I waited, feeling embarrassed that I had even asked. Nothing like being an overly demanding American right off the bat.
A moment later, the receptionist came back onto the line. “Of course, Ms. Young; is an hour enough time for you to get ready? We can send the masseuse up at four o’clock.”
I smiled, realizing I’d been holding my breath. I released it and closed my eyes. “That’s perfect,” I said. “Do I need to do anything to the room to prepare?”
“Of course not,” the receptionist said genuinely. “You’ve just had a long trip; you relax and let us do the work.”
I hung up, unlocked my door, and took a quick shower. I had another glass of champagne, then flipped through the channels mindlessly until there was a courtesy knock at the door.
“Come in!” I called.
“Ms. Young?” A man’s voice called out, and I walked from the bedroom into the living room and entry to see a man in a masseuse uniform standing with a massage table in one hand and a duffel bag in the other.
“Yes, what’s your name?”
“My name is Antoine,” the man said. He flashed a smile and I felt warmth spread through me. He was an older man, in his forties at least, and he gave off a very calming, relaxed energy. “I’ll set up in here. Why don’t you go into your room and get changed into a robe, then come out when you’re ready.”
When I came out dressed in my robe, the living room had been transformed. Antoine had lit candles and had dimmed the lights. A set of speakers were set up on the table, and relaxing, instrumental music had replaced the voices of the talking heads on the tv.
“Ms. Young,” Antoine greeted me.
“Please, call me Cassie,” I said. I walked over to the massage table. It was covered with blankets, and I felt the manufactured warmth of an electric blanket beneath the covering.
“Yes, Cassie, of course. I have a selection of oils here; would you like to choose one?” He waved to the table where several dark bottles of oil sat. I smelled each, selecting a combination of lavender and sandalwood. “That’s one of my favorites,” Antoine said as I held it out to him questioningly. “I’ll leave you to disrobe. Please, lie on your stomach; I’ll begin my work on your back.”
I always found this few minutes to be the most nerve wracking of a massage; standing naked in the moments before submerging my body beneath the covers of the massage table, waiting for the masseuse to walk in accidentally and catch me in the act. Because of this fear, I always tore my robe off and dove under the blanket, my heart racing. I laid down, my face resting comfortably in the doughnut shaped rest. I heard Antoine enter the room.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Please,” he said, as he began to rub my back over the blankets, “let me know if the pressure is adequate, or if you’d like more or less.”
I doubted it would be anything less than perfect, and, as Antoine began to rub my body down, pulling the blankets down to expose my back and rubbing his hands with oil, I found the pressure he used to be absolutely perfect.
I probably fell asleep. It was easy to do, with the scent of lavender, the soft lights and music, and Antoine’s hands rhythmically stretching and pressing my muscles. I drifted in and out.
“How does that feel?” Antoine asked.
“It feels amazing,” I said. “What happened to your voice?” I was still riding the fuzzy line of consciousness, so I couldn’t put my finger on it exactly, but something had changed. Antoine’s touch had hardened, though it was still comforting. His hands moved with confidence over my body, as if they had been there before.
And then I realized.
“You,” I said, my muscles freezing.
“Hi Cass,” Brad said softly. “Don’t move. Just lay as you are and enjoy.”
I shook my head. “As if that’s possible,” I said, and twisted my torso up, lifting my head from the headrest. There he stood, more real than life, sexier than my imagination had given him credit for.
“You need to mind me better,” he whispered.
“You need to stop sneaking up on me,” I retorted. “When did you slip in? What did you do to Antoine?” I looked around, then glanced back at Brad with teasing suspicion. “You didn’t kill him, did you? He was a good masseuse.”
Brad laughed. “No, I didn’t kill him. Antoine has been a masseuse at this hotel since before the Legacy was even a thought in my mind. He’s the only male masseuse we have on staff, and I owe him big time for this.”
He leaned down and kissed my ear, slowly pulling the blanket off of me, exposing my bare ass to the cool air.
“Mmmm,” he said. “Come here.” He lifted me up, my body smooth and slick with oil, and he kissed me.
“Fuck you feel good,” I moaned. He wore jeans and a white button down shirt, which I dispensed with immediately. His broad chest felt like coming home under my fingers, my palms pressing against his rock hard muscles.
“You’re good enough to eat,” he whispered, moving his kiss from my mouth down the length of my body, stopping at my hips.
I laid back as he began to explore my body. Questions flooded through my mind: how had he gotten here so quickly? Why was he here? Were we dating? Were we about to have another fling? The more questions that pushed into my mind, the more I wanted to lose myself in Brad’s touch.
“I don’t understand you,” I said as a summary of all of the activity in my brain.
“I’m simple,” he said.
“You’re a billionaire,” I said. “You’re a billionaire with a dark secret.” My words all ran together, thoughts pouring out of my head stream-of-consciousness style, my mouth barely aware of what I was saying.
Brad pulled away and looked at me sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Hmmm?” I asked dreamily.
“Dark secret. What do you mean?”
I laughed. “Don’t get so cranky,” I said. “Every billionaire has a deep, dark secret. It’s common knowledge. I just have to figure out what yours is.” I cracked one eye open and looked at him. “And, I will… I’m a smarty pants journalist.”
“Shhh,” Brad said. “You won’t figure out my secret. I’m going to keep you far too busy to even figure out your own name.” And he plunged his fingers into me, two and then a third, and circled my clit with his lips as he flicked his tongue back and forth.
“Cassie who?” I asked. And I laid back, trying to ignore the small warning flaring in my brain. You won’t figure out my secret.
The Billionaire’s LEGACY
Unexpected Incidents
Sarah J. Brooks
Cassie
I’d said it in jest: Every billionaire has a deep, dark secret. Brad had just surprised me by stepping in as my masseuse, which had led to an incredible, marathon sex session. This morning, he woke me up to an absolutely amazing brunch that he’d had room service deliver to my suite. It was a huge spread, and it mostly satisfied the incredible appetite I’d built up from getting my brains fucked out all night long. Brad had some work he needed to get done, and he kissed me goodbye, promising to text me later.
I closed the door, leaned against it, and sighed. My comment about him being a billionaire and having some deep, dark secret had been a joke, or, if not a joke, then just some random comment that had come out of my mouth without me really thinking. I’d expected him to laugh. But, not only had he not laughed, he had looked at me with an expression I’d never seen on his face before. His voice had a suspicious edge to it, a guarded tone, strong enough to suggest that, if I hadn’t suspected him of having a deep, dark secret, I ought to start.
My journalistic spidey-sense was tingling, and I bit the corner of my lower lip, a habit I’d always had when I was thinking of something important. I dressed quickly and grabbed my computer, once again researching Bradley White. I’d researched him before, of course, as much as I ever researched a subject, and probably even more given our… situation. I’d never seen anything that hinted at a dark
past, or a current secret. Of course, I hadn’t really been looking for that sort of thing.
There wasn’t anything this time around, either. Everything I could find made Brad seem like he was completely on the level; he was a philanthropist, had dabbled in politics, and volunteered at soup kitchens on the major holidays. In every picture, he was smiling, his easy, open grin not betraying even so much as a hidden bank account.
Still, my instincts were almost always spot on, and his response when I’d mentioned it was off. Not to mention, in every movie I’d ever seen, every book I’d ever read, the billionaire did have a deep, dark secret. And, I realized with a heaviness in my stomach, the secret was usually something illegal, deadly, or both.
I closed my laptop and sighed, looking out my window at the city of London. It was gray and overcast, typical London fog, but I was still itching to get out of the house and enjoy the day. Maybe with my mind occupied by playing the role of tourist, I’d be able to make more sense of what it was about Brad’s response that was sticking with me.
I dressed in skinny jeans and a light red sweater, finishing the look with a pair of brown boots with a low heel. I pulled my hair back into a loose, messy bun, and slid on my mid-length camel trench coat. I walked through the lobby, waving to the concierge on my way out the door.
I did some shopping, mostly of the window- variety, though I did buy a cute necklace, another pair of boots, and a sweater. I had vowed to not buy anything else and was on my way back to the hotel when I walked past a boutique and saw the most gorgeous dress in the window. It drew me into the store, and, when I tried it on, I couldn’t stop staring at myself in the full length mirror.
The dress was skin tight, and it showed off all of my curves. It was black, strapless, and short. The rusching on the sides drew attention to my hourglass figure. I turned in the three-way mirror, and the salesperson walked up behind me.
“That dress was made for you,” he said, smiling. “Do you feel fabulous in it?”
I smiled, feeling a light blush move up my cheeks. “I kind of do,” I admitted. It was, by far, the most beautiful dress I’d ever worn, and I’d never even seen anything like it.
“It’s exquisite. You must buy it. Almost every woman that comes in here tries it on, and it looks like trash on them. You… it’s your dress.”
I looked at the price tag and groaned. “I’d have to take out a second mortgage on a house I don’t even own to afford it,” I said.
“That’s what credit cards are for,” he said with a mischievous, conspiratorial grin.
“You’re terrible!” I said, shaking my head. But, as terrible as he may be, he was also right. I really needed to own that dress. I did some quick math in my head, and the results weren’t great. I’d used the “that’s what credit cards are for” excuse too much lately, including that day with the too-expensive boots sitting with my purse on the floor of the dressing room.
I looked at myself once more, mentally saying goodbye to the dress, turning to check myself out at every angle. I thought about how Brad would react seeing me in the dress, and I felt myself getting wet just thinking about it. It was a killer dress, and I imagined slipping into it for dinner without telling him I’d bought it. Walking out to greet him, seeing his jaw drop…
“Ugh!” I exclaimed. “Okay! I’ll buy it! Stop pressuring me!” I grinned at the salesperson and he grinned back at me, nodding his head.
“Shall I wrap it for you, or are you going to wear it like the second skin it is?” he asked.
“You can wrap it,” I said. “I’ll save it for a special occasion… like dinner later tonight.”
I slipped back into my regular clothes, which now made me feel completely frumpy, and walked to the counter with my purse. For one panicked moment, I couldn’t find my credit card. I dumped the contents of my purse onto the counter and found it, finally, loose in the bottom.
The salesperson handed the package over to me and made me promise to stop by the next time I was wearing it.
“I promise,” I said, and I left the store. I walked quickly back to my hotel room, avoiding even looking into any other store windows. The dress had set me back almost a month’s salary, which, even considering my recent promotion, was barely justifiable. But, I set the dress on my bed and looked at it. It seemed to call to me, to beg me to put it on.
As if reading my mind, my phone pinged.
Dinner 2nite. Wear something special.
I smiled at Brad’s text. Responded.
Can’t wait. Meet u in the hotel bar. I’ll be dressed to kill.
That’s a high expectation to set, he texted back. Don’t disappoint me.
Don’t worry, I responded, smiling. Then, I shut off my phone.
I’d spent most of the afternoon shopping, so I didn’t have a lot of time to get ready. I showered, did my hair and make up carefully, then slid into the dress. If possible, it felt even better, the soft fabric cool against my skin, still flushed from the heat of my shower. I slid into thigh high black silk stockings, and finished the look with three inch black patent leather heels. I shivered when I saw the full effect in the mirror, then smiled. I didn’t think I’d ever felt so sexy.
The only thing I didn’t have was a proper handbag; I was stuck with the one I’d used earlier that day. I emptied out everything I didn’t think I needed, leaving only my wallet, phone, lipstick, and mascara. At least it was black, though it was clunkier than I would want.
I took the elevator downstairs and sat at an open seat in the bar. The restaurant bar was full; it was dinner time and those who weren’t seated in the restaurant had either opted for seats at the bar or were waiting there for their table.
The bartender was someone I hadn’t seen there yet during my stay. He was young, definitely a student, and had his blond hair cut in a floppy haircut that made him look even younger than he was. He glanced at me and did a double take that made me smile; the power of the dress, I knew. He scurried over to me, put a coaster down in front of me, and apologized for making me wait.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I just got here. Could I have a glass of your house red wine? I’m in Suite 20B.”
“Right away, Ma’am,” he said. I watched his eyes as he registered that 20B was the VIP suite. He poured the wine and returned.
“Can I see your ID?” he asked, a marked hesitation in his voice. I arched my eyebrows. I wasn’t exactly old, but I definitely looked over twenty-one.
“I’m old enough to drink alcohol,” I said, with just the smallest amount of attitude in my voice.
The bartender blushed. “It’s not that, Ma’am,” he stammered. “It’s… we need proof you’re a guest…” He was looking over at Hartford, the maître d’, who came rushing over. He’d heard the exchange.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Cassie,” he said. “James is new. You don’t need to show us ID.”
“Thank you, but now I’m just wondering where it is!” I said, reaching for my purse to search through it. It wasn’t in my wallet, which, of course, it wouldn’t be. I always carried it separately from my driver’s license and money. I tried to picture the things I’d taken out of my purse when I’d emptied it; my passport wasn’t on that small pile, I knew. “Shit,” I said out loud. “I have no idea where my passport is.” Hartford looked at me. The bartender, sensing a problem he couldn’t solve, escaped to wait on a couple that had just sat down.
I thought back to the last time I’d seen my passport. I’d needed to show it as proof of my signature when I’d bought the dress this afternoon, but, after that, I hadn’t seen it. I wondered if I’d dropped it in the store or on the sidewalk on the way back to the hotel.
“We can have someone check your room for you while you’re at dinner, Ms. Cassie,” Hartford said soothingly. “Don’t let it worry you; I’m sure it just got mixed in with some of your bags today.”
“Who is this beautiful woman, and how did I get so lucky?” Brad whispered into my ear over my shoulder. His warm hands slipped aro
und my waist, and I leaned back into him, my body immediately moving into arousal at his touch.
I turned to face him, and he scanned me from head to toe, taking me in. For a moment, I forgot all about my passport.
“Holy smokes,” he whistled. “You weren’t kidding.”
“Just a little thing I picked up today at a boutique.” I smiled and winked at Hartford. He smiled and slipped away.
“I’m suddenly very hungry for something other than dinner,” Brad growled, his voice low and throaty. His grip returned, this time to my thighs, and he squeezed my quads with his warm, broad palms. I smiled and stood.
“Shall we, then?” I asked, playing the innocent. “I’m starving.” I waited as he took me in again, this time seeing the full effect of the dress on me from head to toe.
“You’re in so much trouble,” he whispered, taking my hand. He turned and smiled at Hartford, then led me out of the bar.
“Where are we going for dinner?” I asked.
Brad
When I woke the next morning, the first thing my eyes settled on was that fucking amazing dress Cassie had worn to dinner last night. It was crumpled up in a ball on the floor where I’d basically torn it off of her after she teased me all through dinner with it. I smiled, remembering the feel of the dress under my hands, the sensation of it melting off her body as I pulled it down, the sight of her stepping out of it in those hot stockings and heels. I’d told her to keep the stockings on, at least for a while, and my eyes traveled to the one that had gotten tangled up in the base of the bedside lamp. I had no idea where the other one had ended up. I reached out and stroked her silky thigh, the warmth of her body sending an arousal signal straight through me. I rolled toward her and kissed her lightly.
She moved, breathing deeply as she came out of her sleep.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Mmmmm, hi,” she said in a high pitched, sleepy voice. She didn’t open her eyes, just reached out toward me. Her hand found my chest and she began to run her fingertips along my abs, an action that didn’t decrease my arousal one bit.
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