Virgin Wanted (BWWM Billionaire Romance) (4 page)

He shakes his head.

“As I said, Alisha, I’m a very busy man. Virgins might be
rare
– especially virgins as beautifully exquisite as you. But they’re not fucking unicorns.”

He looks down at his gleaming gold Rolex, then meets my eyes once again.

“You have exactly
sixty seconds
to decide.”

§

Marcus

I watch the confusion play across her face, as she wrestles with her morals, wondering if she could really go through with something as crazy as this. I hold my breath.

It’s utterly impossible to tell what she’s thinking.

I feel like there’s every chance in the world she’ll just tell me to go to hell.

Her exquisite features remain fixed in an unreadable expression, and as I wait for her to decide, I take a moment to drink in her beauty all over again. Good God. She’s utterly perfect. Even better in the flesh than in her photograph. Smooth flawless ebony skin, big brown eyes, a cute slightly upturned button nose, and such perfect sensuous lips that I feel a sharp, almost painful rush of blood to my cock, as I imagine them wrapping deliciously around it.

Her body is absolutely perfect, too. The cut of her clothes is both elegant and stylish but also subtly revealing – giving
just
enough of a hint of her perfectly proportioned, youthful figure to let me know that this girl would look absolutely stunning lying naked on the sheets of my bed, legs spread wide, her impossibly tight pussy dripping wet and ready for me.

I feel my cock grow even harder, straining dangerously against the tailored navy blue cloth of my slacks, as I try to force the lustful thoughts from my mind, even though that’s the whole reason we’re both here in the first place.

But before the fun can begin, I need to know that this girl is on the same page as me ...

I meet her gaze with my own, startled all over again by just how beautiful – beautiful yet utterly
innocent
– she is.

Just the way I like.

“Well,” I say, coldly, making sure keep my voice as businesslike as possible; something I’ve completely perfected in my daily interactions. “I think that was sixty seconds. What’s it to be Alisha? Are you in or are you out?”

I watch her gulp.

Another long, excruciating pause.

And then, almost imperceptibly, she nods. “Okay,” she says in a half-whisper, her voice cracking a little, her eyes fixed firmly on the floor. “I’ll do it.”

“Very good,
Alisha
,” I reply with a smile, savoring the delicate feel of her name on my tongue, just as delicate and delicious as I’m guessing her clit will taste.

I reach down to the desk drawer in front of it, sliding it open and pulling out the contract. I push the thin sheaf of pages across the desk towards her, watching her eye the document in confusion for a moment before picking it up, her big brown eyes quickly scanning the lines of text, her face slowly changing as the full nature of our little
agreement
sinks in.

I know just what that contract says.

And it leaves absolutely no question as to what our week ahead will hold ...

Alisha

As the private car glides effortlessly through the lush, unfamiliar countryside towards my mystery destination, I wonder again if I’ve made the right decision. I mean, what would
you
do in my position?

Personally speaking, I just couldn’t afford to turn
that
kind of money down.

I’d be totally crazy to.

I guess you could say I’ve had a pretty tough start in life, and never been anything other than
dirt poor
. I never knew my real dad, but from the tales my mom told me about him as I was growing up, that’s probably for the best.

But my mom wasn’t much better either. I mean, I don’t begrudge her for it. I know she did everything she could to look after me. But she was also fighting a losing battle with drink and drugs, and there were times when it really felt like I had to bring myself up – especially when she was with one of her horrible, violent ‘boyfriends’, the revolving door of guys who just seemed to like to hang out with her and get wasted, and sometimes worse ...

These days, I hardly ever see her; only a few times a year. You see, she just can’t look after me the way a mom should. I mean, if anything,
I’m
the one looking after
her
– making sure to wire her money every now and again, as much as I can afford from my tiny salary, and call in on her once in a while to make sure she’s doing okay.

So I guess you could say that something like this – a
million freaking dollars
– would go quite a long way to helping my mom out as well as me.

Damn, money like that could buy the both of us a totally brand new life. I could get her into a proper rehab program
and
I could afford to finally put myself through college with money left over. A
lot
of money.

And thinking about all that causes me to remember the contract again – that strange, formally-worded document that seemed to cover every single eventuality of our proposed week together.

The undersigned agrees to take a full medical exam to prove that her virginity is in tact ...
(This I’ve already done; the car drove me to a private medical clinic a couple of hours ago, where a very discreet female doctor inspected my private parts, which was kind of weird and embarrassing to tell the truth ...)

The undersigned agrees to give Mr Whitelaw full access to her body and mind for the entirety of the week they are to spend together ... 

The undersigned agrees to do everything within her power to satisfy Mr Whitelaw’s desires,
however
they might manifest themselves ...

Just then my thoughts are interrupted, as the car seems to pull off the main road and down a long private drive towards the strangest house I’ve ever laid eyes on: a startlingly sleek, modern building, an eye-catching mish mash of steel and concrete and glass and painted white brick, all hard, cold grey lines and sharp edges, but set away from the world in amongst the most amazing, sumptuously lush green countryside.

But there’s something kind of lonely about this house too, something
empty
even, and I wonder if that should tell me something about Marcus, too ...

Just then the car pulls to a stop right outside the front door, and Trent steps out to open my car door for me. I’m about to ask him what happens next, when I turn to see the main door to the house bursting open and a striking-looking older white woman, with grey hair scraped tight in a pony tail, dressed in a sharp black suit, come racing straight towards me.

“You must be the new girl? Very good, follow me,” she says, in a clipped English accent, her words tumbling out in such a rush I hardly have time to process what she’s saying before she’s turned and begun racing back towards the door to the house.

I shoot Trent a quick, puzzled
catch you later
smile and then follow her into the building, which is just as oddly masculine and lonely inside as it is outside.

I just about manage to keep up with this odd British woman as we practically race down what feels like a maze of bare white corridors, each more stark than the last, before all of a sudden I almost bump into her back as she stops outside a plain, gloss-black door.

She pushes it open, and gestures for me to step inside.

I look around me in amazement. I mean, this one single bedroom is bigger than my entire freaking
apartment
back in Philly.

“This will be your room for the week,” she explains in that clipped British accent. “I trust it’s to your liking? And if you need anything, Miss Adams, please don’t hesitate to call me – day or night.”

At this, she nods to the telephone set on the table next to the sumptuous double bed that’s just crying out to be jumped up and down on.

“You can reach me by dialing nine.”

Woah
, I think.
This is like some crazy five-star hotel
...

“I see you haven’t brought much luggage, so if you require any further fresh clothes and laundry,” she continues, stepping over to what looks like a blank white wall, “then you should hopefully be able to find everything you need in here ...”

At this, she pushes lightly on the wall and the whole things swivels around on itself, opening up the door to what looks like
the
most amazing walk-in wardrobe in existence. I only catch a small, tantalizing glimpse of what looks like an eye-watering array of gorgeous dresses and insane sparkling shoes before the door slides closed again.

“Well, I should leave you alone to prepare. Marcus will be returning home from work at seven o’ clock and he’s requested to see you in the Livingston suite for dinner. Don’t worry, I’ll be here to escort you to it, I know what a maze this place can be. But do make sure to be ready for him, won’t you? Choose something nice to wear. And make sure you are
fully
bathed, if you understand what I’m saying?”

I nod, feeling a sudden rush of heat to my cheeks, as I realize all over again just why I’m here in this situation. And it seems like this strange older woman is just as aware of my function as I am.

“With all that said, I’ll leave you alone now,” she says, smiling at me for the first time, a flash of warmth entering her previously stern features.

“Oh, what’s your name by the way?” I ask as she’s turning to leave, returning her smile with one of my own. “I’m Alisha.”

I hold out my hand to her, and when she shakes it, her own fingers are surprisingly cold and bony.

“My name’s Helena,” she says, again kind of taken aback, just like Trent was, as if she’s not used to being talked to like a regular human being. “And I’m here to look after you. Anything you could possibly want – just ask and you can be sure I’ll do it for you.”

What could I possibly want?
I think.
I mean, I’m already in this amazing house. What else could I need?

At this she gives me a look and says softly, “Now forgive me if this is presumptuous, my dear, but I’m guessing you’re not exactly used to being waited on hand and foot?”

“You guessed correct,” I reply with a shrug.

“I thought so. You look like a girl who knows how to take care of herself. Well, my dear, I certainly applaud that. But please – do not feel shy to ask for
anything
you need. And for starters, to show you exactly what I mean, I’m going to bring you a cup of
the most
delicious hot chocolate you’ve ever tasted in your life. Sound okay?”

“That sounds great,” I reply.

She’s right, I’ve never asked for anything. There were some years we were so broke, I didn’t even dare ask for anything on my birthday or Christmas – we were so damn poor, and I didn’t want to stress my Mom out, and there was no way she could afford anything anyway, so I just pretended like I didn’t want anything.

Helena slips out of the room, leaving me alone to explore. I shake my head – still marveling at just how damn
gigantic
this place is. Then I remember the walk-in wardrobe, and I just cant resist taking a peek.

I gingerly approach the same panel of wall that Helena touched and lay my palm on it softly and sure enough, the whole section of wall begins to revolve, revealing the most
amazing
array of designer clothes and shoes.

I can hardly bring myself to touch them as I step timidly into the long room, adorned at one end with a huge mirror, running my fingers along the silken racks of garments – every design and color under the sun.

Never in my life have I been in the presence of so many amazing clothes before. You should know this about me: I
love
clothes. Since I was old enough to thread a needle, I’ve been making my own outfits, and modifying my own clothes, and reading up everything I can online about the world of high fashion, spending whole days with my nose pressed up to the computer screens in the public library, imagining what it would be like to actually be at
a catwalk exhibition, or to try on a twenty thousand dollar Stella McCartney dress. 

And now here I am, standing in a room with more designer dresses than the whole of Paris fashion week rolled into one!

I remember what Helena told me: that I need to choose something for
tonight
. For dinner with Marcus. And I’m guessing it’s not only
dinner
that’s on the menu.

I feel another sudden lurch of nerves, as I realize all over again just what I’ve got myself into ...

And as I’m still deliberating, I hear a sharp knock at the door. I quickly pad back through and here’s Helena, carrying a tray with an elegant silver-handled glass of steaming hot chocolate on it.

“I’ll leave you in peace,” she says with a brief nod and a smile, setting the tray down on a side table and then slipping out of the room once more.

I gingerly pick up the glass, lifting it to my lips and taking a small sip.

Oh my God.

She’s so right! The chocolate is absolutely delicious; sweet and milky and gorgeous – by far the best I’ve ever tasted.

Okay, so maybe I
could
start to get used to this kind of lifestyle after all
, I think with a smile.