The Intern: The Billionaire's Successor

“Tell me what you need,” I request as I push my cockhead against her asshole.

She gasps as I breach the entrance and slowly begin to ease my length into her. An inch. Another. She feels impossibly tight and so goddamn wonderful that I can’t keep myself from letting out a groan as I press another inch of my cock into her.

“Fuck,” she manages to say, raw and unfiltered. “That feels good.”

“You feel good,” I answer, keeping my words adoring. “You’re so tight, but feeling you open up to me—it’s everything, Olivia.”

“Keep going,” Olivia implores, hands gripping the sheets in tight fists that grow even tighter as I continue.

Another inch. More. And more. Soon, I’ve sheathed myself as far as I can go. My thighs press against her plump ass cheeks, brushing up against the length of the backs of her thighs. At her front, I dip my clean fingers into her wetness and spread it up towards her clit. “Still good?”

She answers by pushing up on her arms until she can straighten her spine. It takes a moment, given how gingerly she moves, but it’s worth the wait. Her back presses flush against my chest and she urges my arm around her so that my other hand rests on her stomach.

Our bodies couldn’t be closer. Every exhalation from my lungs tingles against her spine and the scent of her nearly intoxicates me. I wish I could kiss her. I wish our tongues could twine and link and that I could capture every small sound that she makes as her body accepts my size. I begin to move, keeping my strokes slow and brief and watching for her cues. Her trembles. Her groans. My hands don’t deviate from their tight, intimate hold on her body, and the world begins to turn into Olivia and Olivia alone.

Her hair in my face. Her breasts bouncing as I begin to increase the pace of my strokes. The way she directs her hand up so that I’m clutching her breasts—a nipple poking through the gap in my fingers.

“Yes, Davis,” she urges me. “God, I love this. You’re so good with my body—so unbelievably good.”

Little does she realize how easy she makes it. With a body like Olivia’s around—and fuck what a body it is—it’s hard to be anything but good. Her supple breasts invite worship and her milky skin begs to be revered. If she doesn’t understand that already, she truly has no idea how much power she holds over me. I tell her, “Yours is the only body I ever want. Your pussy. This ass. Tell me that they’re mine. Tell me that you only want me to touch them.”

“Only you,” Olivia agrees before she arches her back, making it easier for me to pump into her.

My hands caress every bare inch of her that they can find. “Tell me that nobody else knows what you need. Tell me that I’m the only one.”

“You’re the only one, Davis,” she insists, telling me what I need to hear. “You’ve always been the only one.”

Always.

I pull out of her and turn her around so that she’s facing me. I dip low to kiss her breasts, and she arches into me—both of us in a frenzy to explore more of the other. It’s extraordinary, but it’s not the main event. I push her onto her back and slide her pillow under her lower back so that I can lift up her legs.

When I enter her asshole again, the view takes my breath away. Her breasts jiggle with every thrust and I can see the glint of her piercing as she spreads her legs wide. She’s astounding to see—unlike any woman I’ve ever seen.

I want her; I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

My thrusts grow harder and faster and my thumb works her clit as I test the limits of how much we can both take. Olivia accepts me like she was made for it, begging me for more and more and still more as I move in and out of her asshole. My own body is pulsating with pleasure, so close to a climax that I refuse to allow myself until I get her there with me.

Come with me, come with me, come with me.

I mean it in every sense possible. I want her to finish with me, but I’m also dying to have her stay with me. Live with me. Marry me. Be with me. Forget the summer—this is what we both need. For months. Years, maybe. Maybe always.

“You’re perfect,” she says to me, taking the words out of my own mouth. “Yes, Davis. Keep going. Make me yours.”

She barely finishes the sentence as she begins to buck with her climax, hooking both of her arms over the back of my neck so she can pull me lower. She cries out into my neck, letting me take every wave of pleasure and release that washes over her. Her asshole tightens around my cock and flares with each reverberation of her orgasm, begging me to join her.

I can’t hold back. I don’t want to hold back. Saying her name, I heave and thrust until I give in to pleasure. Clutching Olivia’s body against mine, I come in her, releasing myself in her perfect, untouched asshole. The feeling hits every ridge and crevice on my body, showering me in pleasure as I hold her tight against me. We’re both sweaty and breathless and yet we can’t stop touching each other—like we know that this rare moment of total escape will end as soon as we separate.

She’s not my whore. I’m not a villain. There is no contract or revenge or sordid history between us. For once, all that there is between us is skin. Skin and sweat and her sweet wetness and the cum I’ve released into her body. It’s carnal and somehow precious, and I can’t help but imagine that this is it—this is really what fucking is all about.

Eventually, I have to remove myself from her body, but I don’t want to. I want to stay inside of her, locked deep in her warmth and the pulse of her body. Pulling out feels like I’m letting her go when all I want to do is stay with her.

Stay with me, stay with me, stay with me.

Reluctantly, I slide out of her and roll to the side. As soon as we separate, the cool air from the AC passes over my body, working with the sweat on my skin and the wetness on my cock to force some much-needed clarity into my sex-addled brain. I’m delusional, I realize. Olivia won’t stay with me. Promises made in sex are the emptiest kind. She and I both know what this is.

Olivia turns onto her side, looking sated and altogether well-fucked. That doesn’t change the circumstances. That doesn’t change anything. Deep down I’m still an insecure rich boy with a vendetta and she’s still an opportunistic girl whose aspirations drive her. I know that I’ve let the last couple of hours make a fool of me—this whirlwind trip to Amsterdam, the damn near magical dinner, and now the best fuck of my life. But now, I need to get it together. Number forty-one in the Ridgeway Guide to Success: If you suspect that you need to get it together, then you need to get it together.

I give her a single peck on the cheek before I glance at the ensuite bathroom. “Go ahead and use that one. I’ll take the other one.”

My tone clearly jars her. Confusion spreads across her flushed cheeks in the form of blush, but she doesn’t object. She simply rolls off of the bed and sways over to the bathroom, looking like the human embodiment of sex. While she’s occupied, I head out to the suite to clean myself up in another one of the bathrooms.

When I’m done, I track down my phone and head back to the bedroom, where I put on my boxer briefs and climb into bed. In the last few minutes while Olivia is in the shower, I remind myself that there are no escapes, no reprieves, when it comes to Olivia and me. Sighing, I unlock my phone and I transfer her ten thousand dollars from my bank account.

A few minutes later, she emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around her hair. The sight is breathtaking. Her skin looks pink and lush, and I can spot the redness on her breasts from where my fingers have handled them.

Exhaling contentedly, she walks over to her suitcase and pulls out a sheer black thong—one of the items that I picked out for her. She slides it over her shapely legs, makes a pit stop in the bathroom to get rid of her towel, and joins me in the bed.

With a soft exhale, she snuggles up against me and curls her arm over my stomach. “Screw you for being so good at that.”

“Screw you for taking everything I could give you,” I answer.