Borrowed Billionaire #4 Under the Sea Read online

  Borrowed Billionaire #4 - Under the Sea (Erotic Romance)

  © 2012 Mimi Strong

  Description: Lexie's going on vacation with her best friends ... and sexy billionaire Luthor Thorne. They meet at a resort in Indonesia, where they dive below the sea, and enjoy each other. Danger threatens to tear them apart, or bring them closer together.

  Length: 13,700 words, or 55 book pages long. This is the fourth of a 5-part series.

  Spice Level: Erotic romance. This story contains super-hot sex, M/F. For adults, 18+ only.

  1: Where There's Smoke, There's a Fireman

  What did I do after Luthor Thorne left me in the pitch-black restaurant's private room, with coffee all down my shirt? I got out my cell phone and used the flashlight app as a night light. The room wasn't even painted, can you believe it? There was primer on the walls, by the look of it, but you could see all the seams from the sheetrock. And I had to wait in that ugly room for five minutes.

  After four minutes and fifty-nine seconds of glaring at the shoddy décor inside the room, I was out the door. People yelled at me for having my phone on, lighting up their dark dinner, but I didn't care. I wanted out. Now.

  Instead of going home, I gave the taxi driver Suzanne's address, and I went there.

  Her husband opened the townhouse door, took one look at me, and decided he was going to stay in the den watching TV.

  I had bits of food and coffee all down the front of me, my skirt was wrinkled up, and I looked like hell. Suzanne dabbed her finger on my blouse, smelled her finger, and said, “Chocolate. And something else. Pear?”

  “Pretty much,” I said, taking a seat on a stool at her kitchen island.

  She put on the kettle for tea and said, “You're dressed up fancy. Don't even try to pass this off as the pool boy. There's no way you'd let a pool boy—” she waved her hand up and down me “—do this to you.”

  “Luthor Thorne.”

  She blinked, and then, slowly, she nodded. “The walk-in closet. Yes. I knew I shouldn't have sent you on that job. That woman who works for him, Grace, she was asking the strangest questions. Even had me email her a photo of you.”

  “That witch!”

  Suzanne shuddered and rubbed her arms. She was not a very big girl, and with her small frame and dyed-red hair, she looked like a little doll in her oversized kitchen. “I feel dirty,” she said, then whispered, “I gave that man phone sex.”

  I pointed to the dessert I was wearing. “Yes, Suzanne, clearly you're the party who's been wronged. Tell me, Suzanne, what can I do to make you feel better.”

  “Shit.” She grabbed the whistling kettle and poured the tea. “I'm sorry. Tell me what happened. Some sort of food fight? You don't seem drunk. How did this happen?”

  So I told her everything, from our unconventional meet-cute at the mansion, to Mr. Luthor Thorne telling me about the strange bet he'd made with his assistant, which had him unable to see a woman for months. I continued the lurid tale, right up to our date earlier that evening. We'd had dinner at the dark restaurant, which he owned, and then sex, also in the restaurant, then he'd left me there to find my way home.

  Suzanne said, “And then you showed up on my doorstep.”

  “I need help, and it was either you or my mother.”

  “Your mother would have been an expensive cab ride.”

  I smiled. “Exactly.”

  Suzanne grabbed the milk and sugar and took a seat beside me. “Here's what you're gonna do,” she said.

  I left Suzanne's feeling a little better. Suzanne was only slightly older than me, but she was married, so that made her an expert. She was also a really good friend, and she made me feel better just by being my friend. By my calculations, I had to be pretty special to deserve a pal like her.

  On Monday, I was back to my regular job, my regular life, which didn't involve dating billionaires, but organizing the junk of millionaires.

  I was at Mrs. Chong's helping sort the woman's collectibles when Suzanne called me on my cell. Mrs. Chong made a comment about young people and their phones, but she let me take a break.

  “He called,” Suzanne said, sounding excited. “He tried to book you for an organizing job on a yacht. I told him you refused to work for him and offered to send someone else.”

  “Suzanne!” I yelled. “A yacht? I've never been on a yacht.”

  “Lexie, we never discussed a yacht scenario! I did as we agreed and told him no. Now, don't be weak. What would your mother tell you to do?”

  I sighed. “Let him come to me.”

  “Exactly. She used to tell me the same thing. That's how I got my proposal. The thing is, I'd already given up and started putting together an online dating profile—”

  “Stop! For the love of clean towels, Suzanne, I adore you, but I don't want to hear your proposal story again.”

  “Oh.”

  “Wound. Salt. Single girl here. Single and horny.”

  “Why are you always so horny all the time?”

  I clicked the door shut on the bathroom I was hiding in to take the call. “I'm probably a nympho.”

  “Nobody says nympho anymore. It's called sex addiction, and you can go to rehab for it now. Like David Duchovny.”

  My pussy was aching. It must have been the idea of the yacht. Of being on a yacht, out on the ocean, with Mr. Luthor Thorne bringing me margaritas and then pulling off my white yacht trousers. We'd be on the deck of the boat, bathed in sunshine glaring off the white surface, and I'd sip my margarita as he licked the salt from my body, hands moving up, tongue moving down …

  And David Duchovny would be there, looking all hot and kinda old but still sexy, and he'd say something sarcastic, and then Mr. Thorne would invite him to take over. Then Mr. Thorne would be watching, a giant bulge in his white yacht trousers, as the handsome movie star dove between my legs and …

  A woman's voice said, “Lexie. Are you even listening?”

  I snapped out of my daydream. The phone was still at my ear, held up with my shoulder, and I had both hands down the front of my jeans.

  “I'm not a sex addict,” I snapped as I pulled out my hands. “Sex is a natural urge. You don't call someone a food addict just because they get hungry now and then.”

  “Do you want me to call Mr. Thorne back and tell him you'll go meet him on his yacht?”

  “Yes.”

  “Congratulations, you're a sex addict.”

  “Eat a dirty butt,” I said, and I hung up.

  A few minutes later, I sent her a text message: Sorry for losing my cool. Thanks for looking out for me.

  Ten minutes later, when I was elbow-deep in Mrs. Chong's collection of Royal Family memorabilia, being strangely aroused by an 80s-era plate with a dashing Prince Charles on the surface, Suzanne wrote back: I'm currently negotiating a better offer from Mr. Thorne. I've thought it through and you can use the money. I'll set aside a portion of my commission to pay for sex addiction treatment for you after.

  Me: WHAT? AFTER WHAT???

  Suzanne: Can't talk. Busy. Will let you know.

  After a long, grueling day organizing other people's things, I returned home. Suzanne hadn't returned my calls, and my condo seemed to be holding its breath, waiting. Everything was still. The rooms all seemed an inch smaller, and older.

  The intercom buzzed.

  I ran to it excitedly, answered breathlessly. “Yes?”

  “Alexis, this is Mrs. O'Hara. I seem to have forgotten my keys.”

  Of course. I guess I'd been expecting Mr. Thorne, or a delivery from him, like when he'd sent me the dinner invitation. As I took the elevator down to help my elderly neighbor, I considered how time plays tricks on memories. Af
ter I'd been ditched at the restaurant, having been rode hard and put away wet (in Grace's equestrian terms), I'd been so pissed at Mr. Thorne. But now, thinking he could have been downstairs pressing my buzzer, my passionflower had blossomed in my panties, just at the possibility.

  Indeed, talking to Mrs. O'Hara while I was walking her groceries into her condo, hyper-aware of my engorged labia rubbing deliciously against each other, was a mix of pleasure and annoyance.

  She showed me the cyst she'd had lanced, and still, I couldn't get turned back off again. I kept thinking about Mr. Thorne and that sexy body of his. He wasn't as thick and muscled as my friend Jacob, the fireman, but he was graceful. The man knew how to move.

  When he'd been behind me in the dark restaurant, thrusting in and out, I'd tilted up, opening myself more to him. I wanted him deep inside me. I wanted to see his face as he came, make him say my name, kiss me, forget everything in the world but me.

  Dear old Mrs. O'Hara knew something was up. She chided me for trying to put her crackers in the fridge and took them from my hand. “Man trouble?”

  “Sorta. It's fine. Just the usual.” I was reluctant to discuss my love life issues with her, as she'd only lost her husband a year earlier, and I didn't want to bring up painful memories.

  She opened a box of cookies and offered me one. “The technology has changed, but the heartbreak, the nerves, the anxieties, that hasn't changed at all. So, what's the issue? Is he dating multiple girls or just commitment phobic?”

  “He's very rich.”

  “Just as easy to love a rich man as a poor man. What's the real issue?”

  I laughed at her ability to simplify. “What we have so far has been built on sex. Just pure, crazy, unbelievable sex.”

  Her white eyebrows shot up. “Nothing wrong with that. If two people give each other some pleasure, that should be considered a victory for love.”

  “But how do I move from sex to love?”

  “The third time's the charm. Or maybe the fifth.” She rubbed the fine white whiskers on her chin. “Or is it four. Doesn't matter. Why don't you give him a little surprise. Stick one of your fingers up his bumhole.”

  “Mrs. O'Hara!”

  She tipped her head to the side nonchalantly. “You gotta know how to work the pipes, dear. Play the mouth organ at the same time.”

  I was still giggling when I got back to my condo down the hall.

  I'd learned a lot about Mrs. O'Hara, including that she'd been a dancer back in the day, and quite the little fox. She'd had a number of male suitors, and when she set her sights on the one she wanted, Mr. O'Hara, she'd hit him with every trick she had, but mainly the finger up the bum. I wasn't planning to go there myself, but … perhaps if I did see Mr. Thorne again and he was being cheeky, I'd give him a little surprise.

  Come to think of it, my fireman friend Jacob had fingered me in my second hole, and it had felt rather nice. Tingly.

  Inside my door, I dropped my keys in the bowl by the door. I visited my bedroom to grab a waterproof toy, and I filled the tub with hot water and a few drops of aromatherapy oil.

  Thinking about Mr. Luthor Thorne, and a little about Jacob, plus some David Duchovny for good measure, I gave myself three orgasms in short succession. Then I conditioned my hair.

  On Tuesday morning, Suzanne finally called, yet she wouldn't tell me anything about the arrangements she'd made with Mr. Thorne. She kept saying it was a surprise, but definitely a good surprise, and she asked if all my shots were up to date for traveling.

  I said, “Yes, I just got a bunch for my trip back at Christmas. But wait, traveling where?”

  “You'll see.” She giggled, and though I couldn't see her, I knew her eyes were squeezed shut with delight. The woman loved to put one over on me.

  “For how long? When?”

  “Just a few days. His schedule's so busy. We leave on Friday.”

  “What do you mean we? Are you going?”

  She gasped. “Oh, shit. I wasn't supposed to tell you that.”

  “Hah! You suck at secrets. Now tell me where I'm going. And, hey, why are you going? Don't tell me … did he make you talk dirty to him again? Is there something …”

  “No, Lexie, Mr. Thorne is all yours. I'm taking my dear husband with me.”

  “Ohmygod, is this some sort of double date?”

  “I'll pick you up early Friday morning. Pack light. Just a bathing suit.” She giggled. “Maybe one dress. No underwear required.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that pimping me out is the pinnacle of your life's achievements?”

  Sounding a little hurt, she said, “Hey!”

  “I have to get to work,” I said, and I ended the call.

  On Wednesday, I did a very naughty thing.

  I called up my fireman friend-with-benefits Jacob to have Thorne's-not-the-boss-of-me sex. The idea that Mr. Thorne wouldn't approve only made it better.

  Jacob showed up at my place after he got off work.

  He'd eaten dinner at the firehall, so he wasn't interested in the pasta I'd made, but he was extremely interested in what I was wearing.

  I'd gone to a lingerie store that afternoon and picked up a few kinky things. I'd picked out the tackiest thing of all for that night: a tiny g-string and a matching purple bra with a ridiculous amount of frou-frou and lace. Over this, I wore a sheer “cover-up” with even more frou-frou.

  Jacob couldn't take his eyes or hands off me.

  As he pulled me onto his lap in the living room, I squealed and said, “I look like a cupcake.”

  In his best caveman imitation, he said, “Me like cupcake.”

  I squealed again, and then things got more serious. His eyes were still on me, so attentive, and he moved his big fireman hands gently all over my body, examining the lingerie as much as me.

  Still sitting on his lap, I squirmed at the sensation starting in my pussy. I had been turned on for an hour before he got there, from the second I'd put the lingerie on and seen myself. I didn't think I could get more aroused, but I did, to the point of desperation.

  He pulled me in for a kiss and I devoured his juicy lips as I ran my fingers through his dark, curly hair.

  “Good,” he said. “Yes.”

  I was touched that he'd remembered my request. Jacob had a penchant for vulgar talk during sex, but during a previous escapade, I'd bade him to not say anything crude to ruin the mood. I'd permitted him to speak only three words, and tonight he was doing just that.

  He reached a hand under my lap and stroked me through my silky panties.

  His voice deep and growling, he said, “Pussy.”

  “Tonight, Jacob, my pussy is all yours.”

  “Good.”

  I leaned back and swung one leg over his head so I could straddle his lap, facing him. “What do you want to do to my pussy?”

  He grinned. “Yes.”

  “Are you going to lick it?”

  He nodded vigorously. “Yes.”

  “Will you finger fuck me?”

  He seemed shocked I would use such a vulgar phrase. Usually, it was him saying the nasty things, mainly combinations involving the word pounding.

  “Yes,” he said, one eyebrow quirked up as a question.

  “I know you like to vocalize, but maybe tonight I'll be the one doing the vocalizing.”

  “Good. Yes.”

  He wrapped his big, bronzed arms around me and pulled me in for another kiss. He was attentive to the kissing, focused on that, while his hands stayed comfortably on my hips.

  He pulled away for a moment to grab the remote control and click off the TV behind me. Funny, I hadn't even realized it was on.

  We kissed some more and his hands moved lazily across my hips, my lower back, my legs. He found the closure for my bra and removed it, as well as the sheer matching nightie. He didn't dive right for my panties, but spent time on each breast, cupping, licking, and kissing. He put one nipple in his mouth, and the look on his face was that of a happy man. That made me happy
, and the stimulation on my nipples gave me a jolt of excitement.

  I wanted to tear off his button-down shirt and jeans, but he grasped my flailing hands and held them still as he slowly, methodically did the same treatment to the other breast.

  And then, while holding my hands still, he started over again with the first breast. As he sucked my nipples, I thought I might come from that alone. The pleasure was so intense, with his hot breath on me, him so warm underneath me.

  Finally, when I could take it no more, I said, “Take off my panties and pound my pussy.”

  The eyebrow quirked again.

  “How do you like it now?” I said. “I'll vocalize for both of us. That's good, right?”

  Instead of releasing my hands, he guided them down to his crotch. He wasn't simply aroused, he was positively straining to break free of his jeans. I got to work unfastening them, and he moaned with pleasure and relief when I freed his cock.

  Thick and sturdy, like the rest of him, it felt good in my hand. For a moment, I forgot about the ache in my pussy and my desperate need, and stroked it. As I was stroking, he leaned down and licked one of my nipples back into his mouth. Stroking his cock and having my breast sucked on at the same time was almost sensory overload. It wasn't fucking, it was something else, and it was good.

  I moved up and tried to insert his cock, but my fancy new panties were in the way.

  Jacob gave me a you-so-crazy look and stood in one motion, picking me up with him.

  He carried me down the hall as I nibbled his ears, then threw me on the bed.

  Next, he did something funny, yet sexy. He peeled his clothes off slowly, just like a stripper. There were a few facial expressions that were comical, but the movements were hot, and his fireman body was calendar material.

  There was a gleam in his eyes, and I thought he was going to bite the panties right off me, but he removed them with his hands. He grabbed me by the legs and yanked me to the edge of the bed.

  He buried his face between my legs and I let out a long, low, appreciative moan.

  His tongue ran up and down, parting my lips, cooling and warming me at once. He flicked his tongue in and out of my opening and then moved gradually, incrementally up toward my aching nub. I thought he would never get there, and when he did, I gasped and arched my back in pleasure.