Billionaire's Fake Fiancé (An Alpha Billionaire Romance Love Story) (Billionaires - Book #10)

by Claire Adams

  In addition to the meetings and presentations, Anton had managed to squeeze in visits to two museums, in what he said was an effort to help us understand the essence of Paris. But when the day was over, we were back in the limo and Asher was starting to seem more like his old self—less rigid and businesslike. I had to admit, I was finding it harder and harder to maintain the cold, distant, and disinterested façade I'd had up over the past couple of weeks to maintain that distance I was trying so hard to keep.

  “Wow. It's been a long day,” I remarked.

  “That it has. How are you feeling?”

  I could sense that he was asking for reasons beyond merely small talk. That meant there could be more than just a boring night in my room or sightseeing alone. It was up to me to decide whether I would shut things down immediately and return to my hotel room or take a chance and see what happened. I thought about it for a moment, and then replied.

  “Actually, I'm feeling pretty good. Energized. After all, we're in Paris! It would be a sin to simply go back to the hotel and sleep now.”

  His face lit up with that heart-stopping smile that sent my stomach into flips. A smile that not only reached his lips, but also sparkled in his eyes.

  “Well, let's do something touristy, then? I mean, it's your first time here,” he said. “Right?”

  “It is.”

  “All right. Wine and cheese at a small café overlooking the Seine?”

  I couldn't help but smile. “That sounds fantastic.”

  Two hours later, we were still sitting at a cozy outdoor café, taking in the scenery and people watching.

  “So, what do you think of Paris?” Asher asked.

  “It's everything I'd hoped it would be,” I replied, sipping on my wine. “And this wine is exquisite. I don't think I've ever had better.”

  “I come for the cheese, but I stay for the wine,” Asher joked.

  I couldn't help but chuckle. The warmth of the wine flowing through my veins, relaxing my muscles as it went.

  “The Eiffel Tower makes for a pretty spectacular marker on the horizon, doesn't it?” I said.

  “It does. We can go visit tomorrow if you’d like. I know someone who can get us past the crowds. It's quite a view from up top.”

  “That sounds lovely,” I smiled at him and suddenly found myself staring deeply into Asher's eyes. I saw in them a profound, crackling passion, like the embers of a fire still glowing orange against the darkness of night. And at the sight of that deep, simmering desire, my own desires stirred.

  It was happening again.

  I was at a definite crossroads here: I could either end this right now and go back to my hotel room; or I could stay, order another bottle of wine, and prove to myself that I could maintain a working friendship with my boss.

  “Let's have a little more wine,” I suggested. “The night is still young.”

  “I agree,” replied Asher with a smile.

  He called a waiter over and asked him to bring out a selection of the finest wines in the house, which the young man did, after returning with the manager of the establishment. We perused them and picked out a vintage port.

  “Are you sure, monsieur?” asked the manager, a portly, red-faced man in his 60s. “It is a very, very fine wine, but it also commands a somewhat, how do I say, extreme price tag. There are only a handful of bottles of this left in all of France.”

  “Price is of no concern to me,” Asher assured him with a casual smile. “After all, how can one put a price on a moment such as this?”

  The manager smiled. “Very well, monsieur. Please though, if you would not mind, could I pose with you and your lovely companion for a photograph at the moment of the uncorking of the bottle? I am a wine connoisseur myself, and a bottle like this only gets uncorked once every few years. I wish to have a memento, if you will.”

  Asher smiled. “Of course. And, since wine is your thing, I would like for you to have a glass as well. As can this nice young waiter.”

  Both the waiter and the manager gasped.

  “Monsieur, we could not possibly!” exclaimed the manager.

  “I insist,” Asher said. “Otherwise, we don't uncork the bottle. Deal?”

  “Very well,” the manager agreed, still flabbergasted at this proposition.

  The wine was then uncorked, we posed with the manager for a photo. Then Asher made good on his word and insisted the manager and waiter each have a taste of the wine. I half expected the manager to pass out from the thrill of it.

  “This is . . . It is simply . . . magnifique!” he exclaimed.

  After that, he and the waiter left us to enjoy the remainder of the wine in peace. To be honest, while it was really good wine. I wasn't sure that it was the best I'd ever tasted—but then again, I didn't consider myself to be much of a wine snob. More importantly, I was enjoying Asher's company much more than I was the wine.

  We sat and talked, joked and laughed late into the night, loosening up and becoming more at ease in each other's company as the night drew on and the wine did its work.

  Eventually, the manager came over, wringing his hands apologetically.

  “Monsieur and mademoiselle, while we appreciate your patronage, I am sorry to say that we need to close up now.”

  “That's all right,” Asher said as he finished off the last of his wine. “I need to stretch my legs anyway. I think a stroll through Paris is in order.”

  He handed the manager his credit card to settle the bill. When that was done, we said goodbye and began strolling along the river, taking in the sights and enjoying the atmosphere.

  I slipped my hand through his arm almost instinctively and felt his fingers intertwine with mine as he squeezed my hand gently.

  When we reached a point along our walk that had a breathtaking view of the Eiffel Tower, I stopped to take it in. My gaze journeyed along the skyline until I found myself looking into his eyes. Once more, the electricity of our connection crackled in my veins. His gaze searched mine, as if seeking permission for something.

  “Asher, I . . .” I opened my mouth to admit what I’d been feeling in spite of what I’d said, but I didn’t get the chance to tell him. It was as though he’d already read my heart. Before I could finish, one strong hand enclosed gently around the base of my neck while the other wrapped around my waist. He pulled me in close and placed his lips passionately against mine. The sensation of his hands moving across my back gently, yet with power tingling in those strong arms and hands of his, sent a wave of want through me.

  I could feel his longing, his intense need for control, and it made me go weak at the knees. My breath quickened and my pulse began to race.

  I could hardly breathe.

  He paused from the kiss for a moment and stared down at me.

  “Let's go back to the hotel,” I said, panting and gasping.

  “No,” he replied.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “But . . . but why?”

  “There's a beautiful hotel around the corner, and I don’t want to wait for the 30 minute cab ride back to our hotel is going to take. I want you now. I need you now.”

  I smiled up at him. There was no need to say anything.

  We hurried across the street where Asher stopped at an ATM and withdrew a hefty sum of cash. We then proceeded to a grandiose, old building, shining spectacularly against the night sky with lighting that illuminated the baroque architecture.

  We walked inside, still holding hands, our blood hot and eager in our veins. The reception hall was palatial and reminded me of something straight out of the 17th century, aside from the computers at the desk.

  The concierge at the front desk looked surprised to see us, and I suppose he was justified in that reaction, given the nature of the establishment and the late hour.

  “Good evening,” Asher greeted him in English as we approached the desk.

  “Mademoiselle, monsieur. Is there something I can assist you with? The hour is very late.”
/>   “We're not guests—not yet, anyway,” Asher said.

  “Well, I'm afraid that it would be impossible. We are—”

  “Nothing is impossible,” Asher interrupted as he opened his coat, withdrew a block of euros, and set them down on the counter in front of the concierge.

  The man's eyes widened as he glanced at the stack of money in front of him.

  “Er, yes, yes . . . You are correct monsieur. Nothing at all is impossible! Will you be wanting the presidential suite, then?”

  “You read my mind,” Asher responded with a smile and took a business card from his coat pocket. “All my info is on there,” he said. “You can fill out whatever forms you need when you get back downstairs. For now, just get us to the room—oh, and send a bottle of champagne up, please.”

  “Certainly, monsieur. I will take you there at once. Please, please, follow me.”

  We followed him up the great, curved stairway hand in hand. He led us to a room with two ornate, gilded doors which he threw open with dramatic flair, revealing a room that looked as if it could have been that of the Sun King himself.

  “The presidential suite!” he announced. “While it is decorated with old world charm, you will find that it has all of the 21st century amenities you would need. There is a hot tub in the bathroom, and a media center—”

  “I’m sure it will do nicely,” Asher said cutting his speech short. “We'll buzz you if we need any help. Right now, though, we need to be alone.”

  “Understood, monsieur,” the concierge replied with a hint of a knowing smile.

  He handed us the keys and then hurried back downstairs.

  We stepped inside, closed the ornate doors behind us, and immediately resumed kissing. Once more, the passion began to flow like water through a broken dam. We began to stumble toward the bed as we kissed—but then I had a different idea. I knew that Asher craved control, and I had to see what would happen if he was denied that control.

  I pulled back and pushed him away from me.

  “What . . . what's wrong?” he stammered, breathing heavily.

  His arousal was easily seen through his pants—he was ready to go.

  “I'm going to the bathroom to freshen up,” I said. “You wait outside.”

  “Wait?! No!”

  “Do you want this or not?” I asked, keeping my tone calm and even.

  “I . . . Oh, God, I do. Yes.”

  “Then you'll do what I say,” I replied matter-of-factly. “And, I'm telling you to wait here until I'm ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he agreed, although I could see that was unhappy about it.

  That was good. I wasn't about to let him have complete control over me. I sashayed into the bathroom, shifting my hips as seductively as I could. I could feel his hungry eyes devouring every step I took—undressing me, violating me. It made my blood pump with a beautiful heat.

  I stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Once inside, I nearly gasped at the opulence of the bathroom. It was huge—the size of a living room, and all the fittings were gold. The soaring ceiling was, like the main room, painted with classical figures by what appeared to be an old master in a past century. A gilded mirror made the place look even more spacious.

  In the center, sunk to floor level, was the hot tub. I walked over the cool marble floor, kicking off my shoes and removing my dress and underwear. I turned on the hot tub, and smiled as the bubbles started to flow. I dipped my toes into the water. It was cool, but warming up quickly.

  “Asher!” I called out.

  “Can I come in now?”

  “No. But make sure they bring the champagne up.”

  “As you wish.”

  He was disappointed, but he would soon discover that his wait would have been worth it.

  Once the water had heated up to a suitable temperature, I slipped into it and had a seat, relishing in the simple joy of the bubbles, jets, and hot water.

  Arousal was still coursing through me, and I couldn't wait any longer, no matter how much I wanted to tease him with anticipation.

  “Asher!”

  “Yes?”

  “Is the champagne here?”

  “It is.”

  “Bring it in, then.”

  He opened the door and sauntered in, carrying the bottle of champagne in a steel ice bucket. He saw me, nude, lounging in the frothy water of the hot tub and stopped dead in his tracks.

  “My God,” he exclaimed, half under his breath.

  “Come on in,” I said.

  He didn't waste time. He practically ripped what remained of his suit off his body in his rush to get undressed. I watched, utterly captivated, as each item of clothing came off. I'd seen his body before, of course, but only once and not from a point of view that I could fully enjoy it.

  Watching him, it was almost as if it was being revealed to me for the first time. I allowed my eyes to rove over his carved figure, with its rippling muscles and perfectly formed . . . everything. Every single muscle on his body had been worked on, refined, polished, as if by a master sculptor. All that obsessive dedication and discipline in the gym had certainly paid off.

  Eventually, he stood nude before me, his broad chest rising up and down with the deep, almost harsh breaths he was drawing in, like a wild animal that had just run down its kill. Lust was fueling his gaze. He wanted me with an almost primitive hunger, a hunger that drove fiery blood through every one of his extremities—especially one incredibly hard, pulsating extremity—with every beat of his heart.

  “What are you waiting for?” I asked.

  He grabbed the champagne bottle and stepped into the water, doing his best to maintain his composure. But I could see how wildly his heart was pumping, how desperately he wanted me. There was no hiding the crazed beast within, writhing madly beneath that exterior of physical perfection.

  He pushed through the water toward me, but I held up a hand to stop him.

  “Whoa, cowboy. How about some bubbly first?”

  He chuckled, although I could see the need in his eyes, ravenous as any wolf.

  “Very well,” he said with a tilt of his head.

  “Don't shoot the cork at the ceiling. It's a work of art.”

  He looked up and smiled.

  “True.”

  He aimed the bottle at one of the towels hanging on the rack and popped the cork.

  “Wonderful,” I said, and I stood up, revealing my entire body to him from the thighs up. I walked through the water, and he stood up, reaching for my breasts, but I pushed his hands away and took the bottle from him.

  “Who said you could touch?” I giggled playfully as I drank a swig of champagne.

  “Want some?”

  “There's only one thing I want right now,” he said hoarsely, his eyes devouring my body.

  “Show me how much you want it,” I purred as I set the bottle down.

  He stood, stepped over to me, and cupped one of my breasts in his hand as he gazed into my eyes. He kissed me suddenly, madly, and passionately. While one hand massaged my breast, the other slipped down my lower back to both grab my ass and pull me in closer to him.

  As we kissed wildly, I grew more and more aroused. Heat was building between my legs, and a slick wetness was growing. I felt his hand move down from my breast, slowly, deliberately moving further and further down, caressing my body as he continued to kiss me.

  A gentle brush of the inner thigh—just enough to cause me to jump with pleasure, but only for a split second as he moved it away to the outside of my leg. His other hand, meanwhile, was softly caressing my back. He was much gentler and slower than he had been the last time.

  I, meanwhile, was running my fingertips over his gloriously hard, sculpted muscles, listening to him gasp with pleasure at each touch of my fingertips as he kissed me.

  Again, he brushed my inner thigh ever so quickly, and a shiver of pleasure rushed through my body. He was teasing me, and it was working. A furious, unquenchable hunger was taking
over.

  His fingers were digging into my flesh, and his manhood, hard as steel, pressed with an almost explosive force against me.

  Still, I refused to relinquish control.

  I detached myself from our passionate kissing and grabbed a fistful of his hair. He reached up to grab my arm, but quickly, I shot out a hand and caught his wrist, preventing him from grabbing me.

  “No,” I said. “You're going to do something for me first.”

  And then, I sat on the edge of the tub and pulled his face down, still gripping his hair as I did. I spread my legs open for him, and felt the tightly-clenched muscles of his arm grow loose in my hand as his head moved towards the opening between my thighs.

  With a sudden surge of strength, however, he yanked his arm out of my grasp, and then put both of his hands around my waist, almost forcefully.

  It appeared that he wasn't willing to relinquish all aspects of control, after all.

  Then, with a boost of primal strength, he lifted me up in the air, holding me aloft as if I were nothing but a child. The raw power in those heavy, muscular arms made my pulse race even faster. This was a true beast of a man, a wild savage beneath that cultured exterior.

  Then he opened my legs and pulled them over his broad, muscle-knotted shoulders, so that his face was right up against my hot, wet, waiting opening. He kept me balanced there as he started to use his tongue, finding the exact center of sensation in but an instant.

  With his powerful arms cradling me and stabilizing me, he began to lick rhythmically and steadily, building up wave after wave of sheer pleasure. I moaned and gasped as the rushes of pleasure became bursts of ecstasy, and then sheer, body-shuddering elation as an orgasm started to build with the patient yet vigorous action of his tongue.

  As I stared up at the magnificent artwork splayed across the high ceiling above, it started: the first orgasm of the night.

  The painting began to swirl, the figures coming alive with the intensity of the orgasm. I cried out in utter ecstasy, my whole body shuddering with a beautiful violence. And below me, still supporting me, he looked up, panting, gasping, and smiling with smug pleasure.

  “That's just the first of the evening,” he said. “But the rest are going to be on my terms, Lilah—my terms.”