Stranded with a Billionaire (THE BILLIONAIRE BOYS CLUB)

by Clare, Jessica

  “Tease,” he growled.

  “You like being teased,” she told him, rolling the condom on quickly. Her own desire had escalated, and she was feeling aroused and needy again. She desperately wanted him inside her and was done with teasing.

  She straddled him again, and his hands went to her hips, steadying her as she grasped his cock and pressed it to the entrance of her sex. She ached for him, she needed this so badly. But she wasn’t used to being on top, and so she sank onto him with small, careful motions, rocking her hips a little to take him deeper and deeper. His hands on her waist guided her down until she was seated on top of him and full of his cock.

  It was a delicious, overwhelming sensation. Every nerve ending felt alive, and he felt enormous inside her from this angle. Brontë bit her lip and rolled her hips a little, experimenting.

  He groaned beneath her.

  That was encouraging. She repeated the motion, rolling her hips even more, and was pleased when he rocked with her. She began a rhythm, moving over him and working her hips in a way that made him brush up against that spot inside her that drove her so wild. His movements echoed hers, and before long, she was increasing the pace, needing more and needing it faster, harder, than what she was doing.

  His hips began to buck hard against hers, so that when she bore down, he thrust upward roughly. Brontë cried out each time he did, and when his hands moved to her breasts, teasing the nipples as she bounced on top of him, she lost control. She rode him wildly, lost to the sensation, until her entire body stiffened and began to quake with her orgasm.

  “Brontë,” he growled, and she felt him clasp her hips again, grinding her down on top of him as he pushed to his own release. A moment later, he bit out a curse and shuddered, and she knew he’d come too.

  She fell on top of him to catch her breath, twining her fingers in his chest hair. It was ridiculous that one man could make her feel so very good. Her entire body was one big bundle of pleasure right then.

  He wrapped his arms around her, holding her on top of him.

  Her stomach growled, ruining the moment.

  Logan chuckled, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Why don’t you jump in the shower, and I’ll order the food?”

  “You know how to sweet-talk a girl.”

  They stayed in the rest of the evening. Brontë borrowed one of Logan’s T-shirts to wear. The Chinese food was excellent, and they ended up watching a movie in the media room with their takeout. She wanted to cuddle next to him on the couch, but the media room had only big, overstuffed recliners, so she was thwarted. He promised to put a couch in for her, though, and she simply rolled her eyes.

  After dinner, they made love again, and she curled into his arms to sleep. All in all, not a bad day. When she was in Logan’s arms, she forgot about everything else.

  ***

  The next morning, she woke up to see Logan off for the day. He kissed her at the door for several minutes, then sighed. “I have meetings all day, but I’ll be back in time to pick you up tonight.”

  “Gotcha. Is there a bookstore nearby I can hit up once I find some pants?”

  Logan chuckled. “You have all of New York at your disposal, and you want a bookstore?”

  “Pretty much.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “But it comes second to pants.”

  He leaned in and kissed her again. “Tell you what. I’ll send my assistant over in about an hour with some clothes for you. She can escort you around town.”

  She wasn’t sure that she needed a chaperone, but it might be wise until she got her feet under her. “All right.” She wrapped her leg around his and clung to him in a way that left nothing to the imagination. “You’re going to think about me today, right?”

  Logan groaned, his hands moving to cup her naked ass under his shirt. “I couldn’t stop if I tried.”

  “A wise man once said, ‘We strive after the forbidden.’”

  “More Plato?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Everyone’s Plato to you. That was Ovid.”

  “If you find a bookstore, buy me some Plato. I hear he’s interesting.” Logan leaned in and kissed her one more time, then reluctantly pulled away. “I’ll call when I’m on my way home.”

  That felt . . . domestic. But she nodded, a hint of a smile on her face as she closed the door behind him. They were clicking so well it was almost scary. Scary, but enjoyable. Was it too good to be true? She supposed she’d see when she met his friends.

  Just the thought of it made her stomach knot up. She was a waitress. He was a billionaire. They were going to think she was after his money, when the truth was his money just made her downright uncomfortable. Money was nice, but it wasn’t the reason to have a relationship.

  Of course, she doubted anyone would believe her if she said that.

  Brontë took a quick shower and had just combed her hair into a damp ponytail when the doorbell rang. She bounded to the door, pulling on her dirty jeans. “Coming.”

  When she opened the door, a woman about her age stood on the other side holding a Saks Fifth Avenue bag. She was about the same height as Brontë, but her figure was radically different. Where Brontë was lean everywhere except her behind, the woman in the doorway seemed to be all softness and curves bundled up into a stuffy brown suit and tight bun. Her makeup was minimal, her skin pale, and she wore a pair of oversized sunglasses that she removed as Brontë opened the door.

  She gave Brontë a friendly, efficient smile and stepped inside. “You must be Brontë Dawson.” She held out her hand. “My name is Audrey Petty, and I’m Logan’s assistant. He asked me to come by and see if I could help out today.”

  Brontë shook her hand enthusiastically. “Hi there. Yes. I’m Logan’s girlfriend.”

  The look on Audrey’s face remained professional. Her smile could have been painted on. “Well, Logan told me to come by with some clothes so you could go shopping today. It seems he didn’t give you time to pack?”

  “That’s right.” Brontë crossed her arms over her chest, feeling a little awkward. “Sorry to be such trouble.”

  She gave Brontë an odd look. “Trouble? Logan once asked me to drive to Pennsylvania to pick up floor plans because he didn’t like the way they looked faxed. Taking someone shopping? That is not trouble in the slightest.”

  Brontë relaxed a little at that, even as Audrey moved past her and began to unpack the contents of the bag she’d brought. “Does Logan often make you run strange errands?”

  “I don’t know if they’re strange,” Audrey said. “But he does sometimes ask me to run favors for him. It’s my job as his assistant, of course. He has a secretary for other business needs.”

  Brontë stared. “So wait. He has an assistant and a secretary?”

  Audrey turned and gave her a puzzled look. “Of course. Now, Logan told me that he had no idea what your size was, so I bought a sweater and some pants in every size. We can just return the ones that don’t fit. I also brought some panties and bras in some common sizes. If you don’t have shoes, I can go back out and get some.”

  “This is fine,” Brontë said, reaching out to touch one of the sweaters. It was plain black, cashmere, and extremely soft. “This is nicer than what I normally wear, actually. You could have brought me a T-shirt and jeans.”

  “Not if I wanted to keep my job,” Audrey said cheerfully. “I know Logan, and if he thought I was cheaping out on you, he’d have my head.”

  He’d never seemed to mind what Brontë had worn before, though. She picked up the sweater in the right size and grabbed the closest slacks and panties. “These’ll work.”

  “Super. You go change and I’ll pack everything else up, and then we can get started. We’ve got a lot of shopping ahead of us.”

  She gave Audrey a dismayed look. “We do?”

  “Logan’s instructions are, and I quote,” she said, pulling ou
t her BlackBerry and reading from the screen, “‘Make sure that she gets a few weeks’ worth of clothing, along with some evening wear. You know my events calendar.’” She looked up from the screen. “I do, and it’s a doozy.” She looked back down again and continued to read. “‘Also, take her to the best bookstore in Manhattan. My library needs restocking.’” She looked up at Brontë in surprise. “He has a library?”

  “Not really,” Brontë admitted, her lips twitching with her efforts not to smile like a lovesick idiot. “And I really don’t need that many clothes. Just a change or two.”

  Audrey shook her head and waved the phone. “I have my orders, and I’m afraid they trump yours.”

  Brontë didn’t disagree. She just took the clothes and went to change. She emerged a few minutes later, fully dressed. The clothing was elegant and yet casual. The price tags had been removed, so she didn’t know what they’d cost, but she had horrible visions of exactly how much everything had set Audrey back. “Thanks for the clothes. How much do I owe you?”

  Audrey gave her a look. “Very funny.”

  “I can write you a check.”

  The other woman stared at her. “Are you or are you not aware that you’re dating a billionaire? He has a little cash to throw around. This is coming from his wallet, not mine.”

  Brontë flushed. “Just because he has the cash doesn’t mean that I want him to spend ridiculous amounts on me. I’m a grown woman. I can buy my own clothes.”

  Audrey arched a brow at her. After a moment, she said, “Well, that’s something I don’t hear very often from women in Logan’s circles. Huh.” She shook her head, as if not quite believing her ears. “Anyhow. Today, the shopping is on Logan. You can argue with him when he gets home. As long as you’re with me, though, his card is the one we’re using.”

  Fair enough. She’d go light on the shopping today to please Audrey and go back later for more stuff if she needed it. “Sounds good. Where are we heading?”

  “Fifth Avenue and Madison Avenue,” Audrey said promptly. “That’s where the best shopping is. Do you have a preference?”

  “Someplace with reasonable, comfortable clothing?”

  Audrey stared at her for a minute. “Oh, honey. No. We’ll start with your dress for the party tonight. I’m thinking Bergdorf’s or Saks. And shoes. We’ll definitely need some shoes. This could get a little pricey, so I just want you to close your eyes and remember who’s buying, okay?”

  Brontë crossed her arms. “Audrey, this makes me . . . really uncomfortable. I don’t know that I can spend someone else’s money like this.”

  “I know you can’t,” she said with a reassuring pat. “That’s why I’m in charge. And may I just say that this is a refreshing change? Usually I have to pry his girlfriends away from the Centurion card.”

  “I thought he hadn’t dated much in the past year?”

  “He hasn’t. I’ve been with him for several.” Audrey gave her another tight, efficient smile. “Shall we go?”

  They headed out, Audrey chattering a mile a minute as they walked the few blocks to the shopping district. Brontë tried to pay attention to Audrey’s nonstop stream of conversation, but she was too busy soaking in the atmosphere of New York. Skyscrapers rose all around her, and the streets were crawling with pedestrians, the curb lined with cars. Awnings hung over the front of apartment buildings, and nearby someone pushed a street cart. Taxis were everywhere.

  She’d never seen anything like it. It was crazy . . . and vibrant. The city was alive with people and business, and it was like being in the center of a very slick, industrious anthill. She could see why so many people loved living there. Standing on the street, surrounding by endless tall buildings, it truly did feel like the center of the universe.

  Audrey continued to chatter as they walked, barely paying attention to other pedestrians or traffic. She’d been working for Logan for three and a half years, Audrey told her. He was a very fair boss, though he could be demanding of her time. And even though she’d been asked to buy presents for occasional girlfriends or to manage his calendar for his personal life, she confessed that she did not shop for many women, which made Brontë feel better.

  At least it did until Audrey added, “Especially after Danica.”

  Danica? Brontë swallowed, feeling a sick knot in her stomach. “Who’s Danica?”

  Audrey chewed on her lip, looking chagrined. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Except . . . the party tonight? You’re going to be there, and the other guests on the list? They all know about Danica, and someone’s sure to bring it up even if she doesn’t show up.”

  Brontë gritted her teeth and repeated herself. “Who’s Danica?”

  The assistant sighed. “I really shouldn’t tell you. My number one loyalty is to Logan, and this feels disloyal. It’s not my place to speculate—”

  “Audrey,” Brontë interrupted. “Who is Danica, and why do I need to know about her?”

  The other woman wrung her hands, clearly torn. After a moment, she said, “Danica is Logan’s fiancée. Ex-fiancée.”

  Brontë stared at her. He was engaged? He’d never told her. “Exactly how ex of a fiancée is she?”

  “They broke things off about two years ago. He hasn’t really dated anyone seriously since.”

  Her stomach clenched uncomfortably. Logan had had a fiancée. Past tense. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. He’d almost been married. That was a little different from dating. “Why did they break up?”

  Audrey shrugged. “I can’t speculate. That’s Logan’s business and not something he shared with me. But I do know it was ugly. They’re not speaking. That’s why you have to look stellar at this party tonight. Odds are that she’s going to be there, and you can’t give her any reason to pick you apart.”

  She swallowed uncomfortably. “I’m a waitress. I’m dating a billionaire. You don’t think that’s reason enough for her to want to tear me apart?”

  “It is. You just don’t want to give her any more.”

  “‘The wise learn many things from their enemies.’”

  Audrey paused to stare at her. “Huh?”

  “Oh. Um. Aristophanes. Never mind.”

  Audrey pointed to a store they were passing. “We can start here. They have some really nice selections. Sophisticated and moneyed. Nothing that screams streetwalker.” The assistant looked at Brontë’s clothes, and then added, “Not that I think you would have trouble with that, but you never know. Some women think that if they’re spending a lot, the clothes should have a lot of flash. It’s just the opposite, really.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Brontë murmured.

  The store was like something out of a movie, complete with marble floors and soft music piped in. They wandered through some of the racks, Audrey leading the way. She seemed to know exactly where she was going, and Brontë was content to let her take charge.

  As they walked, a pretty blouse with a delicate ruffle along the neckline caught her eye. All right. If she was going to be staying with Logan for a few weeks—maybe more, maybe less—she needed clothing that wouldn’t embarrass him. She paused and examined it, admiring the pale silky fabric, then flipped over the tag. Her breath seized in her lungs.

  That blouse cost more than two months’ rent of her Kansas City apartment.

  Brontë put it back on the rack, hoping desperately that her fingerprints hadn’t smudged anything, and followed Audrey with wide eyes.

  The assistant began to pick through a rack of dresses. “You have such lovely dark hair and pale skin that I think you could probably look great in a nice jewel tone. Maybe blue? Green? Do you have a preference?” She glanced up at Brontë and noticed her expression. “What’s wrong?”

  Brontë reached for a nearby tag and winced. “I really don’t feel comfortable with the prices here.”

  Audrey gave her an exas
perated look. “Are you still going on about this?” She shook her head and turned back to the rack of clothing, flipping through dresses. “You are dating a billionaire. Wearing T-shirts and jeans is fine for at home, if that’s your thing. But if you go out? People are going to look at what he’s wearing, and they’re going to look at what you’re wearing. You have to convey an image. The functions that Logan attends? They frequently make the society pages. The last thing you want is for someone to point out fabulously wealthy and handsome Logan Hawkings and his thrift store girlfriend. Understand?”

  Brontë said nothing.

  Audrey gave her another disappointed look. “Do I need to call Logan? Because if we don’t get you outfitted appropriately, I’m the one who’s going to be in trouble, Brontë. As his assistant, it’s my job to make him look good. And if you look good, he looks good. And I really like my job and would hate to lose it.”

  “That is totally emotional blackmail.”

  “Yes, it is.” Audrey pulled a dress off the rack and held it up to Brontë’s chest. “Now, green or blue?”

  ***

  Several hours later, Brontë returned to Logan’s apartment with sixteen shopping bags. Once Brontë had caved in, Audrey had been a determined shopper, and Brontë now possessed several pairs of designer shoes, matching jewelry, four designer handbags, two clutch purses, four cocktail dresses (for starters, Audrey had said), and multiple sets of everyday clothing. Since Audrey had been determined that she be fashionably beautiful from the inside out, Brontë now had bags of designer unmentionables from Agent Provocateur and La Perla.

  The lingerie, she admitted, she rather liked, since she knew Logan would appreciate them. The rest, though—well, it bothered her. But since she didn’t want to get Audrey in trouble, or embarrass Logan, she’d caved in to the pressure and bought it. She’d stopped looking at price tags since that just seemed to slow everything down, and she felt sick at the amount they’d spent on clothes that day.