His Greed (Billionaire Blind Date Book 1) (5 page)

Grant and Aten were standing by our table when I reached them. Aten took my hand.

“I hope everything’s all right? Grant explained that you’d had some unexpected excitement with regards to a business arrangement.”

Business arrangement.
Yet, technically, none of that was a lie, was it? It had been unexpected
excitement
, and clearly he viewed the agreement to take me to the wedding as a business arrangement of a sort.

I forced a smile and squeezed his hand before cutting my eyes at Grant. “Thank you. It was nothing I can’t handle.”

Grant’s mouth quirked up on one side. “Told you,” he said to Aten. And then we walked out of the restaurant, Grant’s hand on my lower back the entire way, keeping me close to him. Aten shook Grant’s hand in farewell, and we slid into Grant’s waiting limousine. The panel between the driver and us had been slid down again.

“Back to the restaurant for your car, or did you arrive by cab?” Grant asked, without looking at me.

“I drove myself.”

He told the driver where to go and immediately focused on his phone, saying nothing to me, his expression blank and unreadable. I gave up trying to figure out his mood and stared ahead. I could have said something, I wanted to, but maybe it was best just to leave the silence to speak for itself.

Maybe I didn’t want to hear whatever he had to say to me now. Or whatever he didn’t have to say now.

When the limo stopped at the restaurant, I glanced at my car not far down the street, waiting for him to at least say goodbye, but he didn’t. The driver opened his door, clearly to get out and open mine.

“I can do it myself,” I said as I opened the door and turned to put my feet on the pavement, but Grant grabbed my arm and held it until I turned back to look at him.

“Text me a couple of days before the wedding, as a reminder.” His expression gave nothing away.

“So I won’t hear from you over the next three weeks?” I tried to stay just as neutral.

“I’m a busy man, Sophie, so that’s possible. If I don’t see you between now and then, I hope you’ll still do a few things for me afterward to hold up your end of the bargain. Fair’s fair.”

“Of course,” I said too quickly, and had to struggle not to sound hurt and childish. “I don’t renege on my
business
arrangements.”

His eyebrow raised at that. “Good.”

“You’ve still never said exactly what it is you want me to do, aside from pretending to be your girlfriend, I guess. Or having sex with you in bathrooms.” It had come out before I could stop it, but it was a reasonable question now, wasn’t it? “What exactly does my ‘end of the bargain’ entail?”

His face lost all hint of amusement, but he didn’t look angry, just serious. “You come when I call you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“We both know you will.” His hand left my arm, and I shot out of the limo. The driver had already pulled the door fully open, so I stormed by him and hurried to my car.

You come when I call you.
What kind of arrogant, domineering, self-absorbed ass . . .

I blinked back tears as the limo pulled away from the curb and disappeared. I could still smell him on me, the light musk, the heady manliness that didn’t come from any cologne. Could feel his fingers on me, in me. Feel him thrusting, hearing his growl when he came.

See those damned, dark eyes of his staring into mine.

We both know you will.

If I’d had more confidence, more self-respect, more . . . anything, surely I would never see this man again. Wouldn’t most women rebel against his attitude? I didn’t know, but I felt like I was supposed to.

Yet, I worried he was right. I wasn’t sure I could resist him, even feeling a little used and tossed away as I did right then. If he called . . . wouldn’t I go?

We both know you will.

He was right. And it made me hate both of us.

***

I stopped hating myself, and Grant, after a few days, and instead settled for being furious with myself. Because Grant didn’t call, and that disappointed me more each day than the one before.

I told myself repeatedly that I didn’t want him to. He was arrogant, had treated me coldly after our encounter in the men’s room, he was spoiled and so used to getting everything he wanted that he thought I’d just fall at his feet because he asked. I assured myself I’d be better off to never hear from him again.

I knew it was a lie.

Every time my phone chimed, adrenalin zipped through me. This one could be him. A call scheduling a job interview I’d been hoping for couldn’t even get me excited thanks to the disappointment I felt when it wasn’t Grant’s voice on the other end of the line.

Grant must have given Aten my information, because someone from his company called about the logo redesign, making that following week practically an embarrassment of riches—no job prospects for weeks, and now two potential jobs within two days. Not even that cheered me too much, which I decided was ridiculous, even though I couldn’t stop feeling that way.

I made an appointment to meet with their art department the following week. That should have thrilled me—not just a great boost for my portfolio, but a potential foot in the door with someone like Aten Hollis.

Almost two weeks had passed, and Grant didn’t call or text.

“He’s busy, Sophie,” I said to myself after brushing my teeth one morning. “A captain of industry. If you had a life and less time on your hands, you wouldn’t even notice how much time has passed.”

My reflection in the mirror wasn’t convinced.

I’m sure he was busy. He’d anticipated that when I was getting out of the limo. I’d taken it to be a show of just how uninterested he really was, but maybe that was my lack of confidence talking, and the man simply had no time?

My aunt’s face, with her red-lipsticked, finely-lined smoker’s mouth and eyes that showed pity for her niece who could never seem to find a man, kept flashing in front of me. She’d set me up with Bill, because she at least hoped I could handle the Bills of the world. The Grants . . . they were out of my league, and we both knew it.

After the meeting with Hollis’ art department and the go ahead to work on the branch’s logo—they were enthusiastic about my work and seemed genuinely impressed—I felt better. And after getting what I thought was more than my share of stares and appreciative glances over the course of a few days, I told myself, out loud, that if Grant didn’t call, well, he was missing out, wasn’t he?

Just over two weeks after my “date” with Grant, I sat wearing only my white terrycloth robe after a shower, brainstorming designs for Hollis’ new logo, when someone knocked at my door. I peered through the fisheye to find a man in a black suit carrying a large white box wrapped in a red ribbon. The bow was nearly as wide as the box. “A delivery for Ms. Falcon, courtesy Grant Michaelson,” he said, when I didn’t immediately open the door.

I opened it, and he handed me the box with a smile. “Have a lovely day, Madam.”

“Thank you.” I wanted to ask all kinds of questions, but he spun on his heel and was gone.

I put the box on my bed, hesitating only a moment before untying the bow and ribbon to slide the lid off. A white card with black script lettering read:

Be ready Thursday night at 8 p.m. Wear only what’s in the box.

A shiny black clutch purse lay on top. A silky black dress, shorter than the one I’d worn the night I met Grant, with a neckline that plunged a little lower, lay beneath a layer of tissue paper. Black high heels, higher than any I owned, lay together in one corner of the box, while a smaller white box lay in the other top corner.

The small box was heavy for its size. I pulled the lid off to reveal a gold chain with a huge, emerald green pendant shaped like a teardrop and as wide as two of my fingers. I put the necklace on, my hands practically shaking and making me feel like an excited little girl. I turned to the full-length mirror behind my door and pulled the robe open a little to reveal the insides of my breasts and the green pendant hanging down.

It couldn’t really be an emerald, I guessed, but it was gorgeous. And it lay cold and heavy against my chest, the bottom of the teardrop hanging just below the level of my nipples. Right where Grant had said a pendant would look like a work of art.

I opened my robe more to expose my breasts, to see how the pendant looked, and I felt myself flush at how sexy it really was and how good it looked. Maybe only because he’d kept saying it would. I touched it with a fingertip, and then used the same fingertip to circle a nipple. For a moment, I imagined that he’d touched me, that he was so taken with the way it looked . . . .

No, I’d just showered, and I really needed to slow down. I had probably gotten myself off more since having sex with Grant than in the several years prior combined. Every day I found myself thinking about standing there naked, his hands on me, his body thrusting into mine, and fingers slipped between my legs. As I remembered how he’d made me feel, I came easier than I’d ever managed on my own before meeting him. I did it so much more often now, I was almost embarrassed.

I wanted to work on Hollis’ logo, so I cleared my throat and took the necklace off, and then replaced it in the box. The same with the dress, the clutch and shoes. I put the box in the top of my closet and went back to my designs. It was hard to focus.

He’d only given me one day notice, obviously to make sure I really would come when he called.

What if I’d had plans? What if I were ill? Wear only what was in the box—no bra, no underwear. Heck, what if I were on my period? I wouldn’t be, but he didn’t know that. And that dress was short enough, and looked like it’d be tight enough, that I wouldn’t have to bend very far to give anyone behind me an eyeful.

Maybe I wouldn’t be ready when he expected. I wasn’t going to be his puppet on a string. At least, I could tell myself that until Thursday night.

With Sophie’s face and smooth, curvy body on my mind, I could only wait for two hours after I knew the dress had been delivered before I called her. I shouldn’t have cared, but I wanted to know if she liked her gifts. I was at home, in my office, looking over some paperwork to try to keep my mind off her. It didn’t work.

I’d wondered if she would contact me after it arrived. To thank me. To gush. I figured she wouldn’t. Most women would have. They’d have fallen all over themselves to show their gratitude, mostly to ensure more gifts would come later. But she wasn’t like other women.

Sophie was special.

So many women had done exactly what I asked, enthusiastically faking their way through the encounters with me, and as I showed them more and more of what I liked, they put their acting skills to the test. They didn’t fake orgasms—I always made them come—but they faked other kinds of pleasure.

Sophie didn’t pretend. She was reluctant, embarrassed, vulnerable, but she ached to feel the things I wanted her to, she genuinely wanted to try. And I could sense those walls falling as I touched her, as I drove into her.

I could feel her opening up to the experience, to me, like a flower, letting me lead her without a hint of phony excitement or pretense.

Just thinking of how she’d given herself over to it could make my cock hard in seconds.

And unfortunately, I’d spent far too much time remembering how she looked, how she felt, how she came with abandon, over the last couple of weeks. It made for a few awkward business meetings when I stayed longer than everyone else, just to give my cock time to soften after letting my mind wander to her perfect tits and curvy hips.

And her hazel eyes. The way she’d looked at me as we both came and then eased down from it . . . no. I wasn’t going to let myself get sucked into something I didn’t really want. I didn’t need anything more distracting than she already was. 

I shouldn’t have been calling her at all. I should have waited until the wedding and been done with her for my own good. But I’m greedy, and god, I wanted her again, so I indulged myself.

“Did you try it on?” I asked, when she answered the phone, sounding breathless.

“The necklace. It’s beautiful, thank you.”

“The dress?”

“Not yet. But it’s far too short.”

“Yes, I know.”

She chuckled airily, but then her voice got almost stern. “I can’t wear that, it’d be indecent.”

“It’ll be beautiful.” I shifted in my executive’s chair, cock already swelling at the thought of it. “The pendant looks as good as I thought it would between your tits, doesn’t it?”

“It—it looks very nice, thank you again.”

“
Nice
? Let me see.”

“What?”

“Take a photo and send it to me.”

“I’m not dressed, I’m only wearing a bathrobe.”

“Open it. Let me see you.” I wasn’t sure she’d send such a picture, but I hoped.

A couple of minutes passed, and then my phone buzzed. The photo made me groan. She’d opened the robe all the way so I could see the emerald I’d sent hanging between her tits so perfectly . . . .

“Invite me over, Sophie.”

“I-I’m working, and I’ve just showered. I’d have to get dressed first and—”

“No, just the way you are.”

“You don’t even know where I live.”

“Eighty-seven oh nine Strickton Way, apartment D. Reverse phone look-up is as easy as asking. I had to know where to collect you for the wedding, after all.” There was that, and there was simply wanting to know where I could find her if I wanted. “Invite me over.”

Silence stretched out, and I worried for a few moments that she might say no. I think she tried, and it made me harder to know that. Then she cleared her throat and breathed into the phone. Her voice shook a little as if she were nervous, or excited. Both. I wanted her to be both.

“Would you like to co—?”

“Leave the pendant on,” I said, and hung up. I started to dial for a car, but decided I’d drive myself. I didn’t know how long I would be there, after all.

I drove in a haze of lust, barely remembering how I got from one street to the next. All I could think of was Sophie stretched out on a bed, the emerald between her round, full tits, setting them off like the gems they were, her arms stretched above her head and her legs spread. Sophie, begging me to touch her, to make her come.

Begging me for so much more.

Sophie was a natural, she was genuine. And I knew I had her under my spell from the moment I touched her at the restaurant. I was going to introduce her to things I truly enjoyed but didn’t waste on other women who lied and moaned and writhed only because they wanted my approval or my money.

I knew Sophie wouldn’t pretend.

I slid my finger over the smooth leather of my belt, could feel it wrapped around my palm, hear the snap, imagine her gasp, her soft cry. I shuddered, imagining the sweet, desperate sounds she’d make while begging me for more.

And then begging me to stop.

*****

Thank you for reading “His Greed!”

Don’t miss “His Sweat,” Billionaire Blind Date Book Two, coming very soon!

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