The Billionaire's Redemption (The Billionaire's Kiss, Book Five): (A Billionaire Alpha Romance)

by Olivia Thorne

  “No, my stuff isn’t worth nearly as much as yours. It’ll be just fine.”

  “Okay, then – strip.”

  “What?”

  He takes off his wet jacket and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “Give me your clothes. I need to put them in the dryer.”

  I stand there, taken aback and a little shy. All that moping out on the beach about how I can’t fall in love with this guy, and here I am getting naked with him again.

  To escape the police, I remind myself.

  But it’s hard to remember that as I watch the shirt come off of his gorgeous, sculpted chest, revealing his rock-hard abs and bulging biceps.

  He grins. “I realize you’re enjoying the show, Eve, but we need to hustle.”

  I blush a little, and begin unbuttoning my blouse.

  But I can’t stop watching him.

  He pulls off his shoes, peels off his wet socks, then shucks off his pants and pulls down his boxers so he’s standing there naked.

  God, he takes my breath away.

  Those muscles in his legs… the way his abs curve down to the hair below his navel…

  His cock, soft but thick and full as it dangles and sways with every movement he makes…

  “Don’t judge,” he says in a playful voice.

  “…judge?” I say, awakened as though from a trance. I realize I don’t even have my blouse halfway unbuttoned yet.

  “Shrinkage. That water was cold.”

  Funny… everything looks extra-large as always…

  “Come on, come on,” he urges as he stuffs his clothes in the dryer.

  I hurriedly undo my blouse, pull off my skirt, and hand them both over.

  He stuffs them in the dryer, then waits. “Well?”

  I realize I’ve forgotten to give him my underwear, too.

  I blush, then reach behind me and unhook my bra.

  He watches, transfixed, as it comes away from my chest.

  I can immediately see he’s been affected. His cock is getting longer… thicker… and it starts to rise, heartbeat by heartbeat.

  By the time I peel off my panties, he’s almost fully erect.

  “Doesn’t look like any shrinkage to me,” I say.

  He laughs, throws my stuff in the dryer, and hits the Start button. Then he grabs my hand and pulls me out of the laundry room.

  The fact that we’re naked, walking through a strange, darkened house, only adds to the excitement.

  Part of me hates that my life is such a mess, yet the sight of his naked body can make me forget all that.

  But part of me loves it, too. That’s the part that focuses on his astoundingly great ass as he leads me through the darkened hallway.

  10

  I’m shivering as we step into the tiled bathroom. There’s a glass-encased shower across from the sink. Grant leans inside, turns the water on full blast, then steps back out. He wraps me in his arms, his naked body against mine, as we wait for the water to heat up.

  His skin is warmer than mine, and feels good… though there’s a part of his body that’s particularly warm as it presses against my belly.

  I’m starting to get wet, and I don’t mean from the English Channel. Or the shower.

  “We’re showering together?” I ask drily.

  “Conservation is a virtue.”

  “I doubt they have a water shortage here.”

  “Might as well get warm at the same time.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure that’s the only thing you had in mind.”

  “I love that you can’t get enough of me,” he chides me playfully, “but we really need to get out of here before the police track us down.”

  Cocky asshole.

  “Your mouth says one thing, but other parts of you say differently,” I say.

  He grins. “Hey, you’re a hot, naked woman. I can’t help if I react.”

  “I can put a towel on,” I offer facetiously, and start to pull away.

  “No need for that,” he says, and pulls me into the shower under the hot water.

  Oh God, it’s better than an orgasm.

  Well… better than a regular, garden-variety, non-Grant-Carlson orgasm, anyway.

  It’s just warm enough to not burn my skin, but hot enough to make me shudder with delight. Grant lets me go first, and I put my head under the jet of water and soak my hair until every last bit of cold is washed away. Then I step aside and let him in.

  As he douses his head and scrubs his hair free of the Channel’s saltwater, I watch the rivulets cascading down his muscular back… his flexing shoulders… his perfect ass…

  His cock standing out straight from his body, rigid and hard and thick…

  Fuuuuuuuck.

  He catches me looking as he steps aside. “Hey, my eyes are up here.”

  “Ha ha,” I say, and step back into the hot water. For a second, all thoughts of his perfect body are obliterated by the deliciously hot water.

  For a second.

  Then I feel his arms reach around me, and his hands cup my breasts.

  “Hey – !” I yelp.

  “Relax, Ms. Jumpy,” he says as his soapy hands run over my skin, across my erect nipples.

  “I thought we really need to get out of here before the police track us down.”

  “Just making sure the important parts are clean.”

  “I think they’re clean.”

  “No, they need extra special attention.”

  One of his hands slips down between my legs and begins to soap me up down there.

  Not only are his fingers caressing my strip of hair, they’re brushing against my lips…

  …the hood of my clit…

  UnnnnHHHHH.

  I can feel his cock, slippery yet hard, sliding across my ass.

  I can’t help myself. I reach behind me and touch it, encircle it with my fingers, run my hand slowly up and down its length.

  He begins to kiss my neck. I close my eyes, transported by the heat and the sensual feel of his wet skin on mine, his hands on me, his hardness pressed against my body.

  “But the cops…” I murmur.

  “They think we went down with the plane miles from here.”

  “…this is crazy…”

  “Maybe. But it could be the last chance we have for awhile.”

  His lips are nibbling my earlobe.

  His finger is very deliberately stroking my clit, soft and hot and soapy.

  “…we could get caught…”

  “Which makes it kind of hotter, doesn’t it?” he whispers in my ear.

  “…we should go…”

  “The clothes still have to dry.”

  Couldn’t argue with that, though I still tried. “…Grant…”

  “We’ll make it a quickie.”

  Fuck it.

  I’m in.

  I turn around to face him, and he kisses me on the mouth, deep and insistent. I keep caressing his cock, feeling it swollen in my grip, his skin so tight he feels like he might burst.

  He grabs one of my legs, hoists it up in the air, and pins it against his side. With his other hand he takes his shaft and directs it directly between my legs so the head starts to caress my lips. His tip is wet, not only with water but with pre-cum, and he slides it soooo sensually across my clit that bursts of pleasure shoot up my spine and down through my legs. He does it several times, and every time I moan and shudder with pleasure.

  After about thirty seconds of that, he reaches up and aims the shower head away from us and at the tile wall. I look at him questioningly – Why’d you do that? – because we’re only getting a bit of reflected spray.

  Then I understand as he grabs my ass with his other hand, lifts me effortlessly into the air, and presses me against the tile wall.

  Ohhhhh…

  The tile feels so warm against my back, and water is cascading down all around me. My legs are wrapped around his waist. But I’m up too high for us to have sex…

  …which is why he lets me slowly slide down the tile, u
ntil I can feel the head of his cock line up with my pussy.

  Oh Jesus –

  I stare into his eyes, my face wracked with exquisite torment, as the head of his cock slowly enters me, aided by gravity as my body slides down the tile wall.

  One inch… two inches… three inches… four inches… five inches inside me…

  Deeper… deeper… oh fuck, even deeper… filling me up, getting thicker the farther I go down…

  He kisses me passionately as he begins to rock his hips back and forth, slowly easing his huge cock in and out of me. I am suspended against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist, arms looped around his neck. I moan as he goes deeper with every slow, wet movement, the hot water rushing over me and the gorgeous cock inside me combining to put me in a hypnotic state of pleasure.

  I’m wet – so wet. He begins to thrust faster, harder, deeper. I bury my face in the crook of his neck and bite his hot, damp skin, feeling it between my teeth. If it’s painful to him, he doesn’t let on, because it only makes him thrust harder. Soon I’m crying out with every stroke. The pleasure is building up between my thighs with an incredible intensity. I bite him harder, and suddenly I’m screaming as I come, that big, thick cock like a drug, a new pulse of ecstasy every time he moves inside me.

  As the orgasm ebbs away, I gasp, “Did you come?” even though I’m sure he didn’t.

  “Not yet, but – ”

  “Put me down.”

  “Wait – just a second – ”

  “Trust me.”

  He looks at me, his face the one wracked with torture now, but he relents. He pulls me up off his cock, then gingerly sets me back on my feet.

  I put the shower head back in place and let it wash over his cock. I rub it as I do, getting it squeaky clean. Then I maneuver him so that he’s between me and the shower, the hot water hitting his back, and I bend over and take him in my mouth.

  He draws in his breath raggedly as I envelop his head with my lips and begin to suck. Mm… he tastes so good, so clean. I run my tongue over the underside of his shaft and tease him with my tip. I pause and stand up to find the bar of soap, then work up a bunch of suds on my hands. With my mouth back in place, teasing, sucking, I use one hand to cup his balls – already tight and pulled up firmly against his body – and lather his dark, damp curls. With the other hand I soap up the shaft and glide my fingers up and down, careful not to get the suds too close to my mouth. No worry – there’s plenty of length before there’s any danger of that happening.

  I suck and caress him with my tongue, and swirl my hands, soft and soapy. All the while I look up at him with doe eyes, making sure he’s watching me. He tries his best, but every so often he tilts his head up and groans.

  I understand completely. I’m enjoying this a lot. Enough that every so often my eyes roll back in my head and I just enjoy the feeling of his swollen head and the first few inches of his cock filling up my mouth, my tongue swirling over the soft skin stretched so tight around that iron rod.

  “Oh God, Eve, I’m going to come,” he moans.

  I kind of want to feel him in my mouth… but I’m so turned on that I want more.

  “Not yet,” I say, completely withdrawing both my hands and my mouth.

  He stares down in disbelief and horror, like he can’t believe I’d be so cruel.

  That is, until he sees me brace myself against the shower wall and offer myself to him, my ass pressed against his cock.

  “Come inside me,” I whisper.

  He doesn’t have to be told twice. He angles his cock down, lines his head up with my lips, and slides inside me with one long, golden stroke.

  “Oh!” I cry out. He’s a lot to take in all at once, but I’m so turned on that the pleasure overwhelms any temporary discomfort.

  Suddenly he’s thrusting into me, fast as he can go, his hips slapping against my ass, groaning with every impact. I moan and cry out and curse, it’s so good. I can feel the vibrations of our wet flesh smacking together, almost like he’s spanking me. Simultaneously I feel the head of his cock touching some insanely pleasurable spot deep inside.

  I can’t hold onto any semblance of control anymore. He’s so good – so thick, so big, so unh – that he pushes me over the edge. I begin to scream as I come again, my legs wobbling, my knees threatening to buckle completely.

  My cries push him over the edge, and he shouts as he comes, his cock bursting, filling me up with spasm after spasm.

  I moan and tremble as my own orgasm subsides. I’m still bent over at the waist, forcing myself to stay up by pressing my hands against the shower tile.

  He slides out of my body, then pulls me up to a standing position and kisses me fervently, the hot water splashing over both of us.

  He hugs me to him, and I rest my head against his chest, hearing his heartbeat hard and strong beneath my ear.

  “…that was one hell of a quickie…” I whisper, my legs still quivering beneath me.

  11

  A little over an hour after we entered the house, we’re on our way. Our clothes are dry, and Grant’s suit survived in good enough shape, even if it is a little rumpled.

  We leave the house in relatively good order. The owners will be quite surprised to find the parachute when they open up the laundry room, though – plus a couple of thousand dollars from the backpack.

  We walk down the road in the dim light before dawn and find the Mercedes Grant mentioned. It’s got to be at least 20 years old. I heard once that Mercedes in Europe are like Hondas in America: one of the most common cars on the road. I silently hope that’s true, because it would work in our favor during the drive to Paris.

  Grant easily opens the car door, but then he directs me to sit in the driver’s seat. “Put it in neutral and take off the parking brake.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I’m going to push it away from the house before I start it up.”

  It takes a little while, but the road is flat and Grant is strong, and he’s able to get the car rolling enough to where it’s eighty feet down the road before long. We pull a switcheroo: I get in the passenger seat while he hotwires the ignition, and just like the old Nicolas Cage movie, we’re gone in 60 seconds.

  I turn in my seat and watch nervously through the rear window. No irate, screaming Frenchman comes barreling out of the beach house.

  Grant knows exactly what I’m doing. “You worry too much,” he teases me.

  “Said the guy who wanted to push the car away before he started it.”

  “I’m just cautious.”

  “‘Cautious’? Remind me again – who has the serial killer after them?”

  “As I recall, someone else in this car besides me.”

  Damn it. As the French say, Touché.

  We pass a couple of signs that, even though I don’t speak French, seem to suggest we’re in a place called Neuville-lès-Dieppe.

  “It’s too bad we don’t speak French,” I muse, “otherwise we could stop and ask for directions. I guess we could just look confused and say, ‘Paris, see voo play’?”

  “I speak French,” Grant says.

  “You do?”

  Suddenly I remember that he knew the Baudelaire quote Epicurus had sent him: Au revoir, mon hyprocrite lecteur, mon semblable, mon frere. At the time, I had just assumed that someone else had translated it for him. Guess not.

  “Yup.”

  “Did you learn it in high school?”

  “No.”

  He doesn’t follow up, so I ask, “College?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then when did you learn it?”

  “Oh… I spent some time in France years ago.”

  I don’t know why, but there seems to be something slightly evasive about his answer.

  “You did?”

  He gives me a look. “Why do you think we’re here?”

  “You said you had connections. By which I’m assuming you mean ‘less than legally upstanding connections.’”

  “Th
at wouldn’t be a bad assumption.”

  “Sooooo… you indulged in some of your ‘hobby’ in France?”

  By ‘hobby,’ of course, I mean cat-burgling.

  “A little,” he answers.

  “That’s the reason you spent time in France?”

  “Partly. Some of it was studying the architecture. I also bought some property,” he says, then adds hastily, anticipating my objection, “Which we’re not going to use.”

  “You have property in Hong Kong, Tokyo, Moscow, Buenos Aires, and Mexico City,” I say, reciting what I found out from my research after he stole my cell phone that first night. “Did you live in any of those cities, too?”

  “No longer than a couple months at a time. And I wouldn’t say I lived here. I just spent some time here.”

  “Well, then, you can totally stop and ask for directions.”

  “Nope.”

  I roll my eyes. “Typical guy. Lost in a foreign country, and even though you’re fluent in the language – ”

  “First rule of being an international fugitive, Eve: don’t stop at gas stations and ask for directions.”

  “No. Just run out of gas on the side of the road instead.”

  “Nope. Three-quarters full tank,” he says, pointing at the dashboard.

  “What if you’re driving the wrong direction?” I ask him.

  “I’m not.”

  This is getting irritating.

  “How do you know?” I insist.

  He points to a sign, one of those highway mileage signs. It says Rouen – 85 km. “I’ve been to Rouen before.”

  “Oh. How far is it to Paris?”

  “Probably two or three hours from here, give or take.”

  He’s close. As the early morning traffic begins to intensify, it about three-and-a-half hours to get to the heart of Paris. We go below the speed limit the entire time, so as not to draw any attention from the police.

  We talk a lot over those three-and-a-half hours. Some of it is normal, road-trip chit-chat to pass the time. Some of it is life-and-death discussion about Epicurus and what we can do to escape his clutches. And some of the time is spent in silence as I watch the towns and scenery go past in the early morning light.