Paris with the Billionaire

“I’ve got a little short story you could read,” I murmur, joining him at the armchair.

I perch on the arm, open my laptop, and navigate to my story folder.

“Whoah,” he growls, sitting up. “You’ve written all of these?”

I nod as a blush blazes across my cheeks. My short story folder is bursting with almost one hundred stories.

“But some of these are literally two pages long,” I tell him. “And most of them aren’t finished. So don’t be too impressed, okay?”

He trails his fingers along my back, the pressure of his skin warm through the thin fabric of my dress. The sensation dances up and down my spine, coiling around my neck, teasing and captivating.

It travels down to my back and then between my legs, as though he’s grinding his palm against my clit with shadowy touches.

I shiver on the arm of the chair, which just makes my pussy grind against it, even more, my lips feeling as though they’re expanding there’s so much heat moving through me.

“Okay,” I say, struggling to keep a breathy sigh from my voice. “Maybe we can try this one.”

I open a story called ‘A Dream of a Dream.’ It’s basically a short experimental piece about a woman having a romantic dream and then waking up to find it was real … only to wake up again. The story isn’t great or anything, but I hope it gives him a decent idea of my writing style.

He reaches across to take the laptop and then chuckles when I don’t let go, holding it in place, not letting him take it from me.

“Are you planning on using it as a weapon again, firecracker?”

I laugh and stand up, finally letting him take it.

“I can’t look,” I say, standing at the balcony with my back to him, gazing out at the city.

“That’s fine by me,” he growls. “I’ve got the best view, anyway. Be a good girl and stick that ass out as I read. Touch that pussy for me, too. It might help you relax.”

“Are you kidding?” I moan, the twitching need in my voice betraying me.

He knows I want to do it.

“You’ve been grinding your sweet slit against me all afternoon,” he growls. “You’re soaked, you horny fucking firecracker. I can tell. Go on. I want you to get nice and horny as I read.”

“Fuck,” I whisper, sticking my ass out as I slide my hand down my dress, cupping my sex through my dress.

“Jesus Christ,” he moans. “Now—rub it. Go on. Fucking rub it for me.”

I grind my palm against my dress and my panties, the pressure rubbing hotly up and down my pussy, making me want to explode right here.

He’s right.

Rubbing myself makes it easier not to think about the fact he’s reading my story, exploring the inner workings of my soul.

“Are you reading it?” I moan.

“Yes,” he snarls. “But don’t you fucking dare stop rubbing that sweet wet pussy, Fiona. Go under that dress. Push your panties aside. Feel how wet you are for me.”

I whimper as I do as he says, hiking my dress up and grazing my fingers along my panties. I rub my fingertips against my clit, biting down as my vision wavers with the budding release.

I didn’t realize how badly I wanted to touch myself – for him to touch me – until my clit vibrates and screams at the contact.

“This is amazing,” he groans.

“It feels so good,” I moan, rubbing two fingers against my clit now, tingles rising up into my belly and swirling uncontrollably.

“No, not that,” he growls. “I mean, yes—yes, that. You look incredible. You sound even fucking better. And the way you’re sticking those big round juicy ass cheeks out has got my mouth watering. But I was talking about your story.”

That’s probably the only thing he could say to make my hand drop.

I turn to him, my dress falling back down around my knees.

“Are you serious?” I whisper, gazing at him as he sits on the chair, legs wide, dominating the chair the same way he has dominated the business world his whole life.

He places the laptop on the glass table and leans forward, staring at me with those pin-me-in-place eyes of his.

“I’m deadly serious,” he snarls. “I love the way you use imagery. Your dialogue made me smile. I’m not a literary man by any measure, but I’d read a book written like that, Fiona. I swear on our future children’s lives. I’m not lying to you.”

I leap across the balcony.

Even as a thousand voices scream inside of me that he’ll laugh at me, that I’m making a fool out of myself, I lean down and place my hands on his legs. I lean close, knowing he’ll be able to see down the front of my dress.

“Promise,” I moan.

“I promise,” he snarls, snatching his hand out and grabbing my ass.