The Billionaire's Virgin

“What is your email, Bonnie? Preferably one without a last name in it; you can’t be too careful online.”

I tell him my secondary email, the one I mostly just use to sign up for spam newsletter lists and sales announcements from my favorite stores, since it’s not like I can afford to shop in any of them anyway. I watch him click on his screen a couple times.

“Check your inbox.”

Blinking, I turn away to shuffle through my belongings for my phone, which wound up under the pile of laundry in my haste to clear the bed. I stand and refresh that inbox, then stand there like a dumbass in the middle of the room, gaping.

There’s a $300 Visa gift card in my inbox.

“As I said. A small token.” He raises that damn eyebrow again. “Now. The shirt?”

I should feel dirty. I should feel cheap. I should not feel this fucking hot while stripping for a guy who just threw cash at me. But fucking hell, I feel like a sex goddess as I peel that Trix shirt off of my body and let it drop beside me. At least I wore a decent bra today, leopard print with black straps. Push-up, too, so the girls are on full display. I don’t have much of a chest, but what I do have fills out an A-cup to almost overflowing, and gives me a nice curve of cleavage.

Pierce seems to agree, from the way his eyes graze my skin. I feel hot everywhere he looks, set aflame. I’ve never had a guy look at me like this before. It’s more than simple desire, more than I want to tap that. He wants to take me, possess me. Use me in ways I probably haven’t even imagined.

I want to learn exactly what he has planned for me. Already I can feel myself getting wet between the thighs.

“How’s this, sir?” I lean toward the camera, smiling right at the lens. “Do you like what you see, sir?”

“Speak only when I ask you to,” is his only reply. “And take off your jeans, too.”

I unbutton those, and shimmy out of them. The underwear doesn’t match the bra, but it’s cute too, a narrow little red cheeky number. Thank god you can’t tell from the camera’s point-of-view that said panties are already getting damp. I wouldn’t want him to think I’m too easy.

Or would I?

“Turn around,” he says, and I immediately spin so my back faces the camera. “Slower,” he barks.

I rotate slowly, swaying my hips as I do, peeking over my shoulder to study his reaction. Unless I’m mistaken, he’s breathing a little faster now, leaning closer to his screen. His pupils have dilated too, and he can’t seem to tear them from my ass.

That is, after all, my best feature. I’ve got a narrow waist, and fairly small chest, but I more than make up for it with my hips and ass. Especially in these cheeky panties. My butt is muscled and pert and I can already imagine his hands on it, squeezing my ass as he pulls my body against his hard chest. Thinking about it, I can’t help running my hands over my hips, letting my fingers trail over my tight ass, pretending it’s him.

He exhales sharply. “Turn back around.”

I obey.

“Have you ever had sex with a man, Bonnie?”

I shake my head. “No, sir.”

“Why not?”

It takes me a second to recover from that blunt question. “Uh. I guess . . . I never found the right guy. And then it was too late.”

“What do you mean too late?”

I grimace. I didn’t mean to say that. “I mean, too late to lose it casually, you know? It became a big deal that I hadn’t, and then it seemed weird—”

“Stop that.”

I freeze, unsure what I’ve done. “Stop what, sir?”

He points. “Crossing your arms.”

I didn’t even notice I had. But sure enough, I’d crossed my arms over my chest, and started to hunch in on myself, self-conscious about being semi-naked in front of this guy. I force myself to unfold them, slowly, and press my palms against my thighs to keep them there.

“What about women?” he asks.

I blush. “No, sir. I don’t swing that way, sir.”

He smiles sideways. “You never know.” He winks, and for the first time since we started talking, I glimpse a real person there, behind this confident, sexy conversationalist. Then he’s moving on, swiftly, to the next order of business. “What about fingering. Has a man ever finger-fucked you?”

I flush. “No, sir.”

“Have you kissed a man?”

“Of course. I mean, yes, sir. A couple.”

“Did they get under your shirt?”

“One, sir.”

“And did he fuck those pert little tits of yours?”

If I thought I was red before, it’s got nothing on me now. “I . . . How do you even—no, sir.”

He’s chuckling softly, eyes crinkled at the edges in genuine amusement. Well, at least someone is enjoying making me uncomfortable.