Billionaire's Virgin Stripper

by Lia Lee

  “Heya, Pops,” I answer, forcing cheerfulness into my voice.

  “Hey, kiddo. How’s the job going?” He sounds different, wrong. Still the usual warm tone I was used to hearing from Pops, but wrong, somehow. Kind of muffled.

  My stomach sinks, twists. “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Fine. I’m fine,” he says soothingly, and his voice still sounds wrong.

  “Pops, what is it? Are you sick? Do you need me to come home?”

  “No. No, no, sweetheart. I’m fine. You worry too much,” he chides.

  “Pops. I can hear it in your voice. Something’s wrong,” I say softly. “What is it?”

  He doesn't answer for a moment, and then I hear him clear his throat. “D’Agostino sent a few of his guys over here. A little reminder that he wants his money before the first of the month.”

  “Pops,” I whisper.

  “I’m okay,” he assures me. “I’m fine, Sammy. They roughed me up a little, that’s all. Black eye, fat lip. I’m okay.”

  I could hear the unspoken “for now” in his voice.

  “We’ll get you out of this. I promise.”

  “Sweetheart, this is my mess, not yours,” he says in a firm voice. “You need to worry about your future. I’ll worry about my messes. You have your own life, and that’s all I want for you.”

  I swallow. “Pops…” I want to tell him that I’m working on it, that it’ll all be okay. That a relaxing retirement is right around the corner and he won’t have to worry about anything.

  “It’s okay, Sammy. Look, I gotta get back to work. I just wanted to check on you.”

  “Okay,” I say, tears stinging my eyes. “I love you.”

  “Love you too. Be good.”

  “Always,” I tell him, our usual exchange. My father hangs up and I sit there, looking at my phone.

  And I know I’m going to stay out the month, even if it destroys me. My father deserves a new beginning just as much as I do. A million dollars can buy both of us a fresh start, and it’s the least I can do for the things he’s sacrificed for me.

  I take a deep breath, then another. I can do this. I don’t have to be whole when it’s over. I just have to make it through. I can rebuild myself later, once I’m away from Dante and the way he makes me want impossible things.

  Suck it up, take what pleasure he can give me, and start over once the month is up. I can do this.

  At least, that’s what I’ll keep telling myself.

  ***

  Dante

  Something’s up. Samantha’s withdrawn and quiet, and there’s a distance in her eyes that feels like a punch to the gut every time I see it. I can’t get her to talk to me. She’s still as responsive as ever when I make love to her, still as sweet and hot and needy, if not more so. But if we’re not naked, the chance of getting her to open up to me at all are practically zero.

  I’m surprised by how much this bothers me. We’d started settling into a routine. I’d let her know when I’d be home, and either she or I would order delivery. I ordinarily don’t cook, and I sure the hell don’t expect her to.

  But I need to do something to draw her out. Shake things up a little. So instead of ordering something to be delivered, I stop off at the market on the way home and pick up a few bags of ingredients, as well as a dessert I hope she’ll like.

  As I drive home, I can’t stop trying to figure out what changed. She was fine, and then the next day when I got home, she greeted me the way she always does — naked — but there was that distance in her eyes, that sense that no matter what I did to her, there was part of her I just couldn’t reach.

  And man, I’ve tried. I’ve spent the past few nights using every weapon in my arsenal to try to draw her out. No matter how hard she comes, no matter how she screams, no matter how much she moans when she goes down on me, I can’t make her share anything else with me.

  The fact that I’m this fucked up over it is probably a bad sign. I hate seeing her like this.

  We’ve only got one week left together. The thought keeps invading my life, whether I’m working or driving or, worst of all, when she’s under me and I’m so deep in her I can’t tell anymore where she ends and I begin. Sappy? Yeah. But I can admit that I’m going to miss her, and more than just her body.

  Either way, I want to hear her laugh a lot more often. I want to walk into the kitchen and hear her singing or humming Broadway tunes the way I have a few times, when she doesn’t know I’m there. Silence doesn’t suit Samantha, and she’s been too quiet the last few days.

  When I walk in the penthouse, she’s sitting in her usual spot: the big, cushy chair near the windows overlooking the bay. Her laptop is on her lap, and she glances up when I walk in.

  “What’s this?” she asks when she sees me with the grocery bags.

  “I’m cooking tonight,” I tell her, and the little smile, the appraising look she gives me, makes my blood heat immediately. She sets the laptop aside and stands up. She’s dressed in a pair of figure-hugging jeans and a black v-neck sweater. Her hair is up in a messy bun today, which means I can stand here like an idiot drooling over the curve of her neck and the very recent memory of how good she smells when I bury my face right in that spot as I fuck her.

  “Can I help?” she asks with a smile, and I nod. She follows me into the kitchen and we start unpacking the canvas grocery bags, setting the ingredients I’ve bought out on the counter.

  “Well, this already looks amazing and it isn’t even cooked yet,” Samantha says as she surveys the ingredients. “What are you making?”

  “Ratatouille. And I have a really nice bottle of Bandol Rouge I’ve been saving. We’ll have that, too.”

  “And here I was thinking of ordering delivery pizza,” she jokes, and I smile, relieved to hear even a little bit of humor from her.

  “Do you want me to do anything?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “Nope. I want you to sit here and keep me company.” I nod toward one of the stools on the other side of the kitchen island, and she smiles and slides her sweet ass onto it. I go to the wine cellar and retrieve the bottle I was thinking about, uncork it, and then pour a glass for each of us.

  “Thank you,” she murmurs when I hand her glass to her. I watch as she takes her time, swirling, sniffing, and then, finally, tasting, letting the wine sit on her tongue for a moment so she can get the full flavor of it.

  And it hits me then: she fits into my world just fine.

  No. No, no, no. I don’t do that kind of thing. Freedom. Independence. No.

  Samantha smiles at me. “Wow.”

  I grin. “That pretty much sums it up.”

  I go to work chopping onions and garlic, and she sits, watching, occasionally sipping her wine. “You said before that your father’s construction business wasn’t your ‘thing,’” she says. “Is this your thing? Cooking?”

  I glance up at her and shake my head. “No. This is relaxing and something I don’t do often enough.”

  She nods, but she doesn’t press me for more detail. To my surprise, I keep talking.

  “My father builds luxury high rises for rich people. People who already have it all but want more. Bigger. Better.” I grab an eggplant and start peeling it. “The thing is, with a background and skills in construction, you can actually change the world. At least for some people.”

  She’s studying me. “Not just for rich people, then?” she asks with a smile.

  I shake my head. “What I want to do… what I’ll be able to do, once I finish this current project for my father, is help build homes and other facilities for at-need communities in Third World countries. Places most of the world seems to have forgotten.” I take a breath. This isn’t something I talk about a lot. It’s something I do. I’m not my father. I don’t believe in talking myself up to make myself look important. “It just doesn’t seem fair. All this luxury here, and not even basic shelter in other places.”

  She’s watching me, her big dark eyes seeming to see far too mu
ch, as always.

  “How did you get started on that path?” she finally asks.

  I think for a minute while I’m chopping. “I traveled a lot as a kid. But we always went to the nicer places. The places they cover in travel magazines and shows. When I was in college, I became friends with a guy who was from a very, very poor area in western Africa. He knew I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and I think he took it as his own personal mission to show me just how different other people live. And I’ll be grateful for that for the rest of my life.”

  I start arranging the vegetables in layers in the baking dish, and I keep talking. “One spring break, we went to his village. He wanted to see his family and friends, of course, and he wanted me to see the world not as the tourism boards want us to see it, but as it really is. I met some of the kindest, most generous people in the world on that trip, and I saw how they went without even the most basic comforts. And here I am, with the resources and talents to help… it would be ridiculous not to.”

  I chance a glance up at her, and she’s watching me intently.

  “So you want to build for them?”

  “That’s part of the overall plan. I’m laying the foundation for a charity that would be able to do even more than I could myself. I mean, I’m going to put every penny I can behind it personally, but I’ll eventually be tapped out.” I flash her a grin. “My father likes to remind me that this is his money, not mine. I earn a salary from the company, and I guess I’ll get an inheritance someday, but I want to do this now, not when I’m fifty.”

  ***

  Samantha

  I can’t stop staring at him. Dante has a magnetic personality, even when he’s saying nothing at all. But seeing him like this, so enthusiastic, so animated… I just felt myself fall a little deeper in love with him.

  Damn it.

  As amazing as he is when we’re out at an event or even in bed together, he’s even more amazing now, relaxed and talking like this. I watch as he finishes layering the ratatouille, then pops it into the oven.

  “I’m not much of a baker, which is why I ended up grabbing the madeleines for dessert,” he says, and I smile.

  “I’m not, either. My mom was a heck of a baker, though,” I say, and he nods.

  “Mine was, too.”

  “Was?”

  “My mom passed when I was eighteen. Janice is my father’s second wife.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He nods, and then he sits on the stool next to mine and picks up his wine glass. “My mom was the do-gooder of my parents,” he says with a smile. “She would have loved this project. My dad doesn’t get it. but he knows I’m going to do what I want and he knows that it will bring some positive press to the family. He’s always open to adoration from the press.”

  “So your brother is more like your dad, then?”

  Dante nods. “I’m older, but he’s been the obvious choice to take over the company for a long time now. I mean, I’ve pretty much always known I was going into the family business, but I’ve never been as into it as he is.” He pauses. “Enough about me though. You’ve had the laptop out a lot lately, and you seem hyper-focused when you’re working on it.”

  I laugh. “Nothing as exciting as trying to save the world. I’m looking at casting calls and housing listings in L.A.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “L.A.?”

  “Yeah. Once my father’s debt is paid, I want to get us out of here. We both need a fresh start, and if I want to get my career moving, I need to be where it happens.”

  “Is your father going to go for that?” he asks slowly.

  “I’m sure he will. He has cousins in L.A. who he’d love to see more often. And it’s not like we live in a great neighborhood or anything. I think a change of scenery will do us both good.”

  He doesn’t say anything to that for a while. “L.A. is probably a smart choice,” he finally says. “Like you said, you need to be where it’s happening, right?”

  “Right. And… I don’t know. As insane as this all started out, I recognize it for what it is. This is my second chance. This is a way to pick ourselves up, finally, after losing my mom. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you enough for that.” I feel my face heat and look away. He’s watching me, and he reaches over and takes my hand.

  “I’m glad it worked out that way. When I went in there that night, doing what I did was the last thing on my mind. Until I saw you,” he adds, and he starts rubbing his thumb over the back of my hand. “I’ve never done anything like that. And I doubt I ever will again.”

  “Did you bid on me expecting that it would turn into us sleeping together?” I ask quietly.

  “I’m not going to lie. I wanted you since the second I saw you, but that’s not why I bid on you.”

  “No?”

  He shakes his head. “I bid on you because I knew someone else would eventually, and I didn’t want that to happen. You didn’t seem like you belonged there. I had no idea at the time how true that was.” He looks back up at me, and I’m lost the second his eyes meet mine. “You never have to set foot in a strip joint again. You never have to escort any rich bastard again. Whatever made me tell Harry to bring you back to that room that night, I’m glad it happened. I’m glad I got to know you this month.”

  I glance away. The softness in his voice has me thinking stupid, impossible things like “forever” and “love,” and I know better.

  “I’m glad I got to know you, too,” I say, and I hate the way my voice catches. Enjoy the moment, because it’s all I have. Very soon, I won’t have Dante in my life. I’ll be starting over, and he’ll be moving on.

  He’s about to say something, but the oven timer starts beeping and he gives me one more look then gets up and goes over to the oven to take it out. We set the table together, and he pours more wine, then pulls out my chair for me. Before I sit down, he reaches out and cups my chin in his hand, and then leans in for one long, slow, toe-curling kiss that leaves me breathless and wanting so, so much more.

  When he finally pulls away, I’m hungry for something else entirely, and he gives me the most heart-melting little smile before backing away and waiting for me to sit down. When I do, I feel like I can barely breathe.

  How the hell am I going to walk away from him when the month is over?

  He lights the tall white candles, then brings two plates of ratatouille to the table. I’m seated at the end of the table, and he sets his plate at the spot just to the left of mine, rather than across the table like I expected him to. It’s a very intimate setup, and I’m charmed by how much thought he clearly put into this. He walks away one more time and comes back with the bottle of red wine.

  “Don’t want to forget that,” he jokes, and I laugh. He takes a seat, and then watches me, motioning for me to try it.

  It smells amazing, and I hope it tastes nearly as good. It would be awkward if this was terrible after all of the effort Dante put into it. But of course, it’s amazing, an explosion of flavors erupting on my tongue. I chew and swallow and smile at Dante.

  “You’re a very good cook,” I tell him, and he grins. He reaches over and takes my hand, pressing a warm kiss to my palm before letting go and digging into his own dinner. It’s a long, relaxed, luxurious meal, and we talked and ate until the penthouse grew dark, lit only by the flickering flames of the candles and the under cabinet lighting in the kitchen.

  Our conversation comes to a lull, and it’s impossible to miss the expression on Dante’s face, the intensity in his eyes. He stands up and holds his hand out for me, and I stand up and take it. He bends his head down and claims my lips, and his kiss reaches deep into my soul, breaking me and giving me life all at the same time. When he swings me up into his arms, I can’t make myself stop kissing him, and he doesn’t seem interested in stopping, either. He carries me across the penthouse, into his bedroom, and when he pulls my top off and then lowers his hands to my waistband, I notice that his hands are shaking, just a little. If he’s feel
ing even a tenth of the maddening need, the insane connection between us, then he’s feeling overwhelmed, too.

  But why would he?

  I shove the thought away. This moment. Take this moment. Love this man for as long as you’re able, because each moment is precious and there are so few of them left.

  I kiss him, determined to tell him without words what I already know in my heart: that I’m utterly, completely, helplessly in love with him.

  ***

  Dante

  I’m out of my mind needing Samantha. I can’t touch her enough, running my hands down her curvaceous hips, over her rounded ass, squeezing it, molding it in my hands and pulling her closer to me. Closer, because there’s no such fucking thing as too close where she’s concerned. Even when I’m inside her, I swear sometimes it’s not close enough.

  I pull her bra off, and now she’s standing there naked, looking up at me with those sweet, dark eyes, eyes that, despite my best intentions, I haven’t managed to wipe the innocence and trust from. And now I don’t want to. I want her to stay exactly as she is, and I want to know that for the rest of her life, she’ll remember the things we did together.

  I’m not fucking ready to give her up yet. I know I never will be. I put it all into worshipping her. I bend and kiss, lick, then gently suck one pert nipple, then the other, and she squirms in my arms in a way that has me so hard I feel like I’m going to lose my mind. I turn her around and bend her over, so she’s bent at the hips.

  “Hold onto the bedpost, baby,” I say, and I can hear the desperate growl in my voice. She obeys instantly.

  Because she’s mine.

  I shove the thought away. She’s there, bent over, gorgeous ass in the air.

  “Spread your legs,” I tell her, and she does.

  Now. That’s what I wanted. Her sweet pussy is right there for the taking. I know she thinks I’m going to fuck her like this, but I’ve got so much more in mind.