The Billionaire's Virgin

Why spoil me, if he wanted to just buy me? I would have let him fuck me that first night and been done with it, but he preferred to drag it out, turn this business arrangement into something that’s starting to feel, to me, like a real romance. Why?

Is this all some twisted game of his? Do rich and powerful men get so bored with being rich and powerful that they get off on buying girls’ virginities? Is this just another power play for him?

He’s certainly good at those, I learn from the first couple of newspaper articles I browse about him. He’s notorious for being a shark in the boardroom. He inherited Woodland Marquis when his father died, and he was only 23 years old—that sends a familiar twinge straight to my heartstrings. But back then Woodland Marquis was a single hotel in Los Angeles, not very well known, and certainly not a name associated with wealth and luxury. In the 9 years since he inherited that hotel, Pierce built an empire.

He poured a ton of money into renovating the place, almost every penny he inherited from his father, except for the money he set aside to run a brilliant new marketing campaign. The hotel took off, and before long, he was rolling in profits. But he wasn’t happy stopping there—he bought another hotel in San Francisco, then another one here in Vegas, and soon enough New York, Chicago, Houston. He has hotels dotting almost every major city across the U.S. now, and a spinoff chain in Europe. All because, according to this article, he refused to stop running full-speed.

Most people, the author wrote, would have stopped at that first hotel. He earned a nice profit margin; they would have been content with that, and settled in to enjoy the proceeds. But not the younger Pinewood. He spent every cent of those proceeds replicating the first hotel. Then he did it again, and again. His business has almost never been fully in the black, because he’s always reinvesting, buying up on his earlier successes. It’s a risky way to play, in business and in life, but so far for Pierce Pinewood, this style of work has paid off in spades . . .

I’m still reading when my poor harassed waiter friend returns with a fresh mug of coffee. He drops it off and asks if I would like some food brought to me, but I wave him away. I’m no Pierce. The buffet is fine by me.

I load up a plate with toast and eggs and bacon, then devour that along with more articles about Pierce. The more I read, the more I feel I’m starting to understand him. That drive in his eyes, the way he always gets what he wants. The way he kicked me out of bed at 5 in the damn morning because he had a work call—something that sounded like an emergency, to be fair.

Rich as god or not, this man is a classic workaholic.

Of course, that’s probably how he got so rich. But it can’t be good for his personal life. I doubt he has time for anything, even friends, with how often he must need to be on-call.

I shake my head and finish up my meal. Right then, the waiter returns to tap my shoulder gently. “They’re paging you at the front desk, I think. Bonnie?”

I nod and pocket my phone, wiping my mouth delicately as I stand. “The car is here?”

He nods.

Thank god it’s just a car and not another helicopter. Much as I love flying, I’m not up for another adventure at this hour, in this getup. I just want to be back home in my cozy, cramped apartment bed, where I can think about this situation I’ve gotten myself into.

More than ever, I know I need to finish this “business deal” soon. Because I’m starting to feel something more than I ought to for a customer, so to say. And if I’m catching feelings, I can tell from those news reports that it will only lead to heartbreak.

I stride out of the hotel, still wearing his bathrobe. Hell if I’m going back up there to beg him for my clothes back. I walk straight out of Pierce’s world, and back into the car that will return me to mine.

9

“What’s the matter? That’s the third time you’ve forgotten to move on your turn.” Gram’s ever-sharp eyes pierce right through my veil of . . . well. My veil of Pierce.

“Nothing!” I exclaim, quickly reaching to advance my knight across the board. Less than a second later, Gram’s rook swoops in to take my knight, harmlessly, because I didn’t even notice him there. “Crap.”

“You’re usually not this sloppy a chess player,” Gram scolds. “What’s on your mind, Bon-Bon?”

I flush at the childhood nickname, though to be honest, it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside that she still calls me that from time to time. My Gram is a no-nonsense woman—she had to be, in order to fly planes and helicopters back in a day when only men were trusted with jobs like that—but with me, she lets her soft side show. Probably because we only have each other left in the world.