Dirty Nasty Billionaire [Part Two] Read online

  Because I blew all my money on renting this dress (worth it), I find myself on the T heading to the event. Despite the availability of a few seats, I remain standing, trying carefully not to touch anyone or anything with the delicate fabric. The downside of the ice blue dress is that I can’t hide any imperfections. Which is why I’m also not wearing any undergarments. The feeling of the silk brushing against my bare skin is enough to give me flashbacks to Nixon’s office.

  I manage to arrive unscathed (though I do have a near-miss with a sorority girl waving a frappuccino around with reckless abandon), and I immediately lose my breath at the sight of the room.

  The State of Scour is an annual event meant to be a report to the company and investors on the previous fiscal year, new developments and acquisitions, and plans for the upcoming year. Executives from the various departments all give reports. But instead of being a stuffy, miserably corporate event, Scour turns it into the gala event of the year in Boston. And the Grand Ballroom at the Fairmont Copley Plaza reflects that.

  I step through the door and my eyes immediately go up to the ceiling, painted to look like the sky on a beautiful Boston spring morning, pale blue with delicate wisps of white clouds. Everything else in the room is grand and gilded, with sweeping gold arches and filigreed millwork over arches and windows and adorning the balconies. Already about half the crowd has arrived and is milling around banquet tables draped with rich white table cloths and set with china, silver, and stemware that probably costs more than my parents’ house. There’s a jazz band in white dinner jackets set up on the stage at the front of the ballroom, a podium in front of them waiting for the speeches and reports of the glorious riches Scour has earned over the last year.

  A white-coated waiter passes by with a silver tray of champagne glasses, pausing to proffer his wares. I take one with a smile and a whispered thank you, which he certainly doesn’t hear over the sounds of swing music and rich people chatter that fills the room. He’s gone in a flash, off to unload the rest of his tray before disappearing to the magic “behind the scenes” of the Grand Ballroom.

  We were given no instructions for tonight other than to “enjoy,” and part of that, for me, will be avoiding Amber and Jenna at all costs. Though I would like to catch a glimpse of the look on Amber’s face when she sees me in this dress for the first time. That’ll be worth even a terse greeting with the Queen of Mean.

  So I circulate, sipping my champagne and listening in on conversations. I hear about reelection plans, seed money rounds, Cape Cod vacation homes, and real estate deals, the profits from which could pay for me to go back and get three more degrees from New England College.

  “He’s going to speak tonight, you know. He almost never does.”

  I pause at that one, studiously rifling through the silver clutch I brought so it doesn’t seem like I’m eavesdropping. Because I know immediately that these two women, both looking to be in their mid-40s and both several glasses of champagne into their evening, are talking about Nixon Blake.

  “You’re kidding,” says the one with a ruby the size of a child’s fist on a gold chain at her neck. “I never can tell if the man is just private, or if he’s got stage fright.”

  “I can’t imagine having billions of dollars, the biggest company in the world, and stage fright,” says the other, whose hair is dyed a fairly unnatural shade of red. “He probably just likes to add to the Nixon Blake mystique.”

  “Well he’s certainly mysterious. Gerald has invested many millions in Scour’s various projects, and I’ve never even heard the man’s voice.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not. In fact, this is the first one of these things that I think he’s actually even bothered to make an appearance at. Gerald says he hires people to do the glad-handing for him.”

  The women sip from their glasses and mmm hmmm to each other, and I move along before I arouse too much suspicion.

  And that’s when I hear it, a collective intake of breath from a crowd of people so rarely impressed by anything. I turn and see the crowd part, and in walks Nixon Blake. He’s wearing a tuxedo that looks like it was sewn directly onto his tall, muscular frame. He strides through the crowd, and for a moment, it looks like he’s going to make his way to the front of the room completely unobstructed. But that lasts only a split second before hands start jutting out from the crowd, offering handshakes and pats on the back. Soon self-important men are stepping into his path, stopping him for conversations that clearly they think are very important. Women in low-cut gowns pass by him, running hands along his biceps, hoping for, perhaps, a private meeting.

  I expect to see him handle it all with confidence and ease, as he does with everything in the office. But there’s no trace of that now. Maybe most people wouldn’t notice it, but having become a student of Nixon Blake’s face over the last several weeks, I see immediately that something’s not right. His jaw is a vice grip of tension, and every muscle in his body looks coiled like the tightest spring. He doesn’t seem to be doing much talking as he tries to make his way through the crowd, it’s more a collection of increasingly terse nods and a few words through clenched teeth. Soon his ice blue eyes are glancing around the room, as if searching for an exit.

  Of course, no one else seems to notice these infinitesimal signs of a growing panic. Partly because only I would be studying him quite so closely, but mostly because the people who are accosting him, attempting to hijack his attention, are in these conversations 100% for themselves. They don’t care what Nixon Blake has to say or how he’s reacting. They only care that he’s in front of them, and that they seem to have his attention.

  But the more I watch him, the more I become convinced that he hasn’t heard a single word that has been said to him. He keeps trying to push through the crowd, and he keeps getting intercepted. He tries to sidestep, and a woman in a strapless dress, her boobs hoisted nearly to her chin, gets in front of him. And when he frees himself of her, a rotund man with a bushy beard sticks his hand out and begins holding court.

  I notice the exact moment when he sees the gilded door hidden in the wall. It’s nearly camouflaged, probably nothing more than a supply closet or storage area for banquet chairs and tables. But Nixon seems to lock in on it like a target. He’s nearly there when I see an older man with a receding hairline and a perfect smile step into his path. I recognize his face immediately, though I can’t quite remember his name. He’s a Senator from … Virginia, maybe? Illinois? Without thinking, I start weaving through the crowd, using my small stature to slip effortlessly through the fray. As I walk, I whip out my phone and do some rapid-fired searching until I find him. Senator Jefferson Ford of Virginia, Republican from Virginia, recently reelected in a narrow victory.

  I slip my phone back into my silver clutch right as I arrive at my destination.

  “Senator Ford!” I say, sliding myself between him and Nixon. I thrust my hand out to the Senator, who looks down at me with a face full of confusion. “I’m such a fan. I was so glad to see your reelection victory back in November.”

  I pump his hand and, as much as it pains me to do it, push my chest out enough that it causes his eyes to linger on the deep V of my dress. And in that moment, I can feel Nixon’s absence behind me. Because I know what to listen for, I hear the soft click of the hidden door, and I know that he’s reached his destination.

  Mission accomplished.

  Of course, he’s not out of the woods, because within a minute (during which I have to keep making awkward conversation with a Senator who seems intent on ogling my breasts), I can see the vultures descend. They try to look as if they’re not waiting for him, ready to pounce the moment he reappears. Rich people don’t like to look like they want anything. Ever. But they want Nixon Blake’s attention right now, and it’s killing them that there’s no dollar amount that will make him appear.

  And so I thank the Senator and excuse myself, positioning myself in front of the hidden door like a bouncer. I put on my
most professional smile and use the voice I employed when I worked as a hostess at the Crab Shack, trying to beat back the crowds from the Boston Harbor on the 4th of July.

  “I’m so sorry, but Mr. Blake is currently on a very important call,” I say to the two men who look persistent enough to hang around, or maybe even bum rush me. “He really doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

  They wait me out for just a minute more before retreating back into the crowd. I let out a long breath. I don’t know what’s going on behind the door that I’m currently guarding, but I know it’s important that I’m here. I know it’s important that I helped him escape. I know that, though he did his best to hide it, he’s vulnerable. And I feel the need to protect him.

  I decide to wait for a while longer, because I don’t know how many people saw him disappear behind this door, and I don’t want anyone waiting for him when he finally emerges. Whatever he needs right now, I want to make sure he has it. I don’t have to wait long, though, before the door opens. Just a crack, and he doesn’t come out.

  I go in.

  He grabs me by arm and pulls be back so quickly that I barely know what just happened. One minute I’m in a glittering ballroom listening to a band play swing music, and the next I’m standing in a darkened room, the musty smell of an attic surrounding me. The shiny parquet floor is gone, and now I’m standing on concrete. All the sounds of the party are muted. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but soon I realize that I was right. This is a storage room for extra banquet tables, collapsed and leaned up against one wall, and stacks upon stacks of chairs.

  Nixon takes hold of my wrists, his grip tight as a vice. My hands go cold.

  “What are you doing?” He growls, pulling me towards him. “Why are you here?”

  “I —“ I pause, unsure how to answer. “I just thought you needed help.”

  His chest heaves as he takes fast, deep breaths in and out. “What makes you think that I would need your help?”

  “I don’t know. You seemed … upset. Like you needed some space. To be alone.”

  “I don’t need your help,” he says again, his voice nothing but a low rumble. His breaths are coming faster, and the sound of them is starting to make me feel lightheaded. Something is very, very wrong. But he pushes away from me, turning to pace the tiny room like a caged animal. “You need to stay away from me. Very far away.”

  I can see himself winding up, and I know I have to do something, and fast. So I step in front of him, and my hands float up to his chest, which is rising and falling at a breakneck pace. I rest my palms softly on his heaving chest, then press down with light pressure. He stops pacing, but I can feel that he’s wound so tight he could pounce. “Hey,” I say, my voice low and soothing. “Breathe with me.”

  I pull in a long, slow, deep breath through my nose, then blow it out long and slow through my mouth. And though Nixon Blake doesn’t seem like the kind of person who is used to taking direction, it only takes him a moment before he follows suit. His breaths begin to slow, but not enough. He still seems on the verge of hyperventilating. I have to calm him down. Distract him.

  “Hey,” I say again, pressing harder on his chest. “Let me help you.”

  “You can’t help me,” he says between breaths. “You can’t even begin to know what’s in my head.”

  “I don’t need to know. I just need to distract you,” I tell him. “Let me help you with that.”

  I reach up slowly until my hand grips the tail of the satin bow at the back of my neck. Before I can overthink it, I give the fabric a sturdy tug. It releases like water, the straps slipping down my shoulders, taking the entire front of my dress with it. It pools around my hips, my bare ivory skin practically lighting up the room. I’m not sure if it’s the slight chill in the room, or the feeling of Nixon’s eyes drifting down, but my nipples pebble, and now it’s my chest that’s heaving.

  He lets out one long breath, his chest still for the first time since he arrived in the ballroom.

  “Let me take your mind off of everything,” I say, leaning in and rising up on my tiptoes until my lips just brush his ear. “Use me.”

  The words are barely out of my mouth before he grips my hips and pushes me until my bare back slams against the door. His mouth covers mine, his lips pressing down firm and full of want. He grabs my wrists again, this time pulling my arms up above my head and pinning me to the wall. I let out a soft moan that grows louder as his lips drift down my jaw, tracing a line down my neck and across my collarbone. My hips respond, grinding against him. With just the thinnest piece of silk separating me from Nixon, I can feel his cock grow hard in his pants, and oh my god I want it.

  “Delaney,” he groans before sucking a nipple into his mouth and pinching it between his teeth. “I want you.”

  “Take me,” I say, pulling my hands from his grip and weaving my fingers into his hair. I give it a sharp tug, his head jerking back so that we lock eyes for a moment. “I’m yours.”

  A growl begins rumbling low in his belly, crawling up through him like a caged panther until it escapes from between his teeth. And that’s the last moment that I’m in control of him. His hands go to my hips, where he pushes my dress down until it pools at my feet like an oil slick.

  “No panties,” he whispers. “Dirty girl.”

  I start to kick off my silver stilettos, but Nixon drops to his knees and takes firm hold of my thighs. “No,” he growls. “Leave them on.” Then he reaches down and lifts one leg until it rests, still clad in a four-inch heel, on his shoulder. Which opens my pussy wide to his wanting mouth. He buries his lips in me, his tongue dipping deep inside before lapping up to play with my clit. My body feels electrified, and I find myself digging my heel into his shoulder as I try to remain standing. My hands fly back up to push against the wall while I grind away on his tongue. I can already feel the orgasm building, radiating down my thighs, where his hands grip so tightly he’s probably leaving fingerprints in my milky white skin.

  His tongue performs intricate figure eights around my clit until I’m nearly screaming out in the darkened room. Thank god for the jazz band and the chatty crowd, or all of the Boston tech scene would know that I absolutely have had an orgasm.

  But just before my body explodes in pleasure, Nixon pulls back.

  “Please,” I beg, the absence of his tongue on me causing my pussy to throb like a live wire. “Don’t stop.”

  “I’m not ready for you to come yet,” he says, standing up. He sheds his tuxedo jacket, which falls to the floor, and I know what’s coming is going to be even better. I yank at the end of his bowtie, loosening it, then whipping it off as my fingers work frantically at the buttons on his shirt. Soon the muscular expanse of his chest is before me, and I run my hands along his tan skin, just a scattering of dark chest hair visible. I look up and lock eyes with him. He’s staring down at me with that intense Nixon Blake gaze, and I can hear the clink of his belt buckle as he begins to free his cock.

  Jesus Christ, is this real life?

  My hands drift down to meet his, and he lets me lower the zipper on his perfectly tailored pants. A pair of boxer briefs is currently doing the Herculean task of containing nine inches of Nixon Blake, and I waste no time reaching my hand into the waistband and wrapping my fingers around him. He groans as my grip tightens. But again, he has other plans. He grabs my hips, spinning me around until my hands are pressed against the door, then he pulls me back so that I bend just slightly. I glance over my shoulder to see him grab his jacket and reach into the interior pocket. He takes something out that crinkles softly in the darkness, a package of some sort.

  He leans over me, one hand reaching around to cup my breast, the other sliding down until the rough pad of his finger slips across my clit.

  “You’re so wet,” he whispers in my ear. “Tell me what you want.”

  “I want you,” I say, the words shuddering out of me as he toys with my most sensitive spot.

  “No, Delaney,” he chides, pul
ling his hand away. “Tell me what you want.”

  I pause, having never said anything like this out loud in my life. But if it will bring him back to me, I’ll say anything.

  “I want your cock,” I tell him, the pleading oozing out of my voice. “I want you to fuck me.”

  “That’s my girl,” he says. My heart turns ten backflips at hearing him say that, but I don’t have time to wonder just what he means by my girl, because I hear the crinkle of foil, and within seconds the condom is on and he’s driving into me in one swift, slick motion. My fingers curl like I’m going to sink them into the wood, and I push back into him so I can feel him deeper inside me.

  “You feel so fucking good,” I moan as he pulls out and then slides back in again and again, each time hitting a spot deep inside me that sends electric shocks throughout my body.

  I can’t believe this is happening.

  We are fucking with every important person from Scour standing just feet away, outside this door. It’s frightening and thrilling all at once.

  But I trust him. I trust Nixon, that he will protect me. And I’m not sure if I’m right to feel this way, but I do anyhow.

  “I’ve wanted to fuck you since the first moment I laid eyes on you.” He grips my hips, pulling me back into him. “I knew had to have you.”

  “I’m yours,” I cry out as he drives even deeper inside. My muscles tense around his cock, gripping him tight, which makes him moan into my ear.

  “You’re mine,” he growls, and that’s the last thing I hear before my body explodes. The orgasm washes over me like waves pounding at the shore, and I’m helpless but to ride it out. “That’s it. Come for me.”

  “God, yes.” I wait for the pleasure to subside, but it only grows, my body unwilling to let it — to let him — go. “I’m coming. I’m coming.”