Investigated Billionaire - The Complete Series Box Set (An Alpha Billionaire Romance)

by Claire Adams

  I chuckle. “You must really be happy about this new position.”

  “It’s not just that,” she says between deep kisses of my mouth and neck. “If things pan out all right, I’ll get another one in six months. Almost double the salary I was making before today.”

  “That’s wonderful-” I tell her.

  “Shut up and fuck me,” she interrupts, grabbing my cock and putting it against her wetness. “I want to feel you inside of me.”

  I slide myself inside and we both gasp lightly with the feeling of it. Until this moment, I hadn’t realized just how long it’s been.

  “Yeah,” she breathes, “just like that.”

  She grabs my tie and pulls me down as she lies back all the way on the hood of the car.

  The slight breeze catches her hair, blowing strands around our faces as the setting sun lends its warmth to the moment.

  She’s biting my lower lip, harder than I’d prefer, but not so hard that I pull away or ask her to stop. Her breasts heave in her silken bra, and I try not to think about Yuri’s assertion that Melissa has implants.

  Of course, I know she has implants, but that doesn’t bother me. It wouldn’t bother me if she didn’t have them. It’s something she wanted to do, and I’d find her sexy either way because her cup size has no bearing on how I feel about her.

  How do I feel about her, though?

  This feels so great, but it’s also strange, foreign. We haven’t really connected, sexually or otherwise, in quite some time, and I’m not sure what to do with this.

  Get the fuck out of your head and just enjoy the moment.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asks.

  This is one of those questions for which there is no actual correct answer, there are answers that sound corny and answers that would quickly put an end to what we’re doing right now.

  “I’m thinking about you,” I tell her, going with the corny option as it does also bear the virtue of being true. “I’m thinking about us.”

  “Yeah?” she asks, breathless. “Wanna know what I’m thinking about?”

  “What’s that?”

  She lifts herself a little, just enough to smack me on the ass, but she doesn’t say anything more. If she’s trying to communicate something to me, I’m totally missing it.

  “Tell me you want me,” she whispers, lifting herself to a near-sitting position.

  “I do want you,” I tell her.

  “Tell me you can’t imagine being without me,” she says.

  “I can’t,” I answer.

  She kisses me on the mouth, her eyes open, staring deep into mine.

  “That’s what I want to hear,” she says.

  With that, she pushes me backward, and I pull out of her as she puts her feet back onto the ground and, leaning forward over the hood of the car, she lifts her skirt a little further.

  The cool breeze chills and dries the wetness on me, but as I put myself back inside her, the contrast of her heat sends shivers through my body.

  “I want you to film me,” she says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Where’s your phone?” she asks. “I want to see what it looks like when you fuck me.”

  Still moving in and out of her, I look around.

  My pants are about five feet behind me, gathering prodigious amounts of dirt from the road as the wind continues its mild assault.

  “Now?” I ask.

  “Now,” she says. “Don’t put yourself back in me until the video’s rolling.”

  It’s almost like I’m with a completely different person, but I’m not complaining. If anything, I’m trying to figure out how I can help her get that additional promotion in six months.

  I pull out of her again and quickly pull my phone out of my pocket.

  As I return to Melissa, one hand is flipping through my apps, trying to find the camera while, with the other, I’m teasing her pussy.

  “Make me come,” she says. “Are you recording yet?”

  “Almost there,” I tell her.

  “You’re talking about the camera, right?” she asks.

  I just laugh.

  Finally, after a protracted search, I find the camera app and start recording watching my hand in the third person now as one finger and then two disappear inside of her.

  “Is it on?” she asks.

  “It’s on,” I tell her.

  “What are you waiting for?” she asks, and I guide my tip to her opening as I pull my fingers from inside of her. “How does it look?” she asks as I glide back in, slowly at first and then completely, watching the screen as if it were a clear window, simply capturing the direction of my eyes.

  “It looks pretty amazing,” I tell her.

  “Give me the phone,” she says. “I want to see both of our faces when I come.”

  It’s a slightly strange request, but who am I to deny it?

  I hand her the phone and, apparently, she’s a lot more skilled with it than I am as she stops the video, switches it to selfie mode and starts it again before another second has passed.

  We’re both looking at the screen now, and I’m trying to avoid the feeling of depersonalization. Being able to see her furrowing brow and the way her breasts are pressing into the hood of the car, barely contained by her bra, is more than enough to keep me in the moment.

  My face is just out of the frame, but that’s okay. I’m more interested in looking at her.

  Her mouth is moving, but I can’t hear any of the words.

  “What are you saying?” I ask.

  She finishes whatever the statement was and turns her head to look back at me, saying, “I was telling you to fuck me harder,” she says. “You couldn’t hear me?”

  “No,” I tell her. “I couldn’t hear you.”

  “Well then,” she says before turning back around again. “Fuck me harder.”

  I grab her hips and watch the screen while a smile crosses her face and she jerks back and forth.

  She never talks like this.

  I’ve never heard her say the words “Fuck me harder.” Hell, I’ve never heard her say the words “Fuck me” at all.

  This is entirely new in almost every way imaginable, and I’m finding it hard to keep from triggering immediately with her overwhelming enthusiasm.

  The sun is going down, but neither of us are cold as she hands the phone back to me, switching the camera off of selfie mode.

  She must feel the shudder moving through me, as she turns her head and says, “Come on my skirt and on my back. I want something more to remember this moment than just the video.”

  I’m not sure whether I’m confused by the way she’s talking or if I’m just delirious from pleasure, but with those words, I can’t hold it back any longer.

  Doing my best to keep the camera steady, I pull back and angle myself, exploding over her back and, yes, on her skirt. The camera is shaking in my hand as it comes out in thick ropes of pent-up desire.

  I lean forward, putting my free hand on the hood beside Melissa and she asks if I’m done.

  “Yeah,” I tell her, more breath than voice.

  She stands up and slips her skirt down below her feet, making sure it doesn’t touch the ground.

  Handing me the fabric, she asks me to clean her off, which I do gladly.

  “All right then,” she says in a businesslike manner, her only clothing at the moment being that silk push up bra of hers. “You’re driving.”

  I find my pants and shake as much of the accrued dirt off of them as I can while, behind me, I can hear the sound of the trunk popping.

  When I turn around, pulling my pants up, Melissa’s almost completely dressed in clothes she must have packed into the trunk of the car.

  “You planned this out pretty well, huh?” I ask.

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, anyway, it’s getting cold. We should get back to the house.”

  “All right,” I answer, more confused than ever at her change in demeanor.

  I get in
the car and we’re almost back to the city before I realize I’m not wearing any underwear. The wind must have caught my boxers.

  Laughing, I say, “So, you’re not going to believe this-”

  “Yeah,” she interrupts, “would you mind if we talk about it later? I’m trying to get this video sent over to my phone and it’s not going through for some reason.”

  “I have location turned off,” I tell her. “It won’t pick up the network unless we’re around Wi-Fi.”

  “Ah,” she says and, after another minute, she hands me my phone, saying, “I think I might have accidentally deleted the video from your phone in the process of sending it to mine.”

  “That’s all right,” I tell her. “I’ve got a pretty good memory.”

  She just sighs and looks out the window.

  “We should stop by the hospital so we can pick up your car,” she says.

  I’m starting to get the feeling that something’s wrong.

  Chapter Five

  Making Friends

  Grace

  Jace was supposed to be here half an hour ago to get me in for my MRI, but his assistant says she hasn’t heard from him.

  At first, I was worried that I’d showed up late, but it looks like I’m off the hook. Still, there are better things I could be doing with my time.

  “Is there any way I could have you give me a call if or when he shows up?” I ask her. “I’ve just got to step outside and make a phone call.”

  “Sure,” Yuri answers. “He won’t be much longer.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her and walk out of the office.

  I’m not feeling that great right now, thanks to my new round of chemo, but I take the stairs. My phone has trouble in elevators.

  I dial the number.

  “Grace?”

  “How’s it going?” I ask.

  “It’s going fine,” Andrew, my contact in Ohio says.

  “You know what I’m talking about,” I tell him. “Are we good?”

  “We’ve hit a bit of a snag,” he says. “It shouldn’t amount to much, but my boss is on one of his down home values kicks and I want to shoot myself.”

  “Is there a reason I’m supposed to care about that?” I ask, taking a break on the first landing and staring down at the Escher-esque view of the remaining stairs to the ground floor.

  “Yeah,” he says, “when he’s in a mood like this, it’s hard to convince him to take on new out-of-state commercial clients. I don’t think he’s really in the frame of mind right now to even consider selling out to anyone.”

  “I’m not asking him to sell out,” I tell him. “I’m not even asking him to change that much of his programming. I just want M.E. on the bottom left of the screen. We can worry about the programming later.”

  “You’re going about this the wrong way,” Andrew says. “If you want a takeover, you’re going to have to come up with a firmer position than that.”

  “Do you know how Romans used to pacify the countries that fell to them?” I ask.

  “How?” he asks.

  “It didn’t always work and God knows there were plenty of insurrections, but the Romans found that if they allowed a conquered people to retain their culture, their religion, everything but the basic allegiance which the fallen group was required to shift toward Rome, taxes and all, that they could keep more of the people from rebelling most of the time,” I tell him. “Haven’t you ever wondered why Greek and Roman gods and goddesses seem to be so interchangeable?”

  “I have never wondered that in my life,” he says.

  “Well, first off, much of Roman culture itself was devised from earlier Greek sources, but the two remained relatively stable in a lot of ways for a pretty significant amount of time because it was enough for Rome, during that time, to conquer. They didn’t care so much that people worshipped different gods or had other forms of entertainment. They got what they wanted: they got more land, more trade, more taxes, more citizens to fight in their wars, and more innovation than they would have if they came in only as a conquering force without any regard to the basic culture of the people they conquered,” I tell him.

  “Of course, one of these days, we’ll want to have every bit of our programming going every second of your broadcast day, but we’re not going to push that until you’ve had a chance to see that we respect what you’re doing. If we didn’t, well, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “That’s a pretty good tactic,” Andrew says.

  “I think so,” I respond, sitting down on the top step of the next flight of stairs. “Not everyone here thinks that’s the way to do this sort of thing, but then again, not too many other people here are ready for Rome to expand, either, so-”

  “That’s not what I meant,” he interrupts. “I mean it’s a good tactic to go off on weird shit like that. I still have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m ready to give part of my check to Caesar. You know what I’m saying?”

  “Hardly,” I answer. “I guess we just click that way. So, you’re going to talk to him?”

  “I’ll test the waters,” he says, “but I really think we’re going to want to wait until after sweeps when he’s good and depressed.”

  “At some point, you’re going to have to stop dangling your feet and grow some balls,” I tell him and hang up the phone.

  I had more to say, but I didn’t want him to hear what’s about to happen.

  What I’m doing right now can’t really be called running — it could barely be called climbing — but as quickly as I can with my tortured muscles and my complete lack of energy, I’m trying to make it at least to the trash can at the top of this flight of stairs.

  A couple of minutes later and I don’t really feel all that much better. I just have a momentary reprieve from the hell that’s going to keep coming back until this shit is out of my system for a few days.

  It’s worse this time.

  Jace warned me that that’s often the way it works, but I didn’t think it was going to happen this quickly, and I certainly didn’t think it was going to hit this hard.

  I stagger back into the doctor’s office and Yuri, no doubt accustomed to seeing people come in the way I’m coming in, walks over to the water cooler and fills a glass, bringing it over to me as I all but collapse into the chair by the office.

  “You know,” she says, standing over me, “With Dr. Churchill being so late to the office, I really don’t think that we’re going to be able to get you in for the MRI at your scheduled time. I would just take you down there myself, but he prefers to sit in with the radiologist while they do the scan.”

  “He seems to have a lot of time on his hands for an oncologist,” I mutter, curious as to whether Yuri knows about his other job, but not wanting to be too blatant about it.

  “This is actually very unusual for him,” she says. “He’s never been late to the office since I’ve worked here. Can I get you anything else?”

  “A mint,” I say, “or a stick of gum would be great — anything to get this rotten taste out of my mouth.”

  “Sure thing,” she says and goes back to her desk. She opens one of the drawers, pulls out a pack of gum and tosses it over to me.

  I take two sticks and chew one while I let the other rest on my tongue, folded in half. When I go to throw the pack back to her, Yuri shakes her head.

  “Keep it,” she says. “I’ve got a whole drawer full.”

  “I guess it should be comforting to know this sort of thing happens quite a bit,” I say, doing my best to smile.

  “You didn’t throw up in a trash can, did you?” she asks.

  I hang my head a little.

  “It’s okay,” she tells me. “Just with the chemo in your system, we need to make sure that maintenance knows they need to wear gloves and dispose of the bag in medical waste instead of the normal trash.”

  “Top of the stairwell,” I tell her. “Sorry about that.”

  “It happens,” Yuri says, picking up her phone,
“trust me.”

  She’s informing whoever that “one of Dr. Churchill’s patients” did blah, blah, blah, and I’m not sure whether I’m having so much trouble concentrating because I’m trying to block out my embarrassment or if it’s a symptom of something.

  Whether that something is the disease or the cure — I don’t know that, either.

  Yuri hangs up the phone and turns back to me. “I’m sorry you’re having a rough go of it,” she says. “Did you drive today?”

  “I took a cab,” I tell her. “I had a feeling I wasn’t going to be the safest driver this morning.”

  “Well,” she says, “I’ll try Dr. Churchill again, but at this point, I think you’re safe to head home if you want to.”

  I tongue the wad of gum in my mouth into my cheek and tell her, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to sit here for a little bit longer. I’m feeling a little weak.”

  “Sure,” Yuri says. “You can stay here as long as you want.”

  I sit and I take deep breaths, trying to get past this feeling I know I’m going to be stuck with for the next four days at the very least.

  Some time goes by and other patients come into the office, but Yuri informs them that the doctor’s not in. She offers to set up an appointment with another oncologist for everyone, myself included, but nobody takes her up on her offer.

  After a while, Yuri prints out a sign saying that the doctor had an emergency and that patients who would like a referral can simply call the number at the bottom to get in with Dr. Hoynes.

  With that, she turns off the main light and closes the office door.

  “I should probably get out of your hair, huh?” I ask.

  “No,” she says, “you’re fine. Whether he shows up or not, I have some things I need to catch up on here, anyway.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “What’s that?” she responds, looking at me over the frames of her black plastic glasses.

  “If this is what oral chemotherapy’s like, is it really that big of an improvement over the IV stuff?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I think any kind of chemo’s going to be really hard on your system. Some people do better with the capsules, some people do better with the IVs, but I don’t think anyone has a fun time with any of it.”