The Proposition--A Sexy Billionaire Romance Page 6

  The water is warm after the initial shock. I break the surface and look up, expecting to see Cam’s impressed face looking down at me, but he too is on the deck, stripping off his T-shirt and shorts and then following my lead by executing a perfect dive.

  I have a split second to register the jealousy that heats my blood at the way some of the women ogled his spectacular physique, but then he surfaces not far from me and swims my way with long, confident strokes.

  We tread water face to face, both grinning.

  ‘Is that loose enough for you?’ I ask, splashing him in the face.

  He grips my waist and presses a kiss to my mouth with a growl that promises retribution. ‘You’re fucking irresistible, Orla Hendricks. There are a couple of guys up there I thought I might have to resuscitate—this gorgeous body is much too hot for general consumption. I can see I’m going to have to be on hand to protect the male population from your hotness.’

  The air leaves my lungs in an excited rush, the familiar taste of triumph. ‘Does that mean you’ll be joining me in Zurich?’ I mentally tsk at the flare of euphoria—a stupid, girlish reaction for which my libido is totally to blame.

  He grins wider and then drags my body against his so I feel his hard cock pressed against my stomach. ‘As long as you accept my conditions and you’re happy to travel in style.’

  ‘My first-class ticket was style,’ I say, rubbing my lips against his, tasting salt and Cam.

  ‘You’ll like my style better; now let’s get going before I change my mind and buy the Abella just so I can watch you do that again.’ We break apart, laughing, and swim to the yacht’s stern, where a crew member is helpfully waiting with two fluffy white monogrammed towels and our neatly folded clothes.

  I dress quickly, driven by the heat in Cam’s eyes, as if he’s already mentally undressing me, almost promising the minute we’re on board his private plane I’ll be crying out his name.

  By the time we reach the marina, my pulse pounds with excitement. ‘What about your luggage, and what will you do with your car?’ I slip into the leather passenger seat, eager to get in the air before he can change his mind.

  He dons his sunglasses, guns the engine and pulls out of the parking spot. ‘I have everything I need.’ He indicates the leather messenger bag on the back seat. ‘And I’m shipping the car to Sydney—I bought it for my cousin.’

  I gape, my mind reasoning that we have sports cars in Australia. But by the time we get to Monaco’s private airfield and I see the cute little Cessna on the tarmac, I’m grinning—there is something to be said for Cam’s travel-in-style sense of hedonism.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Cam

  MY EYES STING with the trickle of sweat, but I can do nothing about it while I’m braced on both hands over Orla, who is close to climaxing. The minute we boarded the plane she jumped me, and I only too happily obliged, stripping us both while I headed for the craft’s king-sized bed.

  I know she’s close because she clutches my arms until her nails dig into my skin, her staccato breaths becoming trapped in her throat. I’ve watched her come so many times in the last twenty-four hours that I’ve lost count. And this time is just as addictive. She lets go, her release real and joyful and noisy as if she’s not expecting it, as if it creeps up on her, as if she’s embracing this sex-only proposition with both hands.

  I ignore the needs of my own body and dive once more for her nipple—she loves it when I give her just a scrape of my teeth. Orla likes a hint of rough with her pleasure. Who’d have guessed this passionate, sexually adventurous woman and the serious, put-together financier I met at the bar are the same woman? If it wasn’t for our differences outside of sex, she could be made for me.

  ‘Cam... Oh, my...’

  She comes with her beautiful eyes on me and I follow her—bareback. She’s too fucking tempting and my control was shot to pieces the minute she suggested we ditch condoms for the duration of this sexy little interlude she proposed.

  I collapse on top of her, spent for now, and then roll to the side as I slip from her body, my dick still half-hard. How could I be anything else? She’s incredible. She blew me away with that stunt on board the Abella. I’ll never forget the sight of her clad only in the skimpiest of underwear, her lithe, toned body glowing in the sun as she dived into the sea. I wanted to run around scouring the image from the eyes of everyone there, male and female.

  My breathing slows and I rest my head on my hand, wondering, who is the real Orla? The siren or the CEO? Perhaps neither.

  She’s certainly the most ambitious and driven woman I know. But what about life? Relationships and family and the future? What does the real Orla want beyond global domination of the financial sector? I’m not even going to pretend to understand what she does for a living outside of the fact I’m certain my father would have used her wealth-building services.

  She turns to face me, one thigh slung over mine, sliding the wetness we’ve both left between her legs over my skin. I hold in a groan because I want her again, and I’ve barely caught my breath.

  She wriggles until she’s comfortable, using my shoulder as a pillow. I kiss the top of her head, the scent of whatever shampoo she uses filling my senses. I breathe her in, congratulating myself on the impulse to accompany her. I was tempted the minute she asked in the hotel gym, but I wanted to push her, to see how far she’d go for my company, and boy, has she surprised me.

  My first impressions of her were all wrong. Yes, she carries the poise and polish of her wealth, but with a little encouragement, when she’s not glued to her phone or her laptop, she’s more than willing to let loose and embrace this thing between us—two people who couldn’t be more different united in a pretty constant need to slake our fierce attraction.

  Who knew a woman so tightly controlled could be so hot, insatiable and demanding? Thank fuck she suggested a continuation of the sex, otherwise I might have resorted to some unflattering trawling of the M Clubs in search of another chance encounter...

  Her small hum of contentment vibrates through my chest. I grip her closer, holding her wet dream of a body closer.

  ‘Glad you said yes?’ she mumbles from under her cloud of dishevelled hair.

  ‘Too right.’ She’s become my favourite distraction technique from my personal predicament, fucking her the only thing that switches off the constant feelings of fury and futility. Better than hiding, drinking, gambling and pounding my body to exhaustion at the gym combined.

  I snort a short laugh. Perhaps that’s the answer to my father’s legacy—to immerse myself in a sex coma so profound I’m numb to the sheer audacity of the man. How dare he think he can control me from the grave with his last will and testament and make amends with money for a lifetime of indifference and absence?

  Orla shifts, mashing her breasts to my side. If only dear old Pa could see me now—sprawled beneath a beautiful woman on board a private jet, blowing my unwanted legacy in the most debauched way I can.

  I swallow bile and focus on the light glinting off Orla’s beautiful hair. No, her proposition of pleasure couldn’t have come at a better time.

  ‘Are you okay?’ She sounds sleepy and guilt pricks at my skin. I should let her sleep—she’s been up most of the night.

  I mutter something affirmative and try to keep my body still and relaxed in case she wants to nap.

  ‘You’re so good at that. Sex.’ Her fingers stroke my abs and my dick perks up—greedy fucker. ‘I’m so glad you decided to come.’ Her voice vibrates where her head rests on my sweaty chest, strands of her hair tickling my chin.

  ‘Thanks.’ I laugh, my restless fingers drumming a rhythm on her back. She’s so honest and forthright. She knows what she wants—damned sexy traits. ‘But you wouldn’t have brought me along otherwise, right? Unless you make a habit of seducing younger men and luring them to be your sex-slaves.’

  She
sees the joke in my words, and laughs, then raises her head to press a kiss to my mouth. ‘You’re free to leave any time,’ she says, even as she entwines her legs with mine, preventing my immediate escape.

  ‘Mmm...’ I press my thigh between her legs, loving her scorching wet heat. ‘But then I’d miss your delicious cunt and your tempting mouth.’ I trace her full lips with my fingertip, dipping my head for one more kiss while I evaluate the chances of me being ready for another round, versus heading for the on-board shower.

  She pulls back, mock censure on her face. ‘So you wouldn’t miss my scintillating, fun-loving personality?’

  I love this sassy, playful side of her; I can imagine her wearing cut-off shorts and a bikini top, hanging out and drinking beer on the balcony of my place in Sydney while we enjoy the spectacular sunset over the harbour.

  ‘I’d miss every fuckable inch of you,’ I say, slipping my hand over her hip to caress her ass, watching with mounting excitement as her slumberous stare widens, heat banked behind her eyes.

  ‘And I don’t know you well enough to miss your personality. Why don’t we rectify that—we have a few hours to kill?’ And, second only to fucking, verbal sparring with this sharp, witty woman is the best distraction technique. Left to its own devices, my brain would try to problem-solve, freaking me out with thoughts of forgiveness for a man I detest, acceptance of his final bequeathed gift and ways I can use his money—because it will never be my money—to make a difference, to do some good. But only danger lies ahead of those insane thoughts. The danger that I’m becoming just like him—a man who chose the pursuit of wealth over love, over his family.

  Over me.

  ‘Mmm, I really should work...’ Orla’s contented, half-hearted excuse draws me back to the present. Despite using this trip as the perfect antidote to my predicament, and despite my jokes about being her man toy, I really do want to get to know her better, the real her, to work out which of the two awesome versions of Orla Hendricks is the real deal.

  I cup her ass cheeks in both hands and roll her on top of me, pressing my hardening dick between her legs so she gasps. ‘Work schmirk—haven’t you made enough money for today?’

  ‘Is that a thing? Can you ever have too much?’ She indicates our luxurious flying bedroom. But I can’t concede that point without divulging my father issues, so I change the subject.

  ‘Come on. I promise no deep, searching questions.’ I tilt my hips, rubbing her clit with the head of my cock. ‘Just a quick-fire quiz so I can get to know you before I fuck you again. Stop me feeling like a gigolo and you like a cougar.’

  She laughs from her belly—deep and throaty—and it’s such a beautiful sight and sound, one that makes me forget my troubles, that I’m determined to make it happen as much as I can while we’re together.

  ‘Tell me,’ I coax, pushing her hair back from her face, ‘favourite animal?’

  She doesn’t hesitate. ‘Well, they’re just so cute-looking, I’d have to say wombat,’ she says, choosing an Australian icon, embracing the game even as she grinds her hips, sending fresh blood to my already hard dick.

  ‘Do you have any pets?’ My voice grows husky. The shower will have to wait—she knows what she’s doing to me, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. Perhaps she hates talking about herself. Perhaps, despite her willingness to embrace a challenge, there’s nothing in her life besides work, after all. Her degree of professional success requires sacrifices; I would know. I’m a prime example—I refuse to think of myself as a victim—of such single-minded focus.

  ‘No, I travel too much to own one.’ She sighs, her eyes turning wistful with longing. ‘I used to have a Labradoodle called Talia when I was growing up.’

  I nod. ‘You could have one if you wanted. It could travel with you on its own passport. I had a golden retriever who used to come to work with me every day until she died about a year ago. Her faithful company made the days fly by, and I always had someone to talk to.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She presses her mouth to mine, and again I forget. Forget that I started this game, forget that we’re getting to know silly things about each other. But, now I’ve seen a flicker of the woman behind the trappings, I’m intrigued anew. I pull away. ‘Okay, what’s your dream job?’

  ‘Mmm... That’s tricky. I’ve only ever done what I do now, and I’ve never wanted to do anything else. I started working for my father on the weekends at sixteen, joined the family company after university and left ten years ago to start my own firm.’

  So she’d always been career-focused, even from a young age. ‘I spent most of my weekends surfing or drumming at sixteen,’ I say. ‘What happened to the family firm? Didn’t they miss you when you left to strike out alone?’

  She snorts, her face hardening. ‘I doubt it. My brother can, apparently, do my old job as well as me, despite working half as hard.’ She shakes her head and changes the subject. ‘What about you, what’s your dream job?’

  But it’s too late. That single sentence tells me exactly what motivates her: she’s competitive and wants to be taken seriously. I sanitise my answer, reluctant to confess I need never work again, if only I could reconcile dear old Dad’s dying wish. Because the truth is it’s ruined everything. He’s ruined everything. In my life before, working hard, striving and grafting and being proud of where a poor boy from Sydney had dragged himself gave me purpose, a sense of accomplishment. It made sense.

  But now...? When I could buy the construction company I once worked for outright a hundred times over and barely notice the cost...

  I swallow, hedging how much to reveal. ‘I used to work for a construction company back in Sydney before the inheritance, but I’d say I have the perfect job right now—enjoying myself and everything that money can buy.’ I hold her closer. ‘Travelling in style anywhere in the world. And, of course, meeting a beautiful woman who only wants me for sex is an added bonus.’ I wink, bringing out her throaty chuckle.

  But then she turns serious. ‘Do you miss construction?’

  I shrug. ‘Sometimes. I love building things, always have, even as a boy. I like to be active and use my hands. There’s nothing better than a day of graft and sweat and getting splinters followed by relaxing with an ice-cold beer.’

  I catch the curl of her lip, the wrinkle of her nose that reminds me we’re still very different. ‘Well, almost nothing better,’ I say, sliding my hand over her hip to caress her backside, steering us back to the reason we’re here: the sex. She may not be the straitlaced princess I first had her pegged for, but that doesn’t mean she’d be happy hanging out with the real me—the me without the money and the jets and the cars and the billions in the bank.

  ‘You miss getting splinters?’ she asks, her voice mildly incredulous. She comes from wealth, her family own a business; she’s probably known it her whole life, despite whatever sibling rivalry sent her striking out alone.

  I nod, breathing through the urge to defend how I once made a modest but sufficient living with my own two hands. How I didn’t need more than savings in the bank and the pride of being able to look after my mother.

  Not like him.

  My sperm donor. Because he didn’t stick around long enough to earn the title of father. A man who thought he could come back into my life from the grave and dictate how I live.

  I choose my words carefully. ‘Before the money I lived an average life.’ I try but fail to shake off the memories of going to school hungry, of having to fake a stomach ache to get out of gym class because I was ashamed of my trainers, of having to stay late at school to do my homework on the computers in the library because, try as she may, my single-parent mother couldn’t afford luxuries.

  I force my muscles to relax when they scream with tension. I don’t want Orla to know the turn in this conversation highlights how different our worlds are. But she doesn’t have to fit into my life, my real life, the life I had s
ix months ago. All she needs to do is to fit in my bed, temporarily. She wanted sex. She’s already stated she’s happy I can deliver what she’s looking for and she’s willing to embrace a challenge.

  ‘So, next question,’ I say, moving on. ‘What’s the most sexually adventurous thing you’ve done?’ My mind ruminates on the infinite possibilities we could cram into six weeks of sexual exploration.

  She laughs, but doesn’t falter. ‘I’d say propositioning a stranger for sex is pretty adventurous.’ She kisses me, eyes open, her tongue pushing against mine until I forget the question I asked.

  ‘It’s up there,’ I say when she allows me up for air. Yes, she owns her desires; she’s almost as insatiable as she makes me, and I’m damned well determined to enjoy every second of testing her boundaries, extending her comfort zone, pushing her buttons. Something tells me not only will she do her best to rise to the challenge, but we’ll both reap the rewards as she continues to surprise me, to allow her outer shell to crack, revealing the real, uninhibited Orla inside.

  ‘What about you? Threesomes? Bondage? Sex with an older woman?’ Her eyes twinkle.

  ‘Ah, a gentleman never tells.’ I roll onto my side, taking her along, curious as to what led her to proposition a stranger. ‘So why am I here? What do you need from this that you don’t already have?’

  Her mouth flattens as if she wasn’t expecting the question, but then she sighs. ‘As you’ve already pointed out, I work hard for long hours. I travel a lot. I’m divorced and have no desire to enter into another relationship. Why shouldn’t I have the kind of sex-only fling I want with a gorgeous man who wants the same thing?’

  ‘No reason at all,’ I concede, fascinated for details of her failed marriage. But because I want to steer us back from the supremely personal, I say, ‘What kind of sex are we talking about here? Threesomes? Bondage? Sex with a virile younger man?’

  She throws her head back on a delighted, throaty laugh. ‘Fishing for compliments?’