping my short red plaid skirt and letting it drop to the floor. And then I bent over, took off my boots, and shimmied my black tights down my legs.

  Yes, I was stripping for Hemi, and I was enjoying it, too. There was apparently a lot of bad girl hiding inside me, and it had only taken one incredible night to bring it out. Who knew?

  I tossed the tights onto the chair with the skirt, then peeped over my shoulder at him. “Sure I need to do this? I have underwear already. And it’s nice, don’t you think?”

  He shifted on his bench, not looking quite as comfortable as he had been. “Bloody hell.”

  “Mm. You like them?” Hot pink, cut high on the cheeks in a style that I privately thought was even sexier than a thong. “See? I’m all good. Don’t need a sugar daddy to buy me sexy French lingerie or anything.”

  “Except that I can tell it came from Target. You forget—I’m a professional.” He’d recovered, was holding up a padded hanger with a bra clipped to it that my hands longed to touch, all lace and trimming and gorgeousness. He waggled it at me much too temptingly. “No? Not interested?”

  “Well, maybe just to please you.” I turned to face him, unfastened the back clasp of my bra, then dropped it down my arms and handed it to him, so I was standing in just my underwear. “Do you want to be in charge of this?”

  I could see him swallow, and the power surged through me just a little bit more. “Yeh,” he said. “I do.”

  He sat on his bench for more than half an hour and watched me try on bras, made me walk around the little room with them on “so I can see the line,” and answered the look I shot him with a blandness that didn’t fool me one bit. And, in the end, we chose two. The one I found most irresistible, a pale blue delicately trimmed with lace, intricately embroidered with flowers in the same color. And his favorite, a pink balconette style with an overlay of black floral lace in a bandeau across the front, which I had to admit was one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen. And, he informed me, we’d be buying six matching thongs, three for each bra.

  “Six?” I hadn’t been able to resist looking at the discreet tag safety-pinned to the waist strip, and had gasped. “Forty euros apiece? And no, I can’t try it on. If you try it on, you have to buy it.”

  “Perfect,” he said, “as I mean to buy it. It’s your size. Put it on.”

  I pulled off the pretty blue bra and, at the waggle of his forefinger dangling the thong, sighed with mock reluctance and slid my own underwear down my hips, trying to ignore the fact that I was, yes, naked. I pulled on the black lace thong with its edging of pink, settled it into place, and looked in the mirror, twisting and turning to get a view.

  “All right,” I admitted. “Pretty. Thank you, since you just bought this. But still not worth forty euros. And I still don’t need three of them.”

  He didn’t answer that. Instead, he leaned forward, looped a finger over the tiny side band of the thong, and pulled me toward him with it, the first time he’d touched me in here, then made a lazy circular gesture with his other hand. “Around.”

  “I mean it,” I warned. “No.”

  “Ah,” he said. “But you seem to forget. You’re not in charge.”

  My heart began to pound. So far, this had only been a sexy game, one that had pushed me to the limit of my comfort zone all the same. It wasn’t public, but it was totally public. There was classical music playing from speakers overhead, but it wasn’t nearly loud enough even for us to be saying…what we were saying. The snatches of French conversation were clearly audible, the rasp of a fitting-room curtain sliding along its bar down the row. We weren’t even behind a door.

  “Around,” Hemi said again. “I want to check the fit.”

  I turned so I was facing away from him, looked into the mirror, and he got that hand under the band again and p
ulled me back.

  “Mm,” he said judiciously. Before I knew what he was doing, he’d shifted so one hand was on my hip, holding me for him, and the fingers of the other were under that other band, the one that ran down between my legs. And after that, he was “checking” it all the way down, his feather-light touch stoking the flames that had been burning since he’d come in here with me, and I was watching in the mirror while he did it.

  “Hemi,” I whispered. “No.”

  He sighed. “You’re right. Take them off.”

  I saw my eyes widen in the glass. “What?”

  “Take them off,” he said. “So we can buy them.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling foolish. I did it, then put out my hand for my underwear. But he just smiled.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m not going to have sex with you in here,” I hissed. “You said I could say no, and I’m saying it. I mean, if you want to buy me underwear, all right. I’ll be…I’ll be gracious. Thank you. But that doesn’t mean you’re buying me, and no.”

  “Didn’t think I asked you to have sex.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “No. I just said that you’re not putting your undies back on. And you say I’m suspicious.” He picked up my purse from the floor and held it out to me. “Put them in there. The tights as well.”

  I was naked in a fitting room with an assistant walking by four feet away. I couldn’t have this conversation here. Surely that was why I did it. I sighed, did my best to look martyred, and put both items into my bag.

  He handed me my bra and, when I started to put it on, shook his head. “Oh, no. It goes in the bag, too.”