Dance with the Billionaire (13 page)

As I walk down the staircase to breakfast the next morning, I notice a figure standing by the entrance to the house, furiously texting on her cell phone. It’s Isabella of course. Her hair is scraped up in a severe high ponytail, and most of her face is hidden behind a pair of
huge
tortoiseshell sunglasses. She’s dressed in skin-tight white jeans and a hot pink silk camisole, perched on a pair of strappy diamante sandals. She looks expensive and she’s trying to look fierce, but she just doesn’t have the ass to fill those jeans. I notice that she’s surrounded by bags and suitcases.

“Hey,” I say, trying to inject some warmth into my voice, hoping that perhaps after our little run-in at the hot tub, not to mention our girly
Keeping Up with the Kardashians
session, she might be a little less frosty with me now.

No such luck.

“Oh, hi!” she says with a sarcastic sneer, looking up dismissively when she sees me approach before quickly returning to her phone, just as a female member of the house staff begins wheeling her bags out through the front door. She turns to follow, before spinning back to face me. “Well,” she says, “I’m off. It’s all yours. The pool. The studio. The whole house. My brother. Enjoy.”

I thought I was good at reading people, but right now I have no idea whether she’s being nice or nasty; glorying in victory or admitting defeat. All I know is that right now I’m glad to see the back of her.

§

“So, what’s the plan for today?” I ask Dylan a little later, over a leisurely breakfast of coffee, fruit salad and delicate, perfectly-baked pastries, the heady scent of the tropical flowers and the sunlight flowing in through the many glass panels of the breakfast room completely overwhelming my senses.

“I don’t know about you,” he replies, “but I rarely get an opportunity for a lazy Sunday like this. And I plan to make the most of it.
You
might well be getting bored of this house, but I don’t get to spend as much time as I’d like here. So I intend to spend the day really making the most of this place.”

“In that case,” I suggest, “why don’t you show me around? Give me the official guided tour? After all, I’ve only really seen a few rooms, haven’t I?”

So after we’ve finished eating, Dylan begins to give me the tour of the house, telling me all sorts of interesting details about it. It’s only as we’re walking along the corridor upstairs in the West wing that I feel my nervousness increase, as I begin to recognize the doors, paintings, and side tables from my little exploration the other afternoon.

Completely oblivious to my nerves, Dylan confidently throws open each door, and along with it comes a story.

“This,” he says, “is the last bedroom the Beckwith’s stayed in as a couple. Mrs Beckwith walked in to get changed one afternoon and found her husband wasn’t alone ...”

He opens the door to the room just next to his. “And this used to be Isabella’s room. Believe it or not, she idolized me until she became a teenager. Then idolatry turned into pure hatred, so much so that she had to be moved to the other end of the corridor ... My parents were worried we were going to kill each other. To tell you the truth, I’m relieved she left this morning. Although her college is only an hour away, so don’t get too comfortable. She could be back again at any moment.”

And then finally, he pushes open the door to his own room.

“And this is my room,” he says, stepping aside to let me in.

I know
, I think guiltily.

My eyes dart immediately to that photo on the wall – the one of him and his wife and kid. Has he even remembered it’s here? Or is this just his fucked-up way of telling me exactly what the deal is between us?

I brace myself, as sure enough he actually leads me right
towards
the photo.

“That was my graduation from Dartmouth,” he says pointing at the photo to its left.

“You look happy,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Honestly?” he replies. “I was stoned out of my mind. Isabella’s not the only one who maybe had too much fun at college.
I
made sure to graduate though.”

Next his hand moves to the large family portrait, on the other side. “And that’s my brother, Spencer,” he points out. “He’s doing humanitarian work in Bangladesh right now. He’s always cared about making the world a better place. Mom’s always worried about him, but I’m just really proud.”

I take a deep breath. I know exactly which picture’s coming next. I start to talk out of sheer nervousness. “She’s a cute kid,” I say, my eyes finally flicking to the image of his daughter, blonde hair shining, bright white teeth displayed in a huge grin, blue eyes sparkling. 

“Oh yeah, Chloe!” he laughs. “She sure is. She’s beautiful. And whip-smart, too. She’s my niece.”

His niece?!

“And that’s her mom, my cousin Violet. We’re exactly the same age, so we’re really close. They live out in Colorado now.”

I am such a freaking idiot ...

He moves on to the next picture – this time one of his parents – but I can barely take in what he’s saying now. His
niece
. His
cousin
. It makes so much sense. And looking again at the photo, it’s obvious that the arm around her is friendly rather than romantic. These aren’t adoring parents – these are simply cousins who enjoy spending time together. Why did I jump to conclusions? But more importantly, when I thought he was married, why did I even
care
so much? And why was I being so moralistic about our little ‘deal’ here? Or was the truth of it that I was really just disappointed that he wasn’t single
?

§

We spend the rest of the afternoon lounging by the pool, just soaking in the sun, sipping cocktails and relaxing. And as the day begins to draw to a close, I find myself actually getting kind of
disappointed
that tonight will be our last night together.

I wonder if Dylan feels that way too?

The thought’s beginning to make me restless, and it’s like he reads my mind, when he says, “Come on. I want to play with you. How about a game of tennis?”

“I’m game,” I say, although in truth I’ve never played tennis in my life before. It’s just not the kind of thing we did in my high school back in Jersey.

He takes my hand, helping me up from my lounger. I dry myself with a towel, pull on my sundress, and then we walk over to the tennis courts, grabbing some balls and rackets from the nearby pool house on the way.

“I suppose I should let you know,” he says as we walk, “that I was on my high school team.”

“I suppose
I
should let
you
know,” I reply, fighting back my grin, “that I’ve never played this game in my life before.”

He laughs. “In that case, expect to lose. But first, I’ll teach you the basics.”

We reach the tennis courts, and as promised, Dylan starts to give me a few pointers.

“First the serve,” he begins. “You need to start with how you’re standing. Come a little closer, to that line ...”

I do just as he says.

“Good, now look at how you’re standing. That’s all wrong. Move your right foot here, like this, and your left ... Good.  That’s it. Now throw the ball up like this, then bring your racket to it like ...
so
.”

He slams the ball right past me, at a million miles an hour. It comes bouncing off the court next to me so fast that I barely have a chance to
see
it, let alone hit it back.

“Now your turn.”

I shrug and shake out my limbs, then take my position, trying to mimic him as much as possible, holding my racket in that same loose way, facing my body sideways, legs apart, throwing the ball casually into the air and then ...
thwack.

To my surprise I feel it connect with my racket in a satisfying hit, sending the ball rocketing back towards him, so fast that it takes him by surprise. And instead of hitting it, he dives out of the way.

“Are you
sure
you’ve not played this before?” he calls, laughing and shaking his head.

“Maybe I was a tennis pro in a former life,” I call back, grinning from ear to ear.

And as we begin to play, I find I’m actually enjoying this. Dylan tells me I’m a total natural. Maybe he’s just being nice, but it
does
feel pretty good. I can totally see why people play it – and it helps that I already have a lot of stamina, plus my balance and fast instincts from dancing, all of which turn out to be extremely useful out on the court, too.

Towards the end I feel like I’m even giving him a run for his money, making him really dive for the ball, satisfied when I see that his brow is just as sweaty as my own. By the time we’re finished, we’re both completely exhausted, flushed, and dripping with sweat.

“I’d just love a shower,” I say as I catch my breath, hands on my knees.

“Come on,” he gestures. “Let’s use the ones in the pool house.”

The path back to the pool house is totally secluded, and besides, I’m not worried about anyone seeing me, anyway. It seems like we’re really alone out here now, since Isabella left, and Dylan’s darting hungry glances at me, so I decide to give him just what I know he wants. Wordlessly, I walk a little ahead of him and slip out of my white cotton sundress, giving him a playful look over my shoulder as I let it drop to the floor, stepping effortlessly out of it. I’m only wearing my bikini now, and I begin to reach behind my back to untie the top.

I feel so free, uncovering my bare chest outside like this, the setting sun beating down on my whole body.

Finally I step out of my briefs too, just as I pad into the cool shade of the pool house. Dylan’s right behind me. I can sense his intensity, his urgency, his heat, but I remain just out of his grasp as I lead him through the living room, through the bedroom, and finally into the large, rustic, wood paneled en-suite bathroom. I step into the walk-in shower and turn on the jets, sighing with delight as I feel the deliciously cool water spray out all around me, enveloping me completely. I close my eyes as I enjoy the water hitting my body, cooling me down.

“What d’you say we
turn up the heat
a little?” a voice murmurs behind me.

I feel his hand brush my side as he reaches for the controls, his body pressing against mine, the hardness of his cock against my buttocks, as he turns the dial on the shower and the cool water begins to turn warmer.

And then, sure enough, I feel his other hand reaching around, cradling my stomach. I sigh, pushing myself back against him, as both his hands begin to explore my body, one moving to my left breast, the other slipping between my thighs, his cock pressing against my ass as I grind back against him, shivering with delight, my eyes closing and a soft moan escaping my lips as his fingers finally find my clit, toying with me in slow, expert circles, his other palm enclosing my breast, his mouth grazing against my neck, covering it with playful bites and kisses.

I slip around in his arms to face him now, our bodies so slick and wet, our breath shivering past our lips as we push tight against each other, his hands moving to my ass, his cock nestled right between my legs, the hot length of him touching gently against the liquid desire that’s building right at the center of me, his mouth enclosing my own, his tongue pushing deep between my lips, plundering me with long sensuous licks, his lips bruising mine.

As I reach down to take his cock in my hand, I tremble with delight as I feel him groan with pleasure, his mouth still pressed firmly against mine.

I pull away from the kiss, but only so that I can take his hand, bringing it to my mouth, sucking on two of his fingers slowly and sensuously while I stroke him, as if to tell him exactly what I have in store for him. I gasp, as he in turn drives the fingers of his other hand so fucking deep inside me, stretching me wide, and I buck my hips in time with the motions of his hand as he moves his fingers, sliding them in and out of me, in and out, hitting a sweet spot deep inside me, causing me to shudder, the first shivers of my orgasm building powerfully but slowly inside me.