Page 18 of Arrogant Heir
The bartender tops up my vodka and I decide to chase Ms Jackson far from my thoughts.Enough is enough. I’m being ridiculous.
A six-foot-tall stunning brunette approaches me and I signal for the barman to fix her a drink. She asks for a white wine, and I wonder what Ms Jackson drinks. I snap that door shut again and try to focus on my latest conquest. Her luscious curves press against me—into me—in a way that makes my body react even though I’m not all that motivated to do anything about it. She smells of expensive perfume and is keen to take things further. I haven’t told her my name, but women in these places have a sixth sense for the wealthiest guys. They know how we dress, and they know what we come here for. That’s why they come to a club like this—they’re out shopping for their very own billionaire.
I may be cynical, but I’m growing hornier by the second as she rubs against me, so after a while I suggest we get out of there and go back to my place. She agrees instantly and beams at me as if she’s won the lottery.
‘Thank you, Mr Rochester,’ says the concierge as I reach in my pocket and pass him a fifty.
We slip out of the club by a private back entrance to avoid the dreaded press, and my driver pulls up immediately outside as if by osmosis. I can see the girl is impressed. She can’t be more than twenty-eight. Her eyes widen and she’s giddy with excitement when John steps out and opens the door for her. This girl isn’t used to real wealth, I decide, and must be new to the billionaire scene. Likely she got the name of the exclusive London club from a friend who has already hunted her prey for the night and left on his arm.
She’s not drunk which is a relief, but she’s a little tipsy and her inhibitions—if she has any—have melted away with the white wine and she slides close to me in the comfort of the back seat of the Range Rover. Her short dress rides up over her long and lithe golden thighs as she glues them next to mine. She places her hand on my inner thigh and tries to kiss me. I’ve never been a fan of public demonstrations of a sexual nature, and even more so since being photographed for the papers so much. I move her hand away firmly and resist her kiss. ‘All in good time,’ I tell her, and she huffs a bit but sits back in her seat.
There’s not much traffic on the roads at two in the morning, so it’s not long before John slides the car into my underground parking, and we get out and enter the lift. By this time, I’m wired and ready for a hard fuck, so when she comes onto me on the way up, I let her. The lift door opens, and I pull her by the hand into my apartment. Apartment isn’t a word that does my place justice. Billionaires don’t live in mere apartments. We live in palatial homes and where a regular apartment might be a couple of bedrooms and be on one floor, mine is a three-floor penthouse and stretches right along the block—a Chelsea block with a view of the Thames. The marble floor gleams as the strategically positioned lights automatically flick on to show the penthouse at its best.
The girl gasps. ‘Wow, this is some place. Can I get a tour?’
‘Maybe later,’ I say curtly. I can’t remember a time when any girl got a tour, especially not an opportunist gold-digger I picked up at the club. You can’t be too careful. Grandfather would disapprove of me bringing her home like this, saying she could be a plant and if you’ve not been properly matched through a trustworthy source, you should trust no one.
He’d disapprove of it for other reasons too, but I’m the head of a new generation of Rochesters. Security wise, he’s not wrong, although there are cameras everywhere and security guards outside. But meeting a stranger and bringing her back purely for sex—with no expectations—at least on my side, adds a certain thrill to the proceedings, if you know what I mean…
I lead the girl into the lounge, which is dominated by a grand piano. She’s barely wearing a dress, never mind a coat. ‘Are you warm enough?’ I ask.
She bats her long eyelashes and places her purse on top of the piano. ‘I’m hot, really hot,’ she says in a sexy, sugary voice reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe movies.
I’m unimpressed. She’s trying too hard for my tastes, but I do need to get fucked tonight, so I play along with the game. The sooner we get to it, the sooner she can leave. The girls never stay the night, and the clock is ticking. I have a busy day tomorrow at the office. Her billionaire interlude is going to be over sooner than she thinks.
‘Come here,’ I command. I reach for her and caress her generous breasts and nipples. They harden beneath the silky material, and I move in closer. Her hands caress my hardening cock again through my trousers, and this time I let her touch me. She’s no amateur and we’re quickly at boiling point. I pull one strap of her dress off her tanned shoulder and the silky red number slinks to the floor and pools at her feet around her high sandals, revealing her perfect body. I’m rock hard by now and desperate for relief. It’s been too long, with only my hand for company. She helps me out of my trousers and tries to remove my shirt, but I shrug her off and keep it on.
She opens the buttons. ‘You’re so broad,’ she says, and rubs her small hands over my firm, muscled chest.
I don’t kiss her. What’s the point? We both know what the other wants. I blow warm breath on the side of her neck, and she shivers and clings to me. Touching her, I find her wet between the legs. She makes needy animal-like noises as I insert my fingers into her, and soon she’s crying out for me to take her. So I do.
I pick her up, carry her to the sofa, and lay her down on the cashmere blanket. She sucks my hard length and I’m ready to burst, so I waste no more time in rolling a condom on and plunging into her. Soon she cries out as the first orgasm crashes over her. She’s a quick comer, which is great because although I don’t feel I owe her anything, I’m not so inconsiderate that I don’t want my girls to come.
Maybe it’s just ego, but either way I always do my best to have them finish, whether with my hand, tongue, or during intercourse. I don’t mind which, but I feel like I’ve done my job when I hear them screaming for more. This one is red hot and by the time I take her, she’s desperate to have me inside her. She rides me like a cowgirl and soon I can’t hold out any longer and I come harder than I have for a long time. I fuck her until the point of oblivion and for a few seconds my incessant whirling thoughts shut down and I experience exquisite peace before the nagging inner voice kicks in again.
As I come, I see a different face from the one that’s haunted my dreams for years, and I curse aloud.
‘What?’ The girl flops down, panting beside me on the giant sofa that easily holds the two of us lying flat next to each other.
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Can I get you anything?’ I ask, rising swiftly. ‘There’s a bathroom over there if you want to take a shower before you leave.’ I add, ‘My driver is waiting downstairs and will drop you wherever you want to go.’
Yes. I’m that cold.
CHAPTER14
Jamie
Damian’s been away in London for two days now, and Greystone is dull without him. I expected to feel relieved to have a rest from his intense ways, but I don’t. I write in the morning and then drive into beautiful Winchester and wander around the shops. He told me to take a break. And no one dares disobey him, so here I am.
Vivian is away again, too. She travels back and forth to New York a lot on business, and I’ve only glimpsed her since I joined them for supper. It’s just Arthur rattling around in the big house with the staff, and me out in the cottage bashing away on my keyboard. I feel sorry for him all alone with only Honey for company, but maybe he enjoys the solitude. Either way, I make up my mind to call on him later and see if we can arrange our session. It seems like the perfect opportunity for me to interview him for the book, and at the same time make sure he’s okay with everyone away. I have a soft spot for grandparents, and Arthur Rochester must have some incredible stories to tell.
I try on various outfits to pass the time and decide to treat myself. Simon has been texting me regularly again, and it troubles me. He’s acting as if nothing has changed and seems to expect me to be just the same with him as when we were engaged.
When I called him out on it and asked why he keeps texting me when it’s over between us, he replied that he never said it was over and we can still see each other. I don’t understand what he expects from me, but whatever it is, he will not get it. If I’m not good enough to marry, then he can forget about having me any other way.
I’m not interested in being his fuckbuddy,if that’s what he’s thinking. I’d rather be alone than go back to him on those terms. How embarrassing to be ditched by your fiancé, only to end up sleeping with him without a commitment. He clearly believes he’s quite the catch and can find someone better to marry.
Well, let him.I told him as much, and he hasn’t texted again yet. He apologised a lot and said he just got cold feet about the wedding, but he loves me, and I need to give him time. I’m not having it, though.