The Deal--A Sexy Billionaire Romance Page 9

  ‘And you’re nearly thirty?’

  He nods. ‘It’s time to face the music.’

  ‘So, what, you go home and get married, sometime next year?’

  For a second, something like fire flashes in his eyes, and then he shrugs. ‘That’s the deal we made.’

  ‘Wow. So, what, like a dynastic marriage?’ I’m kind of joking; the whole idea sounds so preposterous and so unlike Nicholas that it has to be a joke.

  But his look sparks with something like muted anger. ‘Yes.’

  I stop walking. ‘You can’t be serious.’

  He lifts his shoulders, staring down at me with eyes that seem to hold an entire universe in their depths.

  ‘“You have been born to privilege, Nicholas. It is not for you to abandon this family’s legacy on a whim.”’

  He is impersonating someone, putting on an even toffier accent.

  ‘But surely you can carry on a family legacy while marrying who you choose...?’

  ‘I would choose to stay single,’ he corrects, turning again so we’re shoulder to shoulder, taking a step forward. I move with him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I like being single. I like working hard. Playing harder. I don’t want to get married. I don’t want to have children. These are things my parents expect of me, but they don’t reflect my wishes.’

  My heart shifts a little inside my chest. ‘Have you explained that to them?’

  ‘My parents?’

  ‘No, your secretary.’

  He laughs. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you have a smart mouth?’

  I gape, because I don’t. I really, actually don’t. I’m very careful with what I say, moderating my language, aware that I am the representative of Chance and The Billionaires’ Club everywhere I go. But there’s something about Nicholas that makes me feel completely at ease, as if I can relax completely.

  ‘Did I offend you?’

  His laugh is uproarious. ‘Do I look like I’m made of glass?’

  I smile, relieved. ‘I don’t know why, but I feel like I can say anything to you,’ I explain, simply.

  His gaze hooks to mine again, probing. ‘It’s because of the stop point. We both know this is an aberration. Not real. Out of step with the lives we’re both going to lead. So we can let go and have fun without worrying about any kind of consequences or future.’

  That makes sense.

  ‘I have told my parents, on several occasions, what I think of their expectations and their title, and even their fortunes.’

  ‘Really?’

  He’s quiet, deep in thought. ‘Except I do care,’ he says, after a moment. To our right, a ferry boat passes under the bridge, bleating its low, thundering horn as it goes. The snow falls a little thicker now, landing on the bridge of my nose. I dash it away. ‘Not about the money—I have made more than enough on my own. But the title is something that matters.’

  We’ve slowed right down without meaning to. We put one foot in front of the other, but slowly. ‘I was raised to care about it, and I do. There’s so much history wrapped up in it, so much of my family’s past. And there’s a responsibility there to shepherd the title, the estate, the fortune on to a new recipient.’

  It rankles my American sensibilities. I can’t understand any of that old British aristocracy stuff. ‘That’s the way these things work, I guess.’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t much care for it when I was younger but now, at nearly thirty, I feel the weight of it in a new way. I don’t want to be where my family’s claim on the title ends.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘You really think so? Sometimes I can’t believe I actually give a shit.’

  I laugh. ‘I can. I can see that. Legacies are important. They should be protected.’

  ‘And you? Is there some family tradition your parents are desperate for you to carry on?’

  I bite down on my lip, thinking about that for a second before shaking my head. ‘Not really.’

  ‘They must be proud of you?’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘Sure. Why not?’

  I wrinkle my nose. ‘They’re not easy to please.’ I don’t feel like talking about them. As much as I’ve come to a place in my life where I accept the limitations of my relationship with Mom and Dad, it still hurts. It hurts in a way I’ll probably never get over.

  After Abbey died, I needed them in a different way. I needed them to be there for me, to make things better, and they weren’t. They just couldn’t.

  They’ve never really been there for me since—they just don’t get me.

  ‘Even when you’re running a global empire, trading in luxury and world-class networking events?’

  ‘Even then,’ I quip, shutting down his line of questioning with a tight-lipped smile. ‘Where, exactly, are we going?’

  ‘We’re nearly there.’

  ‘Nearly where?’

  ‘Don’t like surprises?’

  ‘I like some surprises.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ he murmurs, surprising me by bundling me into his arms and pushing me against a wall. My breath catches in my throat, my face tilting towards him. ‘Did you get the box I sent you?’

  A smile lifts the corners of my lips. ‘Which box would that be?’ I feign ignorance.

  ‘A little box of silk and lace, and a rather delightfully placed ribbon, if memory serves...’

  ‘Ah.’ I can’t stop the smile that spreads over my face. ‘You’re just going to have to wait and see.’

  ‘Haven’t I been waiting a decade already?’ he groans, dropping his head forward and brushing his lips over mine. Desire sets up camp in my belly.

  ‘Did you choose the lingerie yourself?’ I can’t help asking.

  His face is serious. ‘Of course. Did you think I had my assistant do it?’

  ‘Or your driver,’ I tease.

  ‘Edward can cross town in fifteen minutes flat but I don’t think he and I share the same taste in women’s apparel.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘You don’t like Edward’s taste either?’

  I laugh. ‘I don’t think I’ve even clapped eyes on the man. I just meant I like the idea of you going into a boutique and picking something out. For me.’

  ‘Ah.’ He nods, sagely, his own mouth quirking into a delicious smile. ‘I did.’ He drops his head a little closer, so his breath teases my cheek. ‘You know what else I did?’

  My heart rate accelerates. ‘What?’

  ‘I ran my fingers over it.’

  Heat pools between my legs.

  ‘I imagined you in it.’

  God. I feel weak-kneed.

  ‘And then...’

  I hold my breath, waiting. Desire is like a moth inside me, my blood the flame to which it’s drawn. I feel the wings beating through my veins, hollowing me out from under my skin.

  ‘Yeah?’ My voice is just a croak.

  ‘I went home and jacked off, imagining you in it.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ It’s a tremulous acknowledgement of one of the sexiest images I’ve ever had planted in my brain.

  He’s smiling; I’m not. I’m burning up. I can no longer wait to be with him. I look around us—we are practically alone, save for the cars hurtling past and the occasional jogger out for a late-night run.

  ‘I want to go home with you.’

  He nods.

  ‘Now.’

  He laughs. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘Wherever you were taking me, scrap it. I just want to get in a cab and go back to yours.’

  ‘I’m taking you there now.’

  I push away from the wall, my expression showing him I mean business. ‘Good, then let’s go.’

  A few minutes later, he leads me across the street and towards the
Hudson.

  ‘You live on the water?’

  I wrack my brain, trying to remember his address details from the paperwork, and come up empty. Someone better at this than I am might have taken the time to pull his file out for review, to re-familiarise themselves with his bio. But it never occurred to me and, actually, I’m kind of glad, because it’s nice learning about Nicholas straight from the horse’s mouth, rather than having a heap of his life story stored in my memory banks.

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Then why are we going down here?’

  ‘Just a second.’ He grins, and I know he likes this—knowing something I don’t. His hand curves around mine. He must feel the way my pulse is rabbiting in my wrist.

  We pass a big building with a sign that proclaims MANHATTAN HELICOPTER RIDES in shining red letters.

  But the office is boarded up. Further along there are a couple of security guys, and several sleek black helicopters. Nicholas holds something up and one of the security guys waves us through.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Rothsmore.’

  He dips his head in silent acknowledgement, shepherding me past more of the helicopters before changing course and weaving us between two. We approach one, larger than the rest, with Rothsmore Group emblazoned across the tail.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘A helicopter.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘No kidding.’

  ‘I thought it’d be the fastest way back to my place.’

  I laugh, a little unsteadily. ‘You’re going to pilot the thing?’

  He leans closer, so I smell his intoxicating fragrance, and my gut rolls in a way that I am learning to get used to. ‘It’s not my first time.’

  He holds the door open for me, then supports my hand as I step up into the helicopter. Inside, it’s like a cross between a private jet and a spaceship. The interior is all beige leather with shining wood panelling. I take the co-pilot’s seat, but behind us there’s a cabin with four deep armchairs facing towards a central table. Each has a thick black seat belt coming from both shoulders into a latch between the legs.

  I reach for the clip and hook it in place, the pressure between my legs exacerbating an already fraught central nervous system.

  Despite all of the events I’ve organised for the club, this is actually my first time in a helicopter. I have to say I’m a little afraid of the whole idea. I mean, they’re so un-aerodynamic...how can a helicopter possibly hope to survive if something goes wrong with it? They’re like a dead weight on the atmosphere, pure drag. At least a plane looks as if it should glide, even if the rational part of me knows that an aeroplane is also a dead weight.

  My point being, I thought I’d be afraid, climbing into this thing, but the second Nicholas takes the seat beside me, I relax. I smile. More than that, my insides buzz and hum with excitement.

  This is going to be fun—and that’s what we’re all about.

  New York glitters beneath us. The world-famous bridge cuts over the darkness of the Hudson, the only void of light in what appears to be a sparkler as we get higher over the city.

  I am torn between looking at the view and looking at Nicholas, who flies the helicopter as though he does so every day. And perhaps he does.

  I note the strength and capability of his hands as he manages the controls, pushing levers while he manoeuvres the navigation stick. Perhaps he feels me watching him because he shifts to look at me, his eyes pinning me to the spot, and his smile, though slow to spread, is as if it’s poured from hot lava, pure sex appeal and dynamism.

  I swallow and look away, butterflies now rampant in my stomach. He begins to bring the helicopter in lower, over the city proper, and another void looms before us. Central Park, I recognise from the surrounding buildings. I’m on the Upper East Side, a little further north, but he lowers the helicopter down gently, onto the roof of a high rise that must be just south of the park. Billionaires’ Row—that figures.

  A cursory look from my window shows three other helicopters on the roof. He unhooks his seat belt then reaches across; before I realise what he’s doing, his hand is between my legs. My face jerks towards him, and a low, soft breath escapes me as desire floods my system.

  I might have expected him to look teasingly but he doesn’t. His face is serious, tense. There is an air of urgency in his movements now. The seat belt slides loose but his hand stays between my legs, and, with his eyes latched to mine, he begins to move his fingers, so that, through the leather of my trousers and the silk of the underwear he bought with me in mind, I feel a surge of pleasure forming, building, like a wave rushing to shore.

  ‘These pants are seriously fucking sexy, but, God, how I wish you were wearing a skirt,’ he mutters in his inimitable accent, his voice deep, like a growl.

  I can’t respond. I bite down on my lip and tilt my head back, my legs moving a little wider apart.

  He makes a sound of impatience and his hand shifts up so he can slide it inside the leather and silk and touch my flesh, my hot, wet flesh, his fingers finding their way easily, constrained by the tightness of my trousers but in no way hampered in their effectiveness.

  ‘Fuck.’ The word bites out from my mouth; desperation is swirling through me. Intensity fires in my soul and before I realise what I’m doing, I push up from the seat, dislodging his hand, straddling him in his seat. His cock is hard between my legs and, despite the layers of clothing separating us, I grind myself down on him, groaning at the waves of pleasure that fill me.

  I kiss him, hard; his hands tangle in my hair, pulling at it, pulling me down so our lips are entwined, and I grind harder, the power of this something I’ll never forget. Pleasure is shifting, building, running like sand through fingers, I am tipping over the edge and I can’t stop. I whimper as I feel the release starting, tingling low in my gut, and I move faster, more desperately.

  He’s speaking, words that are so low I don’t catch them, but the tone of his voice adds an extra layer to my needs. His hand curves around to my arse, holding me down as he pushes up, thrusting as if we’re having sex, and we sort of are, despite the regrettable lack of penetration.

  Pleasure bursts like a sunray, slicing me with heat. I moan, low in my throat, as I tip right over the edge, my nails digging into his shoulder, my body shivering.

  My breath is ragged. I lift up, blinking, bringing him into focus. His expression is like a mask of concentration, his skin flushed, his pupils dilated. My own release was intense but now I crave something else, something more. I want to make him feel like I do. I move quickly, back to my seat.

  The cockpit isn’t huge and as I climb back into place, my shoe flicks something.

  ‘Shoot. Sorry.’

  He angles his face to mine, his lips lifting at the corners.

  ‘Imogen, you could smash the windscreen right now and I wouldn’t give a shit.’

  I don’t answer. Instead, I reach across and undo his trousers, my eyes flicking to his, checking for his reaction. As though he might stop what I’m about to do. I free his cock, wrapping my hand around it and pulling it from his boxers, drawing my hand up and down a few times, pumping him until I feel a hint of his cum leak out.

  He’s watching me with an intensity that makes my blood simmer all over again and I want him properly, not in a cockpit, somewhere I can relish and savour every damned move.

  That will come.

  But first, this.

  I bend forward but, before I do, I catch the glint of speculation in his eyes and smile to myself. I’ve surprised him. He wasn’t expecting this. I like that, so much.

  I start slow, flicking his tip with my tongue, chasing a bead of cum, tasting its salt, letting a small sigh escape before I run my tongue over him a little more, his hard tip smooth beneath my exploration. He groans and my name is somewhere in that groan, almost indiscernible. I open my mouth and move down his shaft, slowly at
first, exploring him with my tongue, lifting up and looking at him, so I see the tortured look on his features. I take him deep this time, faster, and bring my hand to his base, moving in time with my mouth, fast.

  ‘Imogen, fuck, do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?’

  I don’t stop.

  ‘I’m so fucking close,’ he groans, moving down in the seat a little further.

  I move my hand down a little, cupping his balls, and then I take his cock into my mouth completely, so I taste him right at the back of my throat.

  His hand comes to my head, his fingers there light, no pressure, more as though he just needs to hold onto something. To me.

  My stomach does a funny little dive.

  I move faster, and now his hand on my hair is almost pulling me away.

  ‘I’m going to come,’ he says, warning in his voice.

  I flicker my eyes to his, a smile on my lips.

  His eyes narrow. ‘You’re sure?’

  In response, I take him inside me with a fevered intensity so I feel the beginning of his spasm, the urgency of his movements as his hips lift a little so he thrusts into my open mouth, his hand on my arse, his fingers digging into my flesh as he begins to spill his seed. I keep him deep, I take him all, I hold him while he loses his control, and he holds me, his hands on my body as if he can’t possibly take them off.

  It is the hottest thing I’ve ever done—and it’s just the beginning.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘THE ORVILLE-GREENS ARE COMING, and the Weissinghams too.’

  My father lists two families who have daughters a few years younger than I am. ‘The Sinclairs, Morialtos, Lyons.’

  I grip the phone more tightly, telling myself not to react.

  I’ve been expecting this.

  ‘It’s going to be a New Year to remember. A new beginning.’

  I expel a harsh breath, reaching for my coffee. It’s a bleak, grey day, and I have more to do than I can put into words.