The Billionaire's Virgin

I nod a reply. Something about the mute confusion on my face must strike a nerve with her, though, because Red pauses before leaving again, her eyes on mine.

“Be careful with his type,” she says, her gaze all too knowingly sharp. “They’ll eat you alive if you let ’em.”

Before I can ask what she means, she’s gone, the door to the room slamming shut behind her.

Has Pierce sent girls here before? Has he had other virgin sacrifices prepped this same way, before he had his way with them?

I shake my head. Of course he has, Bonnie. Don’t be crazy. There’s a reason this mad rich man is willing to pay an insane amount of money to sleep with you. It’s because this is what he gets off on doing.

I try not to worry too much about what that means, what it makes me to accept his money, as I turn back to the bed and undo the ribbon on the first box.

My jaw drops.

Okay. Not what I was expecting. I figured he’d want me in a slutty schoolgirl getup, or maybe some kind of frilly, doll-like dress. Instead, I unfold a gorgeous black silk gown from within a fluff of gold tissue paper. It’s floor-length, with a slit up one side, tasteful yet just revealing enough to tantalize. The neckline is similar, dipping low enough that it would show only a hint of cleavage, if I had much to display. It’s a sleek, modern style, the kind of gown you see on red carpets or in the Who Wore It Better sections of celebrity gossip rags.

Not the kind of gown you wear to a paid hookup, I think. Then again, it’s not like I know anything about hookups, paid or otherwise.

The second box catches my eye. When I lift it experimentally, it feels a lot heavier than the first one. Huh. I undo the second ribbon and open the lid to reveal two separately wrapped bundles. Within the first, heavier bundle, I discover a pair of black and gold heels. They’re not sky-high, thank god, because I don’t know if I’d even make it to the door of this changing room wearing a pair like that, let alone out the front door. But they are at least 3 inches tall, and narrow. Not quite stilettos, but real honest-to-goodness heels, nothing like the cork wedge sandals that are the closest thing I own to heels.

I bite my lip gently. No worries. I’ll figure them out. They are gorgeous, too, and the soles don’t look killer. When I stick a finger onto the pad, it feels soft and supportive, not like a lot of cute but deadly shoes.

Then I catch a glimpse of the brand and freeze in shock. Loubotain? I may not have known exactly how to spell that until this very second, but I can guarantee these babies aren’t knock offs.

Shit.

I swallow hard as I untie the other tissue-wrapped package. Then I burst out in a grin. This is more what I was expecting.

A silk-smooth matching set of lingerie falls to the changing table. There’s a thong, if you can even call it that, since it looks more like a string of dental floss mated with a patch of lace. And then there’s the top, black just like the panties, lace as well as lace-up—it’s a full bodice, complete with a bustier designed to give my girls a solid push. I check the size tag hesitantly, worried I might have given Pierce the wrong impression with the bra I wore on cam.

But no. It’s exactly my size. 34A, a little big on the A-side, but not quite large enough to slip into B territory. When I shimmy into the bustier, it feels like putting on a hug. A really tight, slightly uncomfortable hug, but one that lifts my girls onto full display, cupping them just right, and hugging my curves the same way. The panties are a perfect fit too, and even though I shouldn’t be surprised by this point, I do still lift my eyebrows when I slide the gown over top, because holy shit.

Not only does Pierce have flawless taste, but he’s also got a dead eye for a lady’s size. The thought of him memorizing every inch of me, figuring me out down to the centimeter, is sexy as fuck. The man pays attention to everything, every tiny detail.

The gown hugs my waist and flares out over my hips, giving me a gorgeous hourglass figure, emphasizing my chest without crossing the line into trashy territory, and dipping low in the back to show off the nape of my neck and the spot where my shoulder blades meet.

Even the fucking shoes fit. Jesus. How did he figure out that one? I wonder, until I remember that when I arrived at the salon this afternoon for my preparatory body massage and wax, they asked for my shoe size. I’d figured the masseuse needed it for some reason, but now I realize that Pierce must have asked them to relay that information and selected these shoes at the last minute.