Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance Boxed Set (10 Book Bundle)

by Selena Kitt

  “You have a client in Paris?” I asked, arching my brows.

  “Angel, I have clients all over the world.”

  Girlfriends?

  He hit me with a roguish grin. “She happens to be one of my favorites.”

  She? “What does she look like?” Wait! Why was I asking such an inane question? What the hell did it matter?

  Jaime twisted his mouth into a sly smile. “She’s as hot as they come…”

  Cringe.

  “And gay.” He smirked.

  Bastard. He knew how to get to me.

  He flicked a crumb of my croissant off my lips. “What are you planning to wear today?”

  “Black leggings and an oversized heavy cashmere sweater.” I wanted to be comfortable, but the sweats I’d picked out earlier were way too casual for running around Paris.

  “Sounds perfect, Matchy-matchy girl.”

  Polishing off his croissant, he stood up and strode back to my suitcase. Now what? One by one, he cherry-picked through my scanty lace bras and bikinis. A saucy smile played on his face as he examined each and every piece of the sexy lingerie. Mortification shot through me.

  “What are doing?” My voice was shrill.

  “What does it look like? I’m choosing your underwear.”

  “No way.” This was going too far. I leaped up from my chair and stomped over to him. I snatched the matching leopard-print bra and thong out of his hands and flung them back into my suitcase.

  “Come on, Gloria. Call it research. I’m getting a really good feel for the Gloria’s Secret line…and for the woman behind it.”

  Wrinkling my nose, I looked him straight in the eyes. “And what does your research tell you about me?”

  He nuzzled my sensitive neck. The sensation forced my head to arch and my eyelids to lower. I felt my robe sliding off my shoulders.

  “Well, Mr. Zander, tell me.” My body was heating up.

  He slipped off my robe and purred in my ear. “That you’re dripping with desire.”

  My breath hitched. He was right! I wanted him! Again!

  “And I’m going to prove my theory.”

  In one swift move, he scooped me up in his arms and tossed me onto the bed. Disrobing himself, he crashed upon me with all his weight, and in an instant, his cock was pounding inside me. Our breathing was haggard. My climax was building with the brutality and speed of an avalanche. I couldn’t believe how fast he could make me come. With one final thrust, he spurted into me as I juddered around him.

  “Holy fuck!” we moaned in unison.

  Our sweat-slicked, heaving bodies stayed still in that position for several long minutes, allowing our breathing to calm down.

  “Paris awaits us, angel,” Jaime said brightly after smacking my lips with a kiss.

  “Have you decided on what undies I should wear?” I asked coyly, threading my fingers through his tousled hair.

  “Yeah…none.”

  My jaw slackened.

  “I want to imagine you just the way you are all day long.”

  The feeling was mutual. My eyes never strayed from his gorgeous body, all golden cream and taut planes and angles, as he slipped on his faded jeans and tucked in his cock. His glorious, just-fucked cock.

  * * * *

  We spent the day leisurely meandering through Paris, staying close to the Left Bank. Neither of us wanted to risk the chance of running into Victor, who never strayed from the Right Bank and would likely take his business meeting at The Intercontinental. The weather, like in New York, was surprisingly mild for this time of year. Global warming, I supposed. I couldn’t complain, however, about the pleasant temperature and sunny sky.

  We took in several of the famous Rive Gauche monuments—The Panthéon, The Sorbonne, Notre Dame to name a few. To be honest, I had never really gone sightseeing in Paris before. My trips, always rushed, were strictly for business—be it to catch a fashion show, explore new trends, or visit the Champs-Elysées store. Having this god-like tour guide beside me added to both the beauty and my enjoyment of the City of Light. As we strolled along the Seine, arm in arm, en route to The Louvre, I couldn’t help noticing how many female heads he turned. I stole a glance at his face and could understand why. His profile with its strong dimpled chin, manly straight nose, and thick-lashed eyes was gorgeous. He still hadn’t shaven—the thicker than usual layer of stubble making him even sexier. My heart fluttered. No man had ever had this effect on me. He had made me fall apart. And now, I was falling for him. In just one week, this man had captured me, both physically and emotionally. He was in my bloodstream, bringing me to new levels of sensuality and self-awareness I’d never known. Unable to get enough of him, I was worried about working with him professionally. The uncertainty of the future and the challenges ahead sent a shiver skittering down my spine. I had to admit—I was afraid of getting hurt, and the threat that both Victor and Vivien posed didn’t help. I wished I could share everything with Madame Paulette. She’d know what to do. Her last words to me swirled around in my head. “It eez better to have loved…” I still wasn’t sure what I felt. Just enjoy the moment, Gloria, I told myself, taking a deep breath as we approached the majestic Louvre.

  * * * *

  Experiencing The Louvre with Jaime was something else and not just because every female tourist from eighteen to eighty had eyes for him as if he were some rare Greek statue. As we glided from one gallery of paintings to another, Jaime, who was truly more beautiful than any of the museum’s god-like male sculptures, came alive like I’d never seen before. His blue eyes glistened, and his voice was animated as he explained the significance and details of each masterpiece.

  “How do you know so much about art?” I asked him, in awe of his knowledge. It actually turned me on, but I wasn’t going to share that with him.

  “My father.” His voice was coated with melancholy. “Though he never fulfilled his dream of coming to Paris, he took me to museums in Los Angeles and had tons of art books that he shared with me. He would play games with me—make me guess the name of a painter or race with him to find a particular painting. Or show me tricks.”

  “What kind of tricks?” I asked as we stood before the Mona Lisa.

  “Look at the Mona Lisa’s eyes. They’ll follow yours.”

  I gazed at the painting and shifted my eyes to the right. Sure enough, the iconic beauty’s eyes followed mine. “Wow! That’s incredible!”

  We continued to study the hypnotic painting.

  “Who were your father’s favorite painters?” I asked.

  Jaime smiled wistfully. “He loved so many, but his favorite was Van Gogh.”

  “Why Van Gogh?”

  I think he connected to his tortured life…his inner demons.”

  The paintings I’d seen in both his office space and hotel suite flashed into my head. They had actually reminded me a lot of Van Gogh’s work, with their vivid colors and turbulent strokes.

  Seeking confirmation, I queried, “Those paintings in your office and at the hotel…did your father paint them?”

  Jaime’s smile widened. Pride washed over his face. “Yes. I’m glad you noticed them. When he died, I secretly gathered all his paintings and hid them in storage until I could display them. One day, when I have time, I’m going to exhibit them. I want my father to have the glory he deserved.”

  “They’re pretty amazing.”

  “You’re pretty amazing, Ms. Long.”

  Gripping my shoulders, he spun me around and crushed his beautifully etched lips onto mine with a bruising, passionate kiss. A moan escaped my throat as he deepened the kiss with his velvety tongue. Oh, God, he tasted divine! Our tongues danced, swirling together in figure eights. Tingles shot down my body, from my head to my toes. I swear if we weren’t in a public place, I would have let this masterpiece of a man fuck me right here and now and let the Mona Lisa watch with her magic eyes.

  * * * *

  After a late lunch at a nearby café and another long, delicious tongue-driven
kiss, Jaime and I went our separate ways. He to visit that client, who I still didn’t trust, and I to visit the Gloria’s Secret store on the busy Champs-Elysées.

  I was happy to see that our first Paris store was bustling with customers. I took special satisfaction in knowing that even Parisian women were gobbling up our reasonably priced American-made lingerie when they had the most exquisite underwear in the world at their fingertips. I found Sandrine quickly. Dressed in head to toe black with the exception of a colorful silk scarf knotted around her neck, the slim, spiky-haired woman epitomized French chic. She was showing a young attractive sales girl how to re-stack bikinis and bras after they had been mussed up by customers. I found it so annoying that customers were often such slobs, with no sympathy for the low-paid, hard-working sales assistants who had to clean up after their damage.

  Sandrine spotted me immediately and ran over to me with open arms. We exchanged a typically French double cheek embrace.

  “Ça va?” she asked.

  “Ça va bien.” I replied. Merci beaucoup for helping me with Madame Paulette’s burial.

  “Pas de problème. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Like many Europeans, Sandrine spoke perfect English though she liked to throw in a little French. I, in turn, could conduct a conversation with her in French, thanks to Madame Paulette’s tutelage.

  Sandrine was one of my favorite and most respected store managers. She was bright, organized, and always one step ahead. She ran the store with both a smile and an iron fist. Recently, at the age of thirty-two, she had become engaged to a successful and handsome doctor.

  “Do you have a little time? I’d love to take you out for a drink to thank you for helping me and to celebrate your engagement.”

  “For you, I always have zee time,” she said brightly.

  We ended up going to a lively café that was a few doors down from the store. Over champagne, we caught up on business and then moved on to personal stuff. She was getting married in April—it was going to be a big Jewish wedding at her family’s country home in Provence.

  “My maman eez driving me crazy!” she sighed. “Everything she loves, I detest. Can you imagine… she wants jars of butterflies on every table that zee guests will set free after we say our vows!”

  I laughed lightly. “At least you have a mother who cares about you,” I countered. A wistful expression fell over me. Sandrine was one of the few people, other than Kevin and Madame Paulette, who knew about my crack whore mother.

  She twitched a guilty smile. “You’re right. She means well.” She sipped her champagne. “I hope you will come.”

  I let her know I wouldn’t miss it for the world. A big smile spread across her face.

  “What about you, Gloria? Eez there anyone new in your life?”

  Blushing, I shook my head and said, “Not really.”

  “Gloria, I don’t believe you. Your face gives eet away. Spill zee beans as you Americans say.”

  Draining my champagne, I broke down and told her all about Jaime—including the complications with Victor and Vivien, who she openly despised.

  “Mon dieu! This eez heavy. But I would have given my tongue to zee cat to see Vivien’s expression when she saw you and Jaime kissing at zee restaurant. La putain!”

  I couldn’t stop laughing. She’d just called Vivien a whore! Like Kevin, Sandrine could be so brutally honest. And a bit wicked. That’s why I adored her.

  “So what does Monsieur Zahn-deur look like?”

  The way she breathily said his name with her French accent sent me over the moon. I described Jaime to her, from head to foot, as if we were a painting in The Louvre. The words came so easy. In my mind, he was a work of art.

  “He sounds like a hottie!”

  I giggled. Usually the word “hottie” made me cringe, but the way she said it—HAH-tee—was charming. My cheeks heated.

  My delightful French friend and colleague took a sip of her champagne. “Gloria, are you in love with him?”

  “I’ve only known him for a week.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  A loud sigh escaped my lungs.

  “Ah, Gloria, you are! You are! Mazel tov!”

  I remembered Madame Paulette once telling me that sometimes l’amour slinks up to you like a cat; other times it attacks you like a lion. Jaime Zander was a sexy beast who had all but consumed me. I could no longer deny my feelings. Yes, I was hopelessly, helplessly head over heals in love with him.

  My heart began to roar at the very thought of him touching me. Longing and lust surged through my body. I grasped my friend’s French manicured hand and murmured, “Sandrine, what should I do?”

  “It eez simple. Don’t let him go.”

  I smiled back. It never ceased to amaze me how wise French women were.

  “But don’t tell him you love him until he tells eet to you.” More words of wisdom.

  The check came. As we hugged good-bye, my sage friend whispered into my ear, “I’ll see the future Monsieur and Madame Zahn-deur at my wedding.”

  * * * *

  When I got back to our hotel room, three dozen long-stemmed red roses, arranged in three tall crystal vases, awaited me. My heart melted. Mr. Zander was true to his word and a romantic.

  I dipped my nose into one of the bouquets and inhaled deeply. The scent was divine. Intoxicating just like him.

  “Hey.”

  At the sound of his voice, I straightened up and caught sight of him stepping out of the bathroom. He was wearing nothing but a white towel wrapped around his hips. My eyes zeroed in on the deep “V” that emanated from it and then traveled up over his washboard abs and toned pecs. My gaze met his, and my breathing hitched.

  “They’re beautiful!”

  “My biceps?”

  Conceited fuck! I scrunched my nose.

  “No, the roses.”

  “Thanks.” He cocked a bashful smile as though the flowers were an embarrassing afterthought. Our eyes stayed locked on one another. Silence. My sex was throbbing, my heart pounding. I wanted to be lost in him. Neither of us moved. The seconds felt like hours.

  “Get over here, you,” he said at last, and in a heartbeat, I was in his arms. We were at each other as if an apocalypse was dawning. Kissing, groping, stroking, licking. He lifted my sweater over my head, unable to get it off fast enough. Panting, I kicked off my ballet flats and said good-bye to my leggings. The towel fell off his torso, and we were fused together, flesh to flesh. With his mouth locked on mine, he walked me backward until I was sandwiched between him and a wall.

  “Wrap your legs around me, angel,” he said, lifting me off my feet.

  Our eyes level, I did as he asked, looping my long legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. He gripped my ass to support me. Between my thighs, I felt his hot cock line up with my opening. “Gloria, you don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to have you like this.”

  “Shut up and fuck me.” I couldn’t believe my own words. I was begging for him.

  “I’m going to give it to you hard.”

  Oh, yes!

  “Promise me you’ll scream my name like it’s the only word you know.”

  “Girl Scout’s honor! I gasped even though I’d never been one.

  Satisfied, he slammed into me with a powerful thrust pushing me into the wall with pressure of his body. We both cried out with carnal pleasure. As he got into a rhythm, he latched his hungry lips back onto mine, and I moved my hands to his face, cupping it in my palms. Our kiss deepened, our tongues locking together in an erotic dance. We moaned and groaned into each other’s mouths.

  I squeezed my legs tighter around him as he picked up his pace. My breasts skimmed his chest, and my clit was pressed tight against his pubic bone, making the sensation of every deep thrust so much more intense. I was a sweaty, whimpering bundle of bliss on the verge of a major orgasm.

  “Angel, I can’t fucking get enough of you,” he breathed against my mouth.

  And I couldn’t get en
ough of him. The words, “I love you” were on the tip of my tongue but I bit down on it to hold them in. Sandrine was right. He had to say them first. I drank in his sexy, heated face, longing for those three little words to form on his lips.

  “Do I feel good?” he asked instead, his breathing harsh.

  “Yes!” I cried. I was losing all control, a breath away from detonating.

  “Good. I’m going to give you what you want.” He rewarded with me with a squeeze of my clit, and that’s all it took. I screamed his name for the first time over and over as a booming explosion of fireworks sprayed my core. He grinded into me and came hard, shouting my name. I could feel his hot release pouring down my already drenched thighs. He rested his glistening forehead on mine, our heated breaths mingling. I stroked his damp hair.

  “Fuck, Gloria. That was even better than I imagined,” he said hoarsely.

  Confession: Wall banging was something I’d fantasized about ever since he’d mentioned it in his conference room. It’d exceeded my expectations too. It was like a thrill ride—the kind you had to hold on to tightly or you might fall off. The experience was in a word: mind-blowing.

  His breathing almost back to normal, he transferred my limp, glistening body into his arms and licked his upper lip. “I’m not done with you, Ms. Long.”

  This man was insatiable. Though spent, I wasn’t done with him either. I wanted more. As he carried me away, the wildfire inside me burnt out of control, consuming every part of me. Sandrine was right. Even if he hadn’t said the three magic words, I couldn’t let him go.