The Intern: The Billionaire's Successor

Chapter 12: Olivia

Davis’s doorman knows me. I’m not sure if it’s because I was here a week ago, or because this building is so freakishly expensive that Davis is the only person under the age of forty-five who can afford to live here. But somehow, the doorman knows that I’m a guest of Davis Ridgeway and practically beams at me the moment that I walk into the lobby. Chatting kindly all the while, he escorts me to the elevator, keys me up to Davis’s floor, and salutes me as the doors are closing.

Once I’m alone in the elevator, heading up to another night of…my second internship, I’m not sure how to interpret that salute. Is it a have a great night and have fun, you crazy kid salute, or more of a good luck getting plowed by that moody billionaire-heir salute? No clue.

When I ring the buzzer at Davis’s front door, my mind turns with the conversation that Davis and I had on Monday. It was the last time that I saw or spoke to him, and as a result I’m left trying to squish down a heaping pile of unanswered questions. At the top of that pile: Is he going to use me and throw me aside like he did last time?

I would be lying if I said that I hoped the answer was anything but no. Feeling used and humiliated by Davis grated at me for most of the week. Another week of that would be absolute hell. But maybe we made enough strides during our conversation on Monday for him to treat me with the same care and affection that he did eight years ago.

Maybe.

“Hey,” he greets me when he finally opens the door.

I hesitate in the small landing, taking in Davis’s appearance. Tonight he’s dressed like he’s about to hop on a conference call, from the button-down he wears on top and the charcoal suit pants and dress socks that round out the outfit. It all looks expensive, as usual, but it’s undeniably business-y. Definitely a departure from the casual jeans and t-shirt that he wore last week.

“What’s wrong?” he inquires, knotting his brow as I give him an up-down. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Everything okay?” I ask as I finally follow him into the apartment.

“I had to work,” he offers in explanation. “I meant to change, but Kieran called again and then you showed up, so I didn’t have time.”

“Is everything okay with—”

“I’m not paying you to talk to me about my brother,” he snaps, cutting me off with a hard look to match. His brown eyes have narrowed slightly and he swallows hard once, making his Adam’s apple bob. “Is that clear? If I had known this was going to be so interesting to you, I would have put a no-Kieran clause in the contract. I’m hoping boundaries will be enough to keep this topic out of our conversations. Do we have an understanding?”

“Got it,” I agree, looking away briefly to hide the surprise on my face. My reaction is involuntary. Staying silent, I slide off the light jacket that I wore for the car ride over and fold it over my arm.

Immediately, Davis’s entire demeanor shifts as his eyes follow a slow, meaningful path over my body. He starts at my dress’s thin straps, travels to the low cut that shows off my chest, and ends and lingers on the form-fitting black fabric that splits high on my left thigh. Whether or not he realizes it, his tongue wets his lips as he focuses his attention on my legs.

Being the object of Davis’s gaze has never gotten old. It was exhilarating and powerful eight years ago, and it still does wonders for my ego today. Other men have never stared at me quite like he does. To other men, I’m a lust object. To Davis, I’m like a priceless work of art.

Leave it to the son of a billionaire to try to buy a priceless work of art.

I keep my sights on him as I reach over and place my coat on the hook by the front door. He follows my movements, like I knew he would.

Coming here, I’d intended to follow his lead. That was how it went last time, after all. I figured we’d do the same today: his instructions, his wants, his fantasies. But the starving look on his face has me emboldened and equally as ravenous. Against my better judgment, against my apprehension that he’ll leave me humbled and hungry once again, I find myself looping my hands under the hem of the dress and sliding it over my head.

For a second time, I’m standing in my underwear in Davis Ridgeway’s living room while he waits in front of me, fully clothed, as he enjoys the show. The attention continues to spur me on, and I give him a measured, innocent look. “More?”

“You don’t have to do that,” he answers as he lowers his gaze to take in my body again.

“Do what?”

“Get dressed up for me. I don’t care. You’ll be naked in a few minutes.”

Despite his words, it’s glaringly obvious that Davis does care. His eyes trace the path of my hand as I raise it to finger the strap of my bra and it’s obvious that he likes what he sees. Yet he pretends he doesn’t, almost like the interaction with his brother not too long ago has forced him into corner where he has to “asshole” his way out.

“Who says I dressed up for you? All of my underwear looks like this.” I tug at the satiny strap, pulling it off of my shoulder so that it dangles against my upper arm. The black lace cup flares at the top, daring to expose more of my breast—as I intended.

“All of it?” His words hold volumes, like desire and disbelief and some level of disdain, I suspect, all wrapped into one.

“Yes.”

To my delight, he takes several steps closer to me, flexing his hand once before he second guesses his impulse to finally reach out and touch me. “So this is what you’re wearing under your work outfits? This is what you’re wearing when you come to my office every Monday?” The questions come out gritty, again at the intersection of desire and disdain.

“Not always. Sometimes I go commando.”

He narrows his eyes once again, enough to make me wonder if I’m flying too close to the sun. “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t lie to me.”

“And I’m not lying,” I assure him before tilting my chin up for a kiss.

Davis accepts it with a soft groan. For a few lovely seconds, he lets me kiss him like that—slow and exploratory. It’s the same way that he kissed me in Amsterdam—all sweetness and entirely unlike the way he kissed me last week. “Evil little tease,” he mutters as we separate. He shoots a sharp glare in my direction. “And you’re not calling the shots.”

“I’m not?” I lower to my knees without his prompting and keep the smug expression on my face. “You’re always the one who decides how these evenings go? I don’t think that was in the contract.”

He stiffens as I reach for his belt. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” I retort as I begin to undo his buckle. “I’m clearly calculating synergies down here.”

“The lies, Olivia.”

“Clearly we should have defined the thin line between a lie and charming sarcasm,” I say as I remove his cock from his undone pants.

He springs out, long and hard. I’ve seen this cock before, and yet this swell of excitement rises in me like it’s the first time. He’s hard for me—this gorgeous man is hard for me of all people.

More importantly, Davis is hung. I don’t know why that surprises me, because he couldn’t be any less huge than he was eight years ago. Perhaps it’s the result of the passage of time though, because I’m taken aback when I see him.

I can handle this though. He knows I can.