Boxed Set: Rocked by a Billionaire – Vol. 1-3 (2 page)

I wanted to go get a coffee with Jess after class. I had no intention of going into detail about my dream, I probably wouldn't even have told her that the dream was mine. But I wanted to pick her brain to find out if she had already done that sort of thing. Jess was sexually experienced, but mostly in erotic sorts of things, which were far beyond my repertoire. Despite sitting in a class on corporate law, I couldn't get that strangely sensual dream out of my head. What did it mean? Was I suffering from a “lack” of sex? Did I have hidden fantasies that I wasn't aware of? Maybe I just wanted to snuggle up in a strong pair of arms? No! Jess wouldn't have seen anything romantic in that dream. Maybe she would have run out to buy me a dildo - “an indispensable accessory for any woman who cares about her pleasure” - if she knew that my mind was capable of creating a lover with a turgescent penis.

For the moment, I stayed alone with my doubts and my questions. I needed to run, I had to get to the office. I worked as an intern in one of the biggest law firms in Paris, three days a week. A position I had managed to snag thanks to the people my auntie knew. She was really a fairy godmother to me. She had never had any children and had poured all of her maternal affection into me. My father, a notary who lived in a small town, a very old-fashioned French man, was a thousand miles away from imagining that his sister offered me a lot more than room and board. I quickly gathered up my papers, slid them into a folder and gave Jess a quick kiss on the cheek (she had adopted our tradition of kissing cheeks hello and goodbye).

“I've got to run!” I said softly, once class was over. “I'm going to be late again!”

“For the love of god, comb your hair!” Jess responded, loud enough for everyone in the last row to turn around and look at us.

I was red as a beet when I left the lecture hall. I hated drawing attention to myself! I ran out to get my bike. The firm was two neighbourhoods away from the university, and I really didn't have any time to spare. I put my bag over my shoulder and mounted the frame. I loved riding through the streets of Paris on my two-wheeler. It made me feel so free, something Jess and her high heels didn't really understand. I sped up, aware that no matter what, I was still going to be late. As I always was, honestly. I jumped down, out of breath, put my bike on the bike rack, quickly checked the time and rushed into the impressive Haussmann building, typical of those gorgeous neighbourhoods. The same as always every day I came to work, I ran into Madame Lepic and her nasty little chihuahua, while walking through the hall. The dog was swaddled in a leatherette silver and pink coat. (It was female!) I excused myself, heading towards the staircase – no time to wait for the slow-motion lift – and ran up the flight of stairs to the second floor, with the impressive gold plaque bearing the name of “Foch Investments”. As soon as I tumbled through the heavy door, Mr. Henri Dufresne, master (literally and figuratively) of the house, pounced upon me:

“Ah, Elisabeth, sweetheart, your report on the potential of Asian markets is well-documented and pretty much complete. Of course it could be polished a little more, but well done. You've got a future ahead of you, sweetheart. However, I have to ask you, put some more effort into your wardrobe! You won't get anywhere in these kinds of outfits. Don't forget that Sacha Goodman is going to be here tomorrow. I want to see you in a skirt and heels. I wouldn't want him to think my staff is sloppy. Oh, and Arnaud wants to see you too!”

Staff, staff...I was flattered, but didn't forget that Mr. Dufresne still hadn't made me a concrete offer, and the end of the school year was right around the corner. It was April and I'd already been splitting my time between here and the university for a year and a half. And I was still on an intern's stipend! I really hoped that my efforts would pay off and that I could get a real position at Foch Investments. Once I had my Master's degree in my pocket, of course.

Absorbed in my thoughts, I slowly walked over to the office of Arnaud Dufresne, the glorified rich kid. What did he want from me? He had been trying to put the moves on me since I started with the firm. I could have given in! Maybe then I would have received an offer for a permanent position? The casting couch! But no. Really. Arnaud Dufresne represented everything I hated in men. He was conceited. He thought he was hilarious, though he usually bordered on rudeness (“but it's just office humour,” he would say with a smile full of innuendo.) An empty shell. A social climber who would never have got his degree if Daddy hadn't sent a big cheque – a “donation”, of course – to the director of the private school “for children who come from good families” that he attended in one of the poshest neighbourhoods of the capital. Aside from this, Mr. Son from a Good Family made a big show out of flaunting his female conquests, recounting the episodes and giving all sorts of salacious details. Ew. Even though I came from a relatively wealthy family (nothing compared to the Dufresne family, though), my parents never, ever would have wanted their money or social position to be the only thing that could open doors for me. They'd be even less approving if I wallowed about in debauchery. They had raised me to live according to their values. Be proud of yourself, work towards what you want, respect yourself, respect others. Sure, it probably seems a little old-fashioned today. Anyway, in the end, Arnaud was just another young guy who came out of a nice neighbourhood, there were hundreds more just like him! Not necessarily a bad guy. But as much as I liked the elder Dufresne, who was a very cultured self-made man, the younger Dufresne just made me nauseous. Luckily there were no innuendos or games today, he just wanted details on a file. I wasn't at all surprised that he was trying to look good in front of the big shot from the US! I finished a whole bunch of files that afternoon, and even forgot about my erotic dream. The office was really hopping: everyone was excited about the potential association with the huge American firm Goodman & Brown and Monsieur Goodman's personal visit. Though Foch Investments had attained a level of prestige here in Paris, this association would give an international dimension to the Dufresne father-and-son business! Tomorrow I'd be able to get a better idea of what this Goodman character had in mind. Maybe I could have an international career, too! Why not? For now, though, I had to get home, there was plenty of studying to get done before the end of the week.

I heard the sound of Tchaikovsky through the door as I reached the landing. No need to look for my keys, Maddie was home! My Aunt Maddie (short for Madeline) used to be a star ballerina. She still has a collection of slippers and a pronounced taste for the Nutcracker, which she listens to regularly. But it wasn't nostalgia. Maddie lived every moment of her life as if it was going to be her last. A promising dancer, she gave everything up to marry a rich (and slightly eccentric) industrialist twenty years her senior. A marriage of convenience? Not at all. She was madly in love with my uncle, she followed him around the world, even to remote countries where there wasn't much of a social life (she always shone the brightest during social gatherings). She had put away her desires to be a mother (but was that really what she had wanted?) and cried for forty-five days and forty-five nights when Hector died from a loose bullet during an ordinary hunting trip. But she bounced back. She resurfaced more beautiful than ever and enjoyed the fortune she had inherited, using it to pursue her own pleasures. Married young and always faithful, she then found a certain kind of comfort in sex. Yet she was always, always very classy. She chose her lovers carefully – young, of course, but also cultured and dignified. She herself had a timeless beauty that men of every age enjoyed. I secretly hoped that I'd have her body when I got to be her age, without getting my hopes up too high. We were both redheads – that was a start, at least!

“Come sit by me,” she said from her armchair, her eyes half-closed. “Listen, Lisa. Isn't it fabulous? So how was your day?”

“Oh, nothing all that special, school, the office. Tomorrow the boss from the New York firm is coming, the one I told you about, and Mr. De Villiers wants me to wear a skirt and heels!”

“That sounds like Henri,” Maddie said, laughing.

They had met in back in high school and stayed close ever since, which is how I got my internship in such a prestigious firm.

“But he's right,” she added. “I'm going out with Antonio tonight, take whatever you want from my closet. We're the same size, you should be able to find something.”

Antonio. I couldn't help from blushing. In my mind's eye, I again saw the scene in the kitchen a few days ago, in the middle of the night, when I found myself face-to-face with his tight and perfectly sculpted butt cheeks. He was pouring two glasses of Champagne in his birthday suit and instead of tip-toeing away, I blurted out a hasty “sorry”, which caused him to turn around immediately. The state of his erection said a lot about what he was planning on doing after drinking the champagne. I was actually thirsty, but I went straight back to my room without drinking anything.

“Lisa?”

“Um, yes, yes! Thanks Maddie. Have a good evening!”

Black skirt? Purple skirt? Above the knee? Below? Straight cut? Full? Oh, dammit! I took what seemed like the most basic thing to me, a grey flannel piece that fit perfectly around my hips and flared out slightly towards the bottom. A simple, white and efficient blouse completed the ensemble. So there we go. Satisfied, I looked at myself in the mirror, turned round and around on my tiptoes. Was there anything I was missing besides shoes? I had a pair of black pumps, worn no more than two times. I felt like I was walking on eggshells when I wore them, but somehow I doubted Mr. Dufresne would like to see me match a flannel skirt with Converse sneakers. Thankfully I'd be going directly to the office tomorrow, people would look at me weirdly if I showed up to school wearing this kind of outfit. I went to bed with my notes from a class on law for private companies...and I fell asleep after the second paragraph. My dreams were all of being surrounded by erect penises dancing around me. Really!

The problem with my special “American in Paris” outfit is that it didn't really work well on a bike! To top it all off, the wind was blowing pretty hard that morning. One hand on my handlebars, the other holding down my skirt, and those bloody pumps that kept slipping on the pedals made the commute particularly horrible. I finally spotted the building the office was in, the torture was almost over. I loosened up a little, stretched out my thighs, which were tight from the beginning, and got ready to break when my right foot slipped again. I lost my balance, crashed into something and fell down face-first, my flannel skirt sliding high up over my butt. Did I lose consciousness for a second? Two? I was a little shook up.

“Are you okay, miss?”

I heard a voice that was both gentle and strong pierce through the fog that enveloped me. I felt a hand push my skirt back down and, holding onto my arm, help me back up. I blinked. Was I dreaming? Was I waking up now? The powerful hand pulled me over to the pavement as I tried to gather up what was left of my dignity.

“It's these bloody heels,” I grumbled while smoothing down my skirt and blouse. “I slid, I didn't see you.”

“You crashed into my car,” the stranger said, visibly shook up. “I'm taking you to the hospital!”

“No, it's not worth the trouble, I'm okay,” I turned to look at him, now that I felt like a human once again. And...wow. Where did this guy come from? Tall, a tight swimmer's body, jade eyes that pierced right through me (could he even see through my clothes?) He was just oozing testosterone. If Apollo appeared on Earth today, I think he'd have a body like this guy's. I was at a loss for words.

“I can't just leave you here like this, at least let me take you where you need to go – where are you going?” His warm voice wrapped around me. I felt like I was floating. It was altogether very odd.

“Well, actually I'm already here,” I said, trying to get my head together. “I'm going there,” I said, pointing at the door of the building. “I work there, on the second floor (what a moron! Why did I have to say which floor?) at Foch Investments.”

“That's great, that's where I'm going too. Can you show me the way?” he said, smiling and revealing his perfectly straight teeth.

He followed me down the hall. I looked at the staircase and immediately abandoned the idea: knowing this man was behind me as I staggered along in these bloody heels would be much too risky. I opted for the lift, pulled on the gate and let the stranger enter the minuscule compartment, just a few feet from end to end. I slid in next to him, trying to make myself as small as possible so as to avoid touching him. No such luck. Every square inch of my body was electrified by the promiscuity of his own. A heat that I had never felt before in a lift rose up from my pussy, I felt my lips swell, as if ready to jump out of my knickers. My god! I felt a tingling in the deepest part of my being. I clenched my legs together instinctively. Even if I couldn't see him, I was convinced that a satisfied smile had spread across his handsome face. I swallowed and pressed the button. Luckily it was only two floors up!

Without seeming the least bit aware of how incredibly turned on I was (or at least not showing that he knew), the stranger briskly walked through the firm's door while I remained paralysed in the doorway. Then he headed towards the secretary's office. He announced in impeccable French, with just a hint of an accent: “Sacha Goodman. I have an appointment with Mr. Dufresne.” Without waiting for the secretary to respond, he turned towards me and added:

“I'll take you home tonight. Be ready at 6pm.”

I felt like I shouldn't argue with him, and just nodded like a little girl. A timid “thank you” came out of my mouth, but he had already gone into my boss' office. He didn't even wait for my answer, for me to accept his invitation. It appeared as if Sacha Goodman wasn't the kind of person who let other people question his decisions.

At 5:50pm, I had nothing left to do but mechanically remove and reposition the paperclip on a contract I had already re-read four times. I started reading through it a fifth time, one eye watching the door, the other looking at the clock. Would he come at 6pm on the dot? I wouldn't have been surprised. He seemed like that kind of person. I couldn't stop my heart from beating a little faster than usual. The day seemed like it would never end. I had barely left my desk all day – too afraid of running into HIM on the way to the bathroom. I had even asked Carole, the secretary, to bring me back a sandwich from the bakery for lunch, using the excuse that I had way too much work to get done. Why? What justified this sort of embarrassment? It was ridiculous. The future associate of “my” firm had picked me up off of the pavement. No reason to make such a big fuss over that! Okay, he was as handsome as a god, and okay, the mere idea of his warm body meeting mine...hmm, it sent a shudder through me. Look at the effect he had on me during our little trip in the lift. I didn't dare imagine what would happen if he ever really touched me. Touched me. Oh my lord. Touch me. No, was I going crazy? And then, what if he did touch me? Me, the badly dressed little intern. What was that all about, really? I shook my head while rereading the third line of the second paragraph.