The Russian Billionaire

God, I just want his mouth on me… and his silky-smooth, enormous, hard cock inside me again. The way he made me feel is addictive. He is addictive. Suddenly, I remember Chloe and the girl who had tried to jump off the roof and the thought makes me frown. I better get a hold of myself, or I’ll end up a humiliating basket case like them.

Tea, finger sandwiches, and cakes are served.

Needless to say, everything is delicious. Half an hour after everything is cleared away, we start our descent. I stand at the top of the stairs and breathe in the English air. It must have just rained because it smells fresh and cleaner than New York.

We are whisked through a quick passport check before we are met by his chauffeur. Seems strange to me that anyone would have a chauffeur in every country where they own a home, but I guess that must be normal for billionaires. Apparently, our bags are already in the trunk of the dark blue Bentley, so we get into the back of the car and off we go.

Oh, I just discovered people drive on the wrong side of the road here.

I stare out of the window in awe. No Skyscrapers. There are rolling green fields around us dotted with grazing sheep! It all feels so unreal. To think that only a few hours ago I was in New York. Now it is thousands of miles away. Another world.

“How long before we get to London?” I ask.

He looks at his watch. “We’ll be there by 7:50 p.m.”

Eventually, the roadway gives way to a dual highway, which then becomes a big busy road.

“We are now coming into London,” Konstantin murmurs.

He names the areas as we pass through them. Earls Court, West Kensington, Knightsbridge. London is as different from New York as cake is different from steak. There are no skyscrapers made of glossy glass and steel anywhere. All I see are wonderful and often intricate stone masonry everywhere. The buildings are works of art, evidence of a form of expert craftsmanship that is lost forever.

“Oh my God, Harrods,” I cry, as I recognize the iconic building lit up. I suddenly realize I’m behaving like an overly excited child and sneak a look at him. I find him watching me curiously.

“Sorry, I’m not usually so unsophisticated,” I mumble, embarrassed.

“Don’t be sorry. It is refreshing to see someone so appreciative of life. I’m afraid all the people I deal with take great pains to appear world-weary.” His mouth twists. “It’s not as charming as they think it is.”

I smile shyly at him. “That’s good. Because you may see many occasions when I actually spontaneously explode with excitement.”

He grins back. It’s the first time I have ever seen him smile so openly. Usually, he is distant, measured, wary. Almost as if he distrusts me.

I turn back towards the window. For some weird reason my heart is singing. We pass by Hyde Park, London’s own Central park, and turn onto Mayfair and the car comes to a stop outside Claridges Hotel. There are art deco lamps on either side of the revolving doors. Two doormen in top hats, green ties, and long coats standing on either side of them come to help open our doors.

“Good evening, Mr. Tsarnov, Miss,” they greet, their voices crisp, their accents deliciously foreign.

We enter a lofty cream and off-white foyer with the iconic Masonic black and white square tile floor. I look around me in awe. It is pure British pomp with a twist of art deco. Reminders of a more dignified age. The strains of violins playing classical music fills the air.

Apparently, there is no need for us to book in. Everything has already been arranged by his assistants, or Konstantin has some sort of standing agreement. He walks through the vast space like he owns it.

Between the tall pillars are tables with people sitting and eating and drinking. The sounds of the voices float over to me. I cannot see them, but it almost seems to me as if they would be dressed in clothes that belong to a different era.

And then we reach the elevator and it is really like being frozen in time. It is made of wrought-iron with a comfy looking seat and a uniformed attendant. He too greets Konstantin by name.

We are booked in a penthouse suite. It has antique furniture and a grand piano! To my surprise I find out the suite comes with a personal butler. My gaze takes in the vases of fresh flowers and the bucket of champagne on ice laid out on one of the tables. While Konstantin deals with the butler, I walk over to the terrace. It has a superb view of London. It is nearly eight o’clock, dusk is falling over the city and the air is getting chilly. I can hardly believe I am here. It feels like a dream.