The Intern: The Billionaire's Successor

Chapter 9: Davis

Olivia blinks hard at my instruction. “Excuse me?” she questions, her voice wavering slightly as her face contorts into this sweet little frown. I think she hates me—and if she doesn’t, she sure as hell is going to start.

“Strip,” I repeat as I rise from my seat at the table and head out of the kitchen. I walk down the hallway towards the living room, not bothering to look back at her. I need to give her the impression that I’m confident she’ll follow me, even though I’m 50/50 on whether or not she will. She could just as easily rip the contract down the middle, put her middle finger up, and walk out of my life for a second time. There’s almost nothing I could do to stop her, and knowing Olivia, it’s within her character to do something bold like that.

But to my relief, as I’m settling into a seat in the center of one of my couches, she’s strolling over with her brow tightened with confusion. She looks pretty like that, actually. Vulnerable. Unguarded.

She stands in front of me and looks from side to side, the uncertainty obvious in everything she does. The tightness of her shoulders. The growing furrow in her brow. How her lips separate fractionally like she wants to speak. A deeply buried, sympathetic version of myself wants to tell her that there’s nothing to be nervous about. After all, I’ve seen her naked before and was far from disappointed. But that’s not the plan—that would never be the plan.

I’m here to fuck her body and to fuck with her head, just like she did to me. Sweet and soothing words have no place between Olivia and me.

“We’re not off to a very strong start,” I tell her, well aware that I sound like a dickhead (as planned). “I know I didn’t spell this out in the contract, but the part where I pay you ten thousand dollars a week implies that I get to drive.”

To my surprise, Olivia doesn’t object, which is disappointing. I was hoping to get a rise out of her—maybe a smart comment or two that I could hold over her head later. On the contrary, she reaches up and delicately pinches the tiny inset zipper on the side of the short, cherry red top that she’s wearing.

She unzips it to the bottom of the track and slowly removes it, her green eyes locked on me as she moves. I force myself to focus on her line of sight, keeping that contact in an act of power. I own you right now. You’re mine. I can look at your body any time I want.

Eventually I allow my gaze to lower to the lacy red bra that lovingly cups Olivia’s breasts, hoisting them up so that they heave as she breathes. Her swells strain against the edges of the lace, red against ivory, and they incite vivid memories that still feel fresh even after so many years. Her body is—fuck, what a body. The way that her figure holds curves just gets under my skin. That’s nothing new; it was the same back in Amsterdam.

What’s new is how exquisite I find her. Eight years ago, I was so nervous that parts of the night were a blur. The bleak parts of the night have shadowed most of the good. Tonight—with me in control and the pressure of my virginity long gone—I can finally appreciate Olivia Nolan from top to bottom.

Nothing disappoints me.

Still without protest, she continues. Her hand drags along the top of one lovely, round breast and traces along the line of her bra until she skims the bare skin above the band of her skirt. Another tiny zipper. Another slow, almost agonizing pull until she shimmies it over her hips.

Finally, Olivia stands before me in lingerie and heels, her long hair dangling behind her shoulders and her posture rigid. She’s striving for her dignity, I can tell, and that fact makes me want her even more.

I allow myself to look her over, shameless as I linger on her most intimate spots: her luscious breasts, the V of her pussy. My expression stays stoic however—no hints of satisfaction or dislike. Just silence.

I’d pay insane amounts of money to know what’s going through her head right now.

“Turn,” I instruct, even though it feels cheesy. She does it though; she slowly rotates so that I can finally see the cut of her underwear—a skimpy thong that puts her pert ass on display. When she comes around to face me again, I give her ass a swift pat. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Will you be doing the same?” She tries to sound confident, but her voice comes out husky and thick with lust.

“Pay me and you can tell me what to do.” Ignoring her narrowed eyes, I gesture for her to come closer to me.

She does.

My hand goes up to her hip and stays there as I stroke my thumb over the curve. She’s filled out a bit in the last eight years and it looks amazing on her. Her breasts are bigger and her thighs are thicker, and there’s a softness that wasn’t there before. The warmth of her skin rounds it out: This woman is perfect.

Dangerous, manipulative, desperate, and perfect.

“Soft,” I murmur, knowing that she won’t like that. Olivia never wanted to be soft. She wanted every interaction between us to be fast and impersonal and simple. I ruined that for her. Eight years ago, I caressed her and doted on her and wore her down until she was hanging onto me for dear life, her grip so tight that I could have sworn that she didn’t want to let me go. Eight years ago, I broke her down with unceasing, sweet strokes.

Tonight I’ll give her another taste of that, just enough to lull her into submission. Then the real fun starts.

I slide the tip of my index finger under the brim of her thong, now caressing the skin right underneath the strap. There’s a faint indentation in her skin from the elastic. I take it upon myself to trace the mark on her otherwise flawless skin. My middle finger joins my index finger underneath the strap. Then my ring finger. Soon enough, I have my hand pressed flat against her hip, skin on skin, with nothing between us. I mirror the position with my left hand.

Above me, Olivia looks down with her lower lip tucked in her teeth. She releases it at the same time that she offers a soft, nearly inaudible gasp at the precise moment that I shift both of my hands to her ass.

While I massage her skin, I bend forward and press a kiss against her stomach, right above her belly button. One kiss and then another. Another in quick succession, slowly circling her belly button and tasting her more with each kiss. Her skins smells flowery and clean, like soap and perfume. Like new.

But she’s not new and neither am I. We’ve done this before. Sure, we were kids then. Less experienced and more apprehensive. But regardless, we’ve done this before.

And because we’ve done this before, I remember how she watched me like she could eat me alive when I removed her underwear. I channel that now, replicating the actions of a twenty-two-year-old Davis as I plant one last kiss on her stomach before turning my hands to hook my fingers around her thong. Slowly, I drag the garment down her thighs until gravity takes over. It drops to a pool at her feet. Breaking eye contact for only a moment, I bend over. My hand wraps around her ankle and lifts one foot out of the thong before guiding her foot back to the floor. When I move her other foot, I instead lift it high and place it on my knee.

“Interesting,” she murmurs, speaking for the first time in a while.