The Billionaire's Virgin

So he likes his drink, but only the best of it. Got it.

My eyes sweep the rest of the interior, but aside from the smooth seats (and enough space that I start to wonder if this limo is larger than my bedroom at home), there’s nothing else personal in here. My man of mystery remains mysterious.

Hmm. That or he rented this car just to show off. I lean my head back on the seat and study the ceiling. Did he choose this car for me specifically? Was it like the lingerie, carefully planned, or the dress, tailored exactly to fit me?

Maybe he plans to fuck me in here later, after wherever this car is taking me . . .

I trace my hands down my hips, loving the sensation of the smooth silk against my skin, brushing on my thighs and gliding beneath my palms.

Before I know it, my hands have drifted close to the outline of my panties. I tell myself I’m just checking the seams, to see if the thong is visible through the fabric of the dress. But soon I can’t help pressing one finger flat along my mound, then another, inching toward my aching clit.

I can’t stop thinking about him. About the way he reads me so easily, terrifyingly fast. About the way he knows my body better than I do, able to judge my size and shape at a single hungry glance.

My fingers reach my pussy, and I press through the dress, rubbing gently, feeling myself grow wetter with each rotation of my hand. Fuck. Is this how he’ll be touching me soon? Will he take the time to tease me, touch me, make me gasp for more, before he finally plunges his hard cock into me and strips away my virginity?

Or will he just grab me and have his way with me the second I walk through the door

of . . . Wherever we’re going?

I can’t decide which fantasy I prefer more. Maybe the latter, because there’s something desperate and visceral about it, imagining a guy like Pierce, a guy in control of everything around him, unable to control himself over me.

Somehow, though, I already know it won’t be like that. He will be in complete control, that much I’m certain of.

He’ll be in control of me, too.

All too quickly, the limo pulls to a stop. I haven’t finished, and my clit throbs in protest, but I ignore it as the driver opens my door. It’s probably better if I’m already a little horny going into this anyway. After all, what if I pull another prom night and freak out?

This isn’t high school, I remind myself. And right now, I’m about as far from crouching under the bleachers with another inexperienced kid as I can possibly get.

I stand at the door to one of the nicest restaurants in the city. I know the name, of course, because anyone who’s anyone in service, even down to the dishwashers, has heard of this place. The creme de la creme of elite society dine here every night, and although I heard a rumor that the French fries are actually just McDonald’s fries shipped in at 3am every night under cover of darkness, everything else you could imagine ordering here is apparently to die for.

“He’s inside?” I ask the valet as I step from the car.

The man smiles. “On the roof, miss.”

I tilt my head back to spy the rooftop, a few dozen stories above my head. Before I can get too dizzy, a maitre’d from the restaurant opens the door, and next thing I know I’m being whisked inside, up an elevator. “Top floor,” he says, needlessly, since he pushes the button for me. Then he steps out of the lift, and I’m alone with my thoughts.

Luckily, I don’t have much time to start to panic. The elevator slows to a halt, the doors slide open, and . . .

I forget to keep breathing.

The elevator opens directly onto a rooftop, which is empty save for one sweetheart table, two chairs side-by-side, settled beneath a heat lamp against the faint chill in the night air. Beyond the rooftop, even just from this angle, I can see half of the San Francisco skyline glittering in the late afternoon sun.

Closer at hand, however, is what catches my attention.

Pierce stands beside the table in a jet-black three-piece suit—or maybe it’s a tuxedo? I can never remember the difference, but he’s wearing a bow tie and cummerbund beneath it, whatever it is. The sharp contrast of the white shirt and black suit make his ice-blue eyes pop even more starkly. He has just enough color in his cheeks to suggest he recently returned from somewhere much warmer than San Fran in the fall. And his hair, so dark on cam that I hardly saw it, is cut to fall just so over his right eyebrow, one of those I just fell out of bed like this looks that you know must be planned, and yet, it’s so convincing that I really believe he didn’t try too hard to style it that way. For a second he looks otherworldly, too attractive to be real, like a man who stepped out of a TV series into the real world.