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

by Olivia Thorne

  God, he tastes so good. He smells so good. Musky and masculine and clean.

  I take as much of him as I can in my mouth. He’s so big, it’s not much – but I love hearing his groans and curses as I pleasure him. I lick him, squeeze him, tease him, until eventually he can’t take it anymore and he pulls me to my feet.

  He carries me over to the bed, and all I can think is, This might have never happened again. I might have never had this again.

  As he tears off my clothing and kisses my body, I feel like a woman dying of thirst who gets a taste of cold, clear spring water.

  This is all I want. HE is all I’ll ever want.

  His tongue finds my mouth, then my nipples, then my clit. I am writhing on the bed under him, and all I can do is moan, “Yes… yes… yes… YES…”

  He pins me naked to the bed, his hands on my wrists, his legs forcing mine open. I resist for the sheer theater of it, because I want nothing more than for him to take me. At last, when our bodies are aligned, and I can feel the tip of his cock pause at the lips of my aching pussy, he stops and looks me square in the face.

  “I love you,” he whispers. “I love you so much.”

  I am about to whisper I love you, too, when he enters me, and all I can do is cry out with pleasure.

  But as he rocks inside me and I gradually recover from those first few seconds of bliss, I chant, “I love you, too… I love you, too… I love you, too…”

  He takes me. Possesses me. Makes love to me. From minute to minute, I don’t know which to expect. Soulful gazing into my eyes while his finger brushes my lips… to grabbing my shoulders and forcing me down on that gorgeous cock… to gently rocking inside of me while whispering my name over and over.

  And I give as good as I get. I pour every ounce of my love down on him, using my body as a vessel… and I fuck him like his sole reason for existence is to make me come. I tease him… I please him… I scratch, I bite, I suck, I lick. As we switch positions continuously, I bring him to the edge of orgasm, then take him out of me, leaving him hanging… only to bring him even closer to the precipice just moments later.

  And I tell him I love him at least a thousand times.

  Over the course of an hour, I lose count as orgasm blends into orgasm. He ravishes me with his cock, then withdraws and caresses my clit with his tongue… then repeats the cycle until my mind is obliterated and I can’t even say my own name.

  And I make him come, multiple times. Every time he does, I keep going, not letting him get soft, not letting him rest. It is a marathon of sex, with the unspoken understanding that we are working out our fear – the fear that we might have lost each other forever. We are running from something terrifying, something that nearly destroyed us both, and we have only our bodies and souls to comfort each other.

  When we finally collapse, unable to go on, I start to cry. I don’t know why, I just do. He holds me in his arms, rocking me back and forth, whispering I love you, I love you until we both slip into a deep, dreamless slumber where there are no more threats, there is no more fear, and we can stay in each other’s arms forever.

  107

  The next morning is lazy. All four of us sleep late, then have breakfast together in the penthouse. The Frenchies nurse their hangovers with Bloody Marys as we watch the FBI’s press conference on CNN.

  “ – a raid on a Marin County estate yesterday, whose owner was suspected of funding terrorism abroad – ”

  “What?!” Grant shouts at the TV.

  “I guess we’re not the only ones who can tell whoppers,” I remark.

  The FBI spokesperson never mentions serial murders, the house in Bel Air, the name ‘Dieter Lassenbach,’ or anything remotely approaching reality. And it takes a full five minutes before they state that the ‘suspected terrorist’ hired a group of mercenaries to pose as FBI agents.

  “It was those mercenaries who raided the Manhattan home of billionaire architect Grant Carlson almost a week ago. It also appears that the stolen works of art found in Carlson’s penthouse were planted there by the suspect, in some sort of bizarre feud between the two parties.”

  “About time they got around to that,” Grant grumbles.

  We watch until the press start asking questions. Most squabble about the name of the ‘suspect’ – which the FBI refuses to reveal – but one finally asks, “Does this mean that Grant Carlson did NOT own those stolen paintings?”

  “Yes, that is correct, to the best of our knowledge.”

  “So he’s innocent?”

  “Yes, to the best of our knowledge.”

  “‘To the best of our knowledge,’” Grant grumbles. “They might as well have said ‘Sure, we guess so.’”

  Somewhere in San Francisco, I’m sure Duplass is having at least a tiny laugh at our expense. If he isn’t getting fired for all the screw-ups and disasters on his watch, that is.

  After the press conference is over, we turn off the TV and drown our rather minor sorrows in more Bloody Marys.

  Half an hour later, Grant’s company delivers a selection of suits, and he chooses a beautiful worsted wool with a crisp blue shirt.

  “Way better than those FBI sweats,” Grant says as he checks himself out in the mirror.

  “I kind of liked those pants,” I whisper in his ear. “You could feel a lot through them.”

  He laughs. “Maybe I’ll wear them again, just for you.”

  “You better,” I say, right before I kiss him.

  108

  The morning turns to afternoon, and our lightheartedness turns bittersweet as JP and Dominique prepare to leave.

  Grant’s company arranges a private jet for Dominique and JP, to a secluded airfield in Switzerland, as promised. Once they’re back in the European Union, there are no passport checks at borders. They can take the limo that will be waiting for them all the way back to Paris.

  We ride with them to the airport, and all stand on the tarmac saying our goodbyes. I even manage to hug Dominique – and neither of us pulls away with a dagger in our backs.

  “Guys… thank you,” Grant says. “From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”

  “If you need to be saved again, let me know,” JP says. “But the price goes up next time. Speaking of which – ”

  “Speaking of which,” Grant says, and pulls out two slips of paper. “Eve took care of it this morning. Bank account numbers, password – it’s all there.”

  “Mwah!” JP says as he kisses his slip of paper. “Je te remercie, Eve!”

  “If that was ‘thank you,’ then you’re welcome,” I laugh.

  “Except I should warn you, it’s not ten million dollars,” Grant says.

  JP stops and gets a look on his face like he’s about to finish what Epicurus started. “Putain d’merde, you cheap bastard – ”

  “It’s thirty. Million,” Grant adds for emphasis.

  JP just stands there, his eyes glazed over and his mouth wide open. Dominique looks about the same.

  “That should set you up nicely in French Polynesia.” Grant squints his eyes. “Although, now that you just called me a cheap bastard – ”

  “I did not mean it, I swear! Get on the plane, Dominique, before he changes his mind!”

  Dominique ignores him and hugs Grant again. “Thank you, mon cheri.”

  “My pleasure, Dom. Thank you for helping save my life.”

  The instant before she pulls away, Dominique manages to plant a kiss on Grant’s mouth. She laughs and links her arm with JP’s. “Run, Jean-Paul, before Eve shoots me!”

  I scowl – I’m not that happy about the kiss – but I soften as they board the plane and wave their goodbyes. Once the door is closed and the plane taxis onto the runway, I look at Grant and wipe a smudge of lipstick from his lip.

  “That was all her, not me,” he says with a grin.

  “Mm-hm,” I murmur disapprovingly.

  “Well… what do you want to do now?”

  I look at him standing there beside me, and suddenly I f
eel a little lost. We’ve been go-go-go for the last week, with our lives on the line every moment of every day, that I don’t quite know how to process the utter freedom of having nothing to do and nowhere to go.

  Plus there’s the fear I don’t want to acknowledge: now that Grant is completely free, there’s nothing tying him to me anymore. He can walk away if he wants to.

  I’m suddenly filled with overwhelming dread. “I don’t know.”

  “Well… the President did say we should go disappear in Europe for a couple of weeks.”

  My dread is replaced with hope. “So… we’re both going?”

  He looks at me like I’m stupid. “Of course we’re both going. I even have the plane ready.”

  He points, and I cry out in surprise when I see another Gulfstream jet moving out of a hangar towards us.

  “We’re leaving now?!”

  “You got something better to do?”

  “No, but…” I frown. “Why didn’t we go with JP and Dominique?”

  “I figured we’ve been around them enough. We need a little break.”

  He’s too nice to say I know you didn’t want Dominique around me any more than necessary – and I love him for it.

  “So, where do you want to go?” he asks as the plane approaches.

  I look at him and grin. “Somewhere they don’t speak French.”

  109

  If you ever get the chance to visit, Majorca, Spain is one of the loveliest places on earth. It’s an island in the Mediterranean, with some of the bluest waters and loveliest beaches you’ve ever seen. There are charming towns with tiny boats lining the waterfront; ancient ruins, including an Arab bath; and a stunning cathedral begun in the Dark Ages and completed in 1601. There are lots of tourists, ranging from the backpacking crowd to the mega-rich – though not as many as on its sister island, a little spot you might have heard of called Ibiza. Across Majorca’s rugged hills you’ll find quaint fishing villages, luxury resorts, palatial homes, and stunning vistas.

  In short, it’s a really nice place to disappear.

  Grant and I arrive at noon, after a night of making love aboard his private jet. I suffer a mini panic attack upon landing: lots of bad memories from the last time I was in a plane in a foreign country. I half expect Spanish police to surround us and start yelling about me hacking Interpol. But nothing happens that necessitates ditching the jet in the Mediterranean.

  “Remind me, I need to buy Connor a new plane,” Grant says as we taxi down the runway towards the hangar. Then he adds, annoyed, “That is, when I can fucking call him.”

  “I wonder if Mike retired,” I muse.

  Grant looks at me, confused. “Why would he retire?”

  “People who aren’t billionaires tend to do that when they suddenly come into five million dollars.”

  “Well, shit… Connor’ll probably be pissed about losing his best pilot, too.”

  “Probably.”

  “…I’ll make it a really nice plane,” Grant mutters.

  We stick to our agreement with the FBI and limit our phone calls to family: my parents, his family and siblings. We do a lot of explaining, a lot of calming people down, and a little crying (well, at least on my part).

  After all that is over, we start on a whole lot of living.

  We go for the fanciest hotels at first, renting the penthouses and dining at the finest restaurants. But as the days wear on, we drive around the island and decide we would rather have seclusion. There is a beautiful village on the northeast side that fits the bill, with a summer home owned by some Scandinavian prince or something. One phone call to Grant’s company, and thirty minutes later we’ve rented it for a week.

  One week turns into two, then three. We laze on the beaches, eat some of the best food of our lives in tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurants, and spend our nights dancing salsa and tango in local music halls. Grant goes for long swims in the Mediterranean; I brush up on my high school Spanish. We sleep late, stay up late, and have more sex than I would have thought humanly possible.

  We have just finished one of our ‘afternoon delights’ and are lying naked on the bed, panting in each other’s arms. The glass doors of the bedroom are open wide to the salt air, and we can hear the cawing of seagulls over the aquamarine waters the house overlooks.

  “I’m so happy,” Grant murmurs softly, almost to himself.

  “You almost sound surprised.”

  He smiles. “No, I just… I’ve never been this happy before in my life. I didn’t know what it felt like.”

  My heart feels like it’s exploding with joy. I kiss him passionately, he kisses me back… and before you know it, we’re at it again.

  110

  Things are mostly wonderful. But I’m starting to miss home.

  And every so often, I wake up screaming, afraid that someone is breaking into our bedroom, trying to kidnap and kill us.

  Grant holds me trembling in his arms, whispering soothing words into my ear, until I finally fall asleep again.

  It happens at first every night, then every other night, then every third and fourth.

  Part of me wonders if I will ever be rid of the memories.

  But as long as I can go back to sleep in Grant’s arms, I know I’ll be okay.

  111

  After three weeks in Majorca, we call Mailin at the FBI.

  “Can we come home yet?” Grant asks over the speakerphone.

  “Uh… no, not yet.”

  “Why not?!”

  “We’re breaking the news that Dieter Lassenbach was a serial killer.”

  Grant and I stare at each other.

  All the fear and anxiety I had started to leave behind comes rushing up out of nowhere and threatens to overpower me again.

  “Why now?”

  “Because we’ve identified most of the victims, and we’re notifying the families. We figured they deserved to know.”

  “Someone leaked it to the press, didn’t they?” Grant asks grimly.

  “…that, too.”

  “Let me give you some advice, Mailin. Don’t be an asshole like Duplass. When people you trust ask you a straight question, give them a straight answer, huh?”

  There’s a tense second of silence – and then Mailin sighs, defeated. “Duly noted.”

  “Can we talk to our friends, at least?” I ask.

  “Not yet. Wait until the serial killer story dies down.”

  “How long will that be?”

  “I don’t know. A couple more weeks, probably.”

  “Seriously?” Grant growls. “I’m starting to lose patience with you people.”

  “Wait, remind me – where are you again? The Mediterranean? Oh yeah, I feel SOOO SORRY for you. Eating the best food, drinking the best wine, lying out on the beach all day, swimming in crystal-clear water, and having sex 24/7. All of that after walking away from life in prison for stealing a billion dollars worth of art. Meanwhile, I get to talk to the vultures in the press between calling victims’ families and dealing with Agent Duplass. Maybe you should just enjoy your goddamn vacation, huh?”

  Grant sighs. “…duly noted.”

  112

  We’re browsing in a tiny jewelry shop in a nearby village when I find a necklace I like. It’s beautiful – gold, but with a bronze-like hue to it. The chain is delicate, like a strand of metallic lace.

  “Can we get this?” I ask.

  “You don’t have to ask. You can just buy it,” Grant says.

  “I know, but – we’re using your money. I don’t want to act entitled or ungrateful.”

  “Don’t worry,” he teases me. “I’m taking it out of the payment we agreed on when I hired you.”

  “Well, that’ll cover a lot of jewelry, then.”

  “Eh… you only worked a week…”

  I laugh. “You jerk! I saved your life!”

  “Yeah, but it only took you a week… come on…”

  “As I recall, you promised me five million dollars once upon a time.”


  “I can cut you a check.”

  Something feels icky about the conversation. I don’t like joking about this.

  “I don’t care about money,” I say quietly. “I only care about you.”

  “I know that,” he says defensively.

  I put the necklace down.

  “Don’t you want it?” he asks.

  Not with these memories attached to it, I don’t.

  I shake my head and force a smile. “No… I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Nonsense,” he says, and gives the relieved shopkeeper his credit card.

  Afterwards we walk out of the shop and down a cobblestone pathway, but I can’t shake the exchange in the jewelry shop. A cloud seems to have settled over the beautiful day.

  “Did I say something wrong?” he asks.

  “No… no.”

  “So that’s a ‘yes,’” he says humorously.

  “I just…”

  How can I tell him? How can I tell him that I’m rapturously in love with him, but that every morning I wake up, I have a second of terror that he’s going to be gone? That today is the day he tells me it’s been fun, it’s been nice, but it’s time to go our separate ways?

  He stops me by touching my arm and turning me towards him. We’re on a beautiful stone walkway overlooking the sea, but I can’t see any of it because of the fear in my heart.

  “What? What’s wrong?” he asks.

  I look from the ground up into his confused eyes. “I love you.”

  “Oh, well – that clears it up.”

  “Be serious,” I plead gently.

  “Okay… okay,” he agrees, trying to soothe me.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to lose you, that’s all,” I say, my voice trembling, and I have to look at the ground again. “I’m afraid you’re going to say it’s been fun, but it’s time to move on… I’ve never felt this happy before in my life, and I’m afraid to lose it.”