Dating the Billionaire: A Standalone Romantic Comedy

by Poppy Dunne

  I’m already warming up to another climax when I position him properly and slide him inside me. Jack kisses my neck, buries his head between my breasts. Our breaths coming in unison, I start to ride him, slowly. My pussy grips him, wanting to keep him inside. Still, I take my time, even though his hands on my shoulders urge me to sink down. Two can play this game, Billionaire McGee. His fingers are digging into my shoulder blades, and it doesn’t feel bad at all. I take just the first couple of inches inside, and then come back up. Again and again, excruciatingly slowly. Knowing I have him right where I want him, that it’s taking every bit of his self control not to thrust up into me and take charge, it’s almost as good as his cock inside of me. A close second.

  After I’ve teased and tortured him enough, I move faster, finally taking him all the way inside, sitting firmly in his lap now. I throw my head back, luxuriating in the perfect fit of him.

  “That’s right.” Jack teases my nipple again, puts it between his teeth. “Fuck me.”

  I do, feeling the tight, coiling sensation of the orgasm building up inside of me again. I can’t believe I’m this ready, but then again, I’ve never experienced anything like this before. I have to shove the coffee table away, because I’m terrified I’ll ride Jack so hard that he’ll knock himself out. He chuckles, squeezing my waist as he starts to thrust inside of me.

  “Very thoughtful.”

  “I’m like that,” I pant, closing my eyes as the orgasm swells the deeper he fucks me. He’s as deep inside of me as he can go, and I feel every inch of him—I love it. He grabs me by the hair and pulls my mouth down to meet his. He holds my face close to his as he fucks me, faster and harder, alternating between grunts and telling me how good I feel. I kiss him as the orgasm crests, as I whimper. The more excited I get, the more he won’t let me go. I whisper his name against his lips over and over again, and his eyes squeeze shut. He calls my name as he comes, my name getting lost in a moan of pleasure. His hips jerk as he spends inside of me, and then my own orgasm is fast behind his. My whole body trembles as we fall backwards onto the floor, limbs twined around each other.

  Last time was good. This time was sensational. How can it possibly get better than this?

  Wouldn’t I love to find out?

  “I have another rule,” Jack whispers, once our hearts have stopped beating in such frenzied unison. I nestle against his chest, trailing a hand down his sculpted pecs, rock hard abs—being a billionaire gets you access to great personal trainers, apparently.

  “Mmm? What’s that?”

  “Let’s forget your rules. At least, for the weekend.” He looks up at me, one eyebrow raised in a challenge. “Think you can live like that?”

  A life without rules? For a moment, I freeze in panic. I’ve already broken so many of them…if I break too many more, I might freak out. It would be like the bad old days all over again.

  But…I can’t remember having this much fun.

  It’s not the way I do things. But if I did everything exactly the way I was supposed to, this wouldn’t be happening right now. But still…my rules are kind of, well, me. And I’m not a kid anymore; I can handle myself if things start to lose control. Can’t I? I bite my lip. I should think of this experiment like programming something. You need to test out a few features, to make sure you’re rid of all the bugs.

  Or something like that. I talk the computer speak, as you can see.

  “All right. It’s on.”

  Have I ever been this happy before? I don’t think I have. I can’t tell how much that delights me…and how much it worries me.

  9

  Jack

  I haven’t woken up in a New York borough that wasn’t Manhattan in eight years. When I finally swim back to consciousness, sunlight is streaming through the window. I blink, then smile as the scent of coffee wafts in to meet me. Besides a blowjob, is there any better way to be woken up?

  Come to think of it, I wonder if said blowjob could be in the cards. Already, my favorite downstairs neighbor is waking up as well, just thinking about Dahlia. Her creamy skin, her thick, soft hair, her lips, her—

  “I should warn you, I don’t think seeing you naked would be a good idea,” says a female voice that absolutely does not belong to Dahlia Rossi. I fling the sheets back over myself fast, sit up, and come face to face with a tiny blonde woman holding a steaming cup of coffee. She tilts her head to the side, almost like a bird. A blonde bird with a lot of eyeliner who likes to stay caffeinated, and also we should probably introduce ourselves, because she’s freaking me out.

  “Are you playing the role of Dahlia this morning?” Fuck me, I can’t think of anything else to say. The teacup blonde sighs and shakes her head.

  “Sadly, no. There are no understudies in life.” She sips the coffee, and smacks her lips. “Mmm. Nasty. Dahlia has terrible taste in coffee, but she’s a great cook.” Sighing, she turns on her heel—she’s barefoot—and pads out of the room. I fish around for my pants, zip up, discover my shirt is AWOL, and follow the woman into the kitchen.

  Dahlia’s standing by the stove, frying something that smells like butter and heaven. She’s wearing my button up, the sleeves swallowing her wrists enough that she had to roll them up. The sleeves, I mean. Wrist rolling sounds painful.

  God, on the kitchen table a mountain of food awaits. Buttery crepes smothered under mascarpone, blueberries dolloped on top. Bacon, crisped to perfection, right beside some honest to God roasted home potatoes.

  Either I slept way later than I thought I had, or this woman cooks like a ninja.

  Tiny Blonde sips her coffee, still purring over its nastiness. She smiles at me. “Shirtless breakfast is how we used to do it in Hawaii.”

  “Oh!” Dahlia turns nearly into me, holding a sizzling pan. It looks like caramelized onions and other goodness. “Sorry, I was going to wake you when everything was ready.”

  “This is enough to feed all of Queens, and maybe half of the Bronx while you’re at it.” I snatch a piece of bacon, and eat. I think I’m about to set up a temple to worship the bacon gods, because holy hell is this good. This woman fucks like a goddess and cooks like a goddess’s celestial chef. What does Dahlia Rossi do that isn’t fucking perfect?

  “I think you are having mind sex right now,” Tiny Blonde says with a sage nod. “If I’d known, I would not have interrupted the vibrations.”

  “I’m Jack. You are?” I ask the voyeuristic girl. Dahlia puts the pan down and rubs her eyes; I think she’s going to chase her crepes down with an Aleve.

  “Sorry, this is Chelsea. I forgot it was best friend brunch day. I should’ve texted you, Chels. I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. The stove tells me that this was an area of much coital rejoicing last night. The stove never lies.” Another sip. “Mmm. Still nasty.”

  I have never been this horny and this confused simultaneously.

  “Are you a, er, shaman of some kind?” Gonna keep trying to get this conversation train back on track. It’ll probably keep exploding in an industrial fire, but I’ll try.

  “No.” She smiles like the Cheshire Cat. “I’m a children’s editor at Harper Collins.”

  I can’t tell whether this makes utter sense or I’m terrified.

  “I just read a manuscript for a picture book. It’s about a lonely tree in the forest, sad because all his friends have been chopped down. One day, a small child plants a seed beside him. The tree knows it will be decades before the seed becomes a full grown tree to appease his loneliness. But he will wait. He will wait through the loneliness and ennui.” She smiles again, her eyes half-lidded. “It’s delightful.”

  There is nothing to say to that. All I can do is eat some breakfast and let the nightmares swallow me whole.

  “Chels, I’m gonna change and give Jack his shirt back. Hang here a sec,” Dahlia says, trying not to laugh. Chelsea eats a blueberry.

  “There is nowhere to physically hang, but I shall wait.” She nods. “I shall.”

 
“That’s your best friend?” I ask Dahlia when we get back into the bedroom. She unbuttons and flings my shirt off, standing there fully naked except for a pair of lace panties. God, between the creepy tree story, the bacon, and a pair of fabulous naked tits flashed in my face, this is the second weirdest morning I’ve ever had. The first one was in freshman year, during initiation into the Chess and Cheese club.

  We don’t talk about Chess and Cheese club.

  “Chelsea and I met when I tried to fix her up with someone in college. He came back from the date telling me he was moving to Tibet. I’ve stopped trying to set her up, but she’s my favorite human.” Dahlia snaps into a bra, pulls on a tank top and shimmies into a skirt while I finish dressing. “Sorry. I did forget about brunch. Is it too weird now?”

  I pull her against me and kiss her lips. She responds with a slight groan, and responds enthusiastically. Her tongue flicks against mine. She tastes like syrup and blueberries. She’s like a sexy waffle that way.

  Bad image, but good kiss. When we pull apart, I brush back her hair and whisper in her ear.

  “After we finish breakfast with Chelsea, let me take you somewhere.”

  “Where did you have in mind?” She flutters her eyelashes, twining her hands around my neck. “Paris? St. Tropez?”

  “The Hudson River.”

  “That is…not what I was expecting, but all right.” She grabs her phone off the bed and starts reading emails quickly. Her brow creases. “But first I need to send out the daily checklist to my clients. One of them, this really sweet librarian, had a date last night, and…”

  “What if you didn’t send the checklist today?”

  I can tell that’s comparable to saying to the Pope ‘what if you weren’t Catholic?’ Dahlia’s jaw drops. She presses forward against me, almost like she’s fainting at the idea. Selfishly, that gives me an opportunity to feel her breasts again. I’m only human, after all.

  “Right. Is this another ‘let’s live by my rules’ thing?” She looks quizzical. “That’ll be hard for me.”

  “But worth it. You need to explore a little.” I take the phone and toss it back onto the bed. “Let them take a chance as well.”

  She bites her bottom lip. I’m tempting her. Good, good. Come to the side of sex and good times and not worrying about tomorrow. At least, not worrying too much.

  “I hope there is no furtive shagging going on when all this breakfast needs to be eaten,” Chelsea calls. That one’s gonna take some getting used to, but I think I can manage it. Dahlia bites her thumbnail lightly…then nods.

  “All right. Let’s play by your rules for a change.” She flashes me a furtive, sexy look and walks back into the living room.

  This is going to be the greatest brunch of my life. Things I never thought I’d say for six hundred, Alex.

  “You’re a woman of many talents,” I tell Dahlia when we get out of my car. The driver nods and drives away, leaving us to walk together to the edge of the pier. “You’re a born chef.”

  “Dad’s stereotypically Italian in a lot of ways. All he wanted was a wife who could cook like his mother.” Dahlia throws up her hands with a small smile. “Instead, he got a lady who can mix a hell of a cocktail but could barely boil water for pasta. So he had to pass on the great family traditions to his daughters. I’m not nearly the cook my sister Rose is. She’s actually a chef at one of the big hotels in Chicago.”

  “The Rossi girls are impressive.” Then I blink. “Your sister’s name is Rose Rossi?”

  “Mom was perpetually big into flowers and specifically high on painkillers at the time of Rosie’s birth,” Dahlia drawls. She notes the surprise awaiting us at the end of the dock, and blinks. “You’re up for an adventurous morning, aren’t you?”

  “You’ve never been kayaking before?” I feel her fingers intertwine with mine, only for a second. Christ, that alone is electricity, soft and sexy enough to get me hard. She pulls me along after her, a smile tugging at her mouth. My assistant, waiting beside the kayak with paddles and neon orange life vests, is watching this with amusement.

  “Once, when I was at camp, Lexi Gallagher tipped the boat over, and I got trapped underwater for a minute before I could get free.” She shudders a little. Aw, shit. Maybe this isn’t a great idea. “But I always say you need to get back on the horse. Or kayak. Or horse-shaped kayak.” She slides into the vest and, with my help, slips down into the kayak. “All right, paddle time.” She reaches up for one, expectant.

  This woman is sensational. I get into the front, and we start paddling, leaving my waving assistant behind. It’s rare to see the New York skyline from such an admittedly low angle. I like it, and I think Dahlia does as well. Once she gets used to the boat, that is.

  “Are we going around the whole island?” she calls, splashing me a bit with the paddle. “Because that’s one way to build up muscle in my arms.”

  “We only have to paddle as far as that boat.” I grin, pointing ahead to a yacht on the horizon.

  Yeah. That’s my yacht. Like I said, it does not hurt to be me sometimes. Dahlia gapes appropriately, then wrinkles her nose. She can tell I’m doing all this to impress her. It’s like the old cave man days, where man slaughters wooly mammoth, brings it back to the camp site, then has the female appreciate him as he hires a private chef to sauté the mammoth to the right degree of pinkness.

  My understanding of anthropology is flawless.

  The wind whistles over the river as we kayak our way to the yacht’s ladder. Two of my staff are waiting to help us up as we arrive. Dahlia goes first while I help keep the boat steady, and I follow. Ladies first, after all. Besides, I get a chance to scope out her fantastic ass as they help her climb the rungs.

  Only a humble, human billionaire, folks. Remember that.

  “Where are we going?” Dahlia laughs when we’re aboard safely. The summer wind riffles through her hair, and the sun sneaks out from behind a cloud. Her hair is a glossy sheen, blue on black. I come up behind her, looking out over the railing with her. She winks at me; damn, that’s sexy. Makes me want to manfully take her in full sight of everybody, but I don’t want to alarm the employees or end up in an HR violation.

  The little things matter.

  “Half the fun of sea voyaging is not knowing where you’ll end up. We could drift for days,” I say as a server arrives with two flutes of champagne. Dahlia all but orgasms as she takes a sip, tilting her head back to catch the sun’s rays.

  “I do have to be back at work, you know.” She looks at me slyly. “I’m sure you do as well.”

  “Only when there aren’t important things to do, like expensive last minute trips with beautiful women.”

  “Do you use that line often?”

  “You’re the first to enjoy that particular phrasing.” I sip the champagne as she leans against me. Tastes good.

  “All right. Let’s see where this goes,” she says, clinking glasses with me.

  We yacht our way up the river, into the Hudson Valley. The city gives way to forests of green and gold on either side, and rugged cliffs. The air tastes crisp here, completely scrubbed of any city smog. We pass a couple of smaller boats, and wave to the occupants. Dahlia notices our destination as the yacht starts listing starboard, and her eyes go wide.

  “Is that…yours?” she asks when the estate slides into view.

  “No, it’s private property. After we break in, I plan on buying it. Leave a sack full of dollar bills at the entrance to the driveway and relax.” I love that it takes her a full minute to work out if I’m serious or not. Always be unpredictable. That’s the way to a woman’s heart. And into her pants.

  With Dahlia Rossi, it’s interesting that the pants came secondary.

  What’s this woman doing to me?

  Now I don’t know much about architecture or aesthetics, but I’ve been told my upstate New York estate is the epitome of French pre-Revolutionary perfection. The building is designed like a mini Versailles, with gilt framing and wide, s
parkling windows. The grounds are lush and expansive, with some of those topiary trees that freaked you out as a kid when you watched The Shining. If I told you that the Stephen King fanboy in me got this place specifically for the topiary trees, would that lessen your appreciation of me?

  Of course it wouldn’t. You secretly think it’s awesome, you invisible person I’m think-talking to right now.

  After I take Dahlia through a quick tour of the first floor—polished wood floors, sparse, contemporary furniture, modern art on the walls that looks like a series of Rorschach tests—we head out through the French double doors to the tennis court and pool beyond. The pool in particular is my favorite. She makes an admiring sound, kneeling and trailing her fingers through the water.

  “Feel like a swim?” I ask.

  “Love it, but I didn’t bring a bathing suit. If only someone had told me we’d be yachting to a secluded chateau.” She splashes some water at me. The vixen.

  All right. It’s go time.

  “What are you doing?” she says, half-laughing as I slip out of my jacket and pull my shirt over my head. Then I notice her do an appreciative glance down my body as I unzip my pants. Cross Fit, baby.

  “Thinking you should join me.” Pants come off, and I kick away my shoes. Dahlia puts up her nose.

  “No way.”

  “You can go into the water in your bra and panties, or you can go in fully clothed.” I shrug and hold up my hands. “Your choice.”

  “You bastard.” She’s giggling too much for me to worry she actually means it. “Well. If those are my only options.” She starts undressing at a quick pace, which is always a pleasant sight for me. She peeks over my shoulder at the doorway. “Is anyone around?” she whispers.

  “I called ahead. The place is ours.”

  “Well. In that case.” Off comes the bra, halle-fucking-lujah. She dips a toe into the water as I come up behind her. I’m like a tiger that way; a half-naked tiger ready to jump into a pool. It makes sense to me. As I circle my hands around her bare, flawless waist, she turns into me, trailing her lips along the edge of my increasingly stubbled jaw. “I like my men a little rough-shaven,” she purrs.