My Roommate, the Billionaire (The Billionaire Kings Book 3)

by Serenity Woods

“I am insanely jealous. I want to find every one of your girls and give them a lobotomy so they cannot remember what it was like.”

  That makes him chuckle. “I doubt they’d remember. I’m not very memorable.”

  “Oh, you told me you could not lie!”

  “Aw,” he says. “You say all the right things.”

  I lean forward conspiratorially and whisper, “Tu as une grosse bite.”

  “I have a gross what?”

  “Grosse. Big.”

  “A big…” His eyebrows rise, and I giggle. His expression turns wry. “Remy, are you drunk?”

  “I’ve had one shot of brandy! Although it was French. No, Al-bear, I am not drunk, at least only on you.” I lean forward and lick a couple of sprinkles off his lips, then kiss him properly.

  He’s just getting into it when I lean back and take another cookie out of the pack.

  “I have an idea,” I tell him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Albie

  “Uh-oh,” I say to Remy, and take a bite of the cookie as she offers it to me. “Should I be worried?”

  “Not at all. I was thinking… We should spend the next two weeks in bed.”

  I stop chewing and stare at her. Her eyes sparkle. She seems to have thrown off the melancholy that enveloped her when we first got home. Good sex has a tendency to do that, I guess.

  And man, was it good sex. I’m thrilled and relieved that Remy thinks I’m okay in bed, but the truth is that although I’ve had a fair amount of sex, it’s been a bit… one dimensional. It’s my own fault, because I’ve steered clear of anything long term, so a sexual relationship has never had time to develop. My sex life has been about shared gratification, consisting of me going to a bar or a club, meeting a pretty girl, having a dance or a drink, inviting her back to my place if I think she’s interested or occasionally going back to hers if she offers, and then pleasuring her as many times as I can before I finally let myself come. And the girls have—bar none—been happy to let it play like that. Which is fine. I’ve been content to do that—it’s not strenuous work. But in the past, I’ve listened to stories other guys have recounted about girlfriends who’ve tied them up or pulled them into a bathroom at a party or just even suggested a different position, and I’ve been kind of baffled. Not that I’m looking to be dominated or anything like that. I like being in charge. But I admit I’ve fantasized about going with a girl who doesn’t just see my orgasm as a necessary evil after she’s had her own two or three.

  And then along came Remy, who sang a sexy song while she came, and who then rode me and watched me with pure delight while she gave me pleasure, rather than me taking it from her. And now she’s suggesting we spend the next fortnight in bed. Jesus. My dick will be an inch shorter by the end of the two weeks if I have Remy all to myself.

  “What about work?” I ask.

  “Mon Dieu. I don’t mean we stay in bed. I mean we should have sex for two weeks.”

  “Continuously?”

  “Albie!”

  “I’m not with you.”

  “Are you being compact on purpose?”

  “Compact? Do you mean… dense?”

  “Oui, dense, thick. Ee-dee-ot.”

  “Not on purpose, no. It’s always by accident.”

  She sighs. “Don’t you want to sleep with me again?”

  “Honey, if we’re going to be sharing a bed for a fortnight, there’s not going to be much sleeping going on.”

  That makes her smile. “So you do understand.”

  “I get the gist. I suppose I’m more puzzled as to why.”

  “Why what?”

  “Why you want to have sex with me again.”

  She stares at me. “Please tell me that what we have just done is not average sex for you.”

  “No,” I say patiently. “It was very un-average.”

  “Is that a word?”

  “It is now. What I mean, Remy, is I thought you were worried about getting involved with someone before you left. Or do you think we can have mind-blowing sex for a fortnight and not feel anything for each other?”

  She purses her lips. “As I see it, I have two choices. I am already crazy about you, Albie. I can either be crazy about you and not have sex for two weeks. Or be crazy about you and… how do you say it… get my rocks off a few times.”

  I smile. “You’re crazy about me?”

  “I sang, did I not?”

  “Maybe you’ve sung to all your lovers. Perhaps you serenade them with the French Top Twenty every time you make love.”

  She smiles back. “No, Al-bear, you were the first.”

  I take another cookie, glowing inside at that revelation. “All right. Let’s have sex for a fortnight.”

  Her smile spreads. “Merveilleux.” She sips her whisky, and we study each other for a while, letting the news sink in that our amazing sex session is going to be repeated, hopefully many times.

  “I have seventeen days left,” she says. “How many times can we have sex?”

  I’m growing used to her frank questions now, and I don’t bat an eyelid. “I don’t know. Seven? Eight?”

  “Eight times in seventeen days?”

  “I meant eight times a day, Remy.”

  She chokes on her whisky. “Holy sheeet! You can really have sex eight times a day?”

  “Well, probably not every day. If it was a special occasion.”

  She starts laughing, and I join in. “Be sensible,” she scolds me. “Realistically. How many times could we do it?”

  “Depends. I wouldn’t want to make you sore.”

  Her eyes gleam. “Let us pretend that I do not mind.”

  I feel a tingle of lust at the thought. “Okay. Twice a day is doable, then. Once in the evening, and once when we wake up—morning glory, you know.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Morning wood. An erection, Remy. Guys get them when they wake up, and we like to make the most of them.”

  “Morning glory,” she says, “I like that.”

  “Me too.”

  She touches the rim of the glass to her lips as she considers me. “Twice a day. Really? Seventeen days… thirty-four times?”

  “We wouldn’t be able to walk afterward, but it would be worth crawling for the next few months.”

  She giggles. She’s definitely tipsy. I like tipsy Remy.

  “Mmm,” she murmurs. “Imagine what you could show me if we had thirty-four times to do it.”

  I look into my glass for a moment. Then I look back up at her. “Cards on the table?”

  “Pardon?”

  “It means I’m going to show my hand—reveal my innermost secrets.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes glitter. “Okay.”

  “I think you have the wrong idea about me. I like sex. I’ve had quite a lot of it. But it’s been very… vanilla.”

  She frowns. “Je ne comprends pas.”

  “Vanilla—come on Remy, think about the word.”

  She ponders. “Plain? Bland?”

  “Exactly.”

  She blinks a few times.

  “If you’re looking for excitement,” I tell her, “I don’t know I’m the man to show you, honey. I’d like to try, but if you’re thinking I have hundreds of exciting tricks up my sleeve…”

  “Your hand holds no aces?”

  I smile. “I’m afraid not.”

  She gives me a rueful smile. “Mine neither.”

  That surprises me. “The French Fop didn’t swing from the chandeliers?”

  Her lips curve up at my derogatory description of her ex. “We did not have chandeliers,” she explains. “They get dusty.”

  “Remy…”

  “No,” she says softly. “No swinging from the chandeliers.”

  We both think about that for a moment. All sex is good sex. But explorational sex with Remy? That’s something else. All the things I’ve ever wanted to try… and Remy’s eyes are telling me she’s thinking exactly the same as me.

  “Why?�
�� she asks eventually.

  “Why what?”

  “Why has vanilla been your only flavor?”

  “Never been with a girl long enough to experiment.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve been busy. Focused on other things.”

  Her eyes soften, and she reaches out a hand to cup my jaw, rubbing her thumb across my bristles. “Why, really, Albie?”

  “Too scared to have a relationship,” I confess. I’ve never told anyone else this, although I think my family have probably guessed. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “You have purposefully avoided a relationship?”

  “Yes. I know I’d make a hash of it, and to be honest I haven’t met anyone I’ve thought would be patient enough with me to help me work things out.”

  I can’t read what’s in her eyes. Puzzlement, maybe, curiosity. “How old are you?” she asks.

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “When is your birthday?”

  “January twenty-fifth.”

  “An Aquarius?”

  I raise my eyebrows. “You’re into astrology?”

  She shrugs. “A leetle.” Then she frowns. “Are you going to make fun of me?”

  “Of course not. Even my scientific father still touches wood for luck. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…” For some reason, it just makes me want her more.

  She smiles. “I should have guessed,” she says mysteriously.

  I don’t know what that means, so I ask, “What does it tell you about me?”

  “It explains why you are good with technology. Why you have lots of friends. It tells me you work well with other people, that you have an original mind. You are not afraid to speak up for what you believe. That you are very generous, which I already know.” She’s warming up now. “It is the eleventh sign of the zodiac and the eleventh house rules humanitarian efforts, so that is why you like helping people. It also means that although you are warm and courageous, freedom is very important to you.”

  “Isn’t it to everyone?”

  “Not in the same way. Are you afraid of being tied down?”

  “Not if you’re doing the tying.”

  “Do not change the subject,” she scolds. “Is that one reason why you have not pursued a relationship? Are you frightened of commitment?”

  “I don’t get people, Remy, and people don’t often get me. They think I’m abrasive and blunt, or purposefully obtuse. And I probably am. But I don’t know how to be any different. I need someone who’s prepared to be patient with me and teach me how to think and react in a way that’s suitable in a relationship, without flying off the handle because she says don’t get me anything for my birthday and so I don’t and then she cries, you know?”

  “Did that actually happen?”

  “Might have.” It was a girl I’d dated a few times while I was at university. Needless to say, the relationship didn’t go any further.

  Lowering her hand, Remy looks around her, and I know she’s thinking about the fact that I’ve been living in this house with Nix for two years and Izzy for five years, so she knows I’m telling the truth.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” I say, wondering if I’ve said too much, again. Presumably it’s not a turn on for a guy to admit he’s not experienced in relationships. But then who is, until they have one? I’m just coming at it a little later than most others.

  Her gaze comes back to me. “I am not disappointed. I am sad. You are a lovely man. You would be a wonderful husband and father. Do you want children?”

  Kids? I’ve honestly never considered it. I didn’t think it would be a part of my life, so I’ve not dwelled on the notion. “Both Poppy and I inherited Dad’s Aspergic tendencies, and I don’t know how I feel about passing those on. Life’s tough enough without problems that could be avoided.”

  “You do not like the idea of lots of little Albies running around?” She smiles.

  I think about having a baby with Remy. About making love with her without the barrier of condoms, of checking the pregnancy test and discovering it’s positive, of watching her swell and grow with my child.

  “Hmm,” I say.

  Her lips curve up, and she leans forward and presses her mouth to mine. We exchange a long, leisurely kiss, and I put my arm around her shoulders and turn so she’s lying on her back.

  “There are crumbs in the bed,” she murmurs.

  “I don’t care.” I kiss her again, and her arms snake around me, and she holds me tightly as we kiss for a long, long time.

  When we eventually come up for air, she kisses my nose. “I think you are saying yes, then. Am I right?”

  “To having sex with you for a fortnight. Yes, Remy. Oui. I would like that.”

  “Okay. Am I…” She hesitates and looks up into my eyes. “Am I sleeping here tonight?”

  I feel a sweep of pleasure. I can count on the fingers of one hand—probably of one finger—the times that I’ve spent the night with a girl. “Oui.”

  Her pleased smile warms me through. “Let me get ready for bed then. I know it is early but I am tired.”

  “It’s been a busy day.”

  “And I have been shagged senseless,” she reminds me, which sounds even funnier with her French accent.

  She blows me a kiss, rises from the bed, and walks out, naked.

  I exhale slowly and flop back onto the pillows, covering my face with my hands. I have Remy De La Vieuville to myself for a whole seventeen days. Holy Jesus.

  Then I lower my hands and look out of the window, into the dark night. Is this wise? She’s not mentioned anything about the possibility of staying after the two weeks is up. If I sleep with her for a fortnight… if she proves to be as patient and understanding with me as she has been so far… letting go of her is going to be impossible.

  But it doesn’t matter, because I’m not going to pass up on the chance of having her in my bed. She’s like a new wine I’ve tried, and I have a taste for her now, and I intend to get drunk on her, until the world blurs around me, and nothing else seems to matter.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Remy

  I run down to my bedroom on the other side of the house, my heart lifting at the prospect of having Albie as my lover for two whole weeks. I’m not going to think about the repercussions of that, and what it means for the future. For once in my life, I’m going to follow my heart, and my heart’s telling me—bellowing at me—that being with Albie King is the absolute best thing I can do.

  Maybe it’s not my heart talking, maybe it’s a part of my anatomy slightly lower down. Whatever.

  I go into my bathroom, cleanse my face, brush my hair, clean my teeth, spray a little perfume on the inside of my wrists, then take out one of my prettiest nighties, made from lavender-colored satin, with lace trim and spaghetti straps, reaching to just below my bottom.

  Then I stare at myself in the mirror. I look quite pretty, I think. My cheeks are still flushed from our lovemaking, and I’m smiling, even without meaning to.

  Albie fascinates me. He’s such a strange mixture of things—what was that Swedish word I learned the other day? Smorgasbord. He’s a smorgasbord of conflicting personality traits. Confident and somehow shy. Experienced and naive too. He has a huge heart and is very open, and yet I can also see him holding back sometimes, because he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. He’s says he’s vanilla, and yet his hands were sure when they touched me, and his eyes told me he has plenty of ideas of things he wants to do to me.

  Pierre was okay in bed, but sex tended to be fast and furious, as if he believed the sign of a great lover was reaching the finishing line as quickly as possible. He wasn’t one of those men who enjoyed taking hours with foreplay, who liked experimenting with ways to arouse each other. Is Albie? I suspect he is. I guess I’ll find out soon.

  I leave the room and walk back through the house to Albie’s bedroom.

  I’ve glanced in it as I’ve walked by before, but today is the firs
t time I’ve been inside. It’s very much a man’s room; there are no frills, no pretty cushions or colorful drapes or shelves of knick-knacks. The decor is neutral, the bedding dark blue, and there’s only one picture on the wall—a rather beautiful painting of the Eiffel Tower; I make a mental note to ask him if he’s been to France. A long table against one wall holds two monitors and an array of technical equipment, presumably where he works in the evenings. There’s also an armchair in front of a PlayStation with a huge TV on the wall. Albie likes to escape from the real world. That I can understand.

  He’s closed the curtains and is now back in bed. As I walk in, he’s looking kind of sad, although he smiles as he sees me.

  “You look sad,” I say as I climb back onto the bed. “What were you thinking about?”

  He hesitates, and I know him well enough now to know he’s considering whether what he’s about to say is suitable.

  “There is no right answer,” I tell him.

  “I was thinking about Belle,” he says. “I hope she’s doing okay.”

  “I’m sure Hal’s looking after her.”

  “I have no doubt about that.”

  “Why did you think that would not be the right thing to say?”

  He lifts his arm as I snuggle up to him, and then lowers it around me. “I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to say I was thinking about you.”

  “Aw, Albie. You are not going to offend me by saying you were thinking about the dog you saved.”

  “You say that now…”

  It’s obviously a huge fear for him, no doubt fueled by experience where he’s put his foot in it and upset people in the past.

  “Listen,” I tell him, “if you say something and it is not quite the right thing to say, I promise I will try not to react straight away. I will help you understand why. Does that help?”

  “Yes.” He looks relieved.

  “And I will try to make myself as clear as possible, and not assume that you understand what I am implying. It has made me realize how much we rely on nonverbal communication, and also how difficult it must be if you cannot decipher that. I will help, if I can.”

  He kisses my nose. “Thank you for understanding.” His voice is husky; I think he’s quite touched.

  “You are welcome. Shall we go to sleep now?”