Lexie's First Time - A Prequel to Borrowed Billionaire and Billionaire Novelist (Erotic Romance) (4 page)

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Me
: You have really nice clothes. I bet you're cute. I already know that you have blond hair, because I saw it on the brush in the bathroom. I've never had a boyfriend. Ever. I'm eighteen, by the way, and this is just my summer job. I'm not going to be a housekeeper forever.

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DSW
: Lexie, I found your last note extremely disappointing! Here I was hoping you were about sixty years old, with crooked, gray teeth, and a shitty attitude about life and men. How am I supposed to get any writing done when I'm thinking about you?

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Me
: You could split up your day and only think about me half the time. I'm wearing a really cute outfit today. It's a shame you aren't here to see it. The skirt is super short and when I lean over to pick things up, you could probably see my panties.

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And
that
was the last note exchanged.

So you can probably understand why I was so nervous about seeing the guy. He was probably old and ugly, and I was going to have a very uncomfortable talk with him, where I let him down gently. Or—and this seemed unlikely, but still terrifying—what if he wouldn't take no for an answer? Carridee knew where I was, but she wasn't there to stop anything.

He called out, “Lexie?”

I put on my brave face, over top of my scared-shitless body, and walked into the cabin. I'd worn the same short skirt that day, and I tugged at the hem, scared to make eye contact with DSW.

“I'm David,” he said, reaching out his palm.

His hand didn't look old and gross, or rape-y, so I shook it.

My gaze roamed up from his hand, along a well-muscled arm covered in gold hairs, to a shoulder, and then the bottom dropped out of my world as I was sucked into sapphire-blue eyes.

My mouth went completely dry, and I could barely choke out my own name.

“Lexie. Nice to meet you.”

“Finally,” he said, his eyebrows moving in a playful way.

“You're not old.”

“I'm older than you.”

I tore myself away from those beautiful eyes and stared down at my hands, one twisting within the other.

My voice squeaked as I said, “I guess I should start cleaning, right?”

“How are you at typing?”

“What?” I had to replay his question a few times in my head, because I hadn't been expecting anything like that. “About seventy words a minute. I can go faster, but I make a lot of mistakes.”

I looked up as he smiled, and I noticed some things about him besides his eyes. He had a sexy nose, long and straight with a pointed tip. His lips were full, and his broad chin had one of those superhero dimples in it. His hair was thick and long, tied back in a ponytail.
So that explained the super-long hairs I'd found in his bed.
I'd suspected those hairs were left by a girlfriend, but apparently they weren't.

As for his age, he was definitely a man—early thirties, and certainly not a boy—but he didn't seem
that
old. Too old for me, though.

“You won't be cleaning today,” he said.

“Oh.”

“Come on. We both know the cabin doesn't need cleaning today. It's still spotless from the last dozen times you were here. What else are you good at?”

I stammered and looked at my hands.

“Lexie. What else can you do?”

“I'm very organized. Last summer, I worked at a store, and I came up with a whole new system for organizing the stock room.”

“That's all very admirable, but I don't need a professional organizer. Like I mentioned, I could use some help typing. My fingers distract me when I'm writing. I think one thing and my fingers type something else. I swear they're trying to sabotage me. I was thinking that maybe if you typed while I dictated, I might be able to get somewhere with this novel.”

“The detective novel?”

He grinned, his smile lighting up the whole room, and my heart. I'd had crushes before, on guys at school and on movie stars, but this guy, David, ran laps around my beloved Freddie Prinze Jr.

I agreed to try typing for him, because I figured my time was already paid for, and it sounded like more fun than cleaning. I tried to put the flirty notes out of my mind and ignore his intense gaze on the hem of my little skirt.

Upstairs in the bedroom set up as an office, I sat in a hard-backed chair facing the computer monitor, and David sat next to me. He immediately started explaining the gist of the novel to me. Some of the elements were familiar, because I'd taken more than a few peeks at the index cards in the drawer, but finally he noticed the blank expression on my face and said, “Lost you, haven't I?”

“How about we just start wherever you are, and I can take the previous part home to read and get up to speed?”

“But I haven't written anything down.”

“Not a word?”

He blinked, those blue eyes captivating me once more, sending a buzzing excitement down my spine like a mouse on the run, ending up trapped between my legs. I could feel myself swelling for him, swelling in anticipation of pleasure, which was my own damn fault, for training myself to associate the whole cabin with multiple orgasms.

He said, “It's basically all outlined and in my head. I can see it happening, like a movie.”

“Then you should write a screenplay.”

He got a grumpy look.

On the computer, I pulled open a new document and started creating a title page—something we'd just covered in school before I'd graduated.

I asked David, “What's your full name?”

“That's part of the problem.” His face got even grumpier, frown lines on his forehead and his sexy lips protruding.

My spirits, which had been high, plummeted, flattened by how difficult this typing business was proving to be. In the minute of silence that followed, I actually fantasized about cleaning. Scrubbing toilets would be less painful than bearing witness to this man's writer's block.

“David Smith Wittingham,” he said.

I typed the name on the page.

“But there's another David,” he said. “Not the exact same last name as me, but it's close enough to be confusing. He writes detective stories, too, so I have to come up with a whole new name.”

I moved the cursor and deleted
David
.

He grimaced. “Can't. My detective character's first name is Smith.”

“So?”

“People will think I'm an egotistical prick, with this super-smart, handsome, stud of a detective who bears my first name. Ever heard of the term
authorial insert
?”

I giggled. “Insert?”

He crossed his arms and rested his sexy, dimpled chin on one fist.

“We'll just run with it,” he said. “I'll think of something better later. Maybe Sven. Or Carter. Or Humphrey.”

I put in a hard page return and cleared my throat. “I'm going to start calling you Smith now, so you can see how that feels.”

His gaze wandered down from my eyes, past my chin, then to my breasts, my waist, and my crotch. His nostrils flared, and I wondered if he was smelling me, taking in the scent of my hair gel and perfume.

I could smell him, faintly musky, or was it just my imagination? I wondered what his skin smelled like, or what he'd do if I just leaned over and put my lips on his neck.

His voice low and gravelly, a different tone from his speaking voice, he said, “It was a dark and stormy night.”

I typed the words.

He snorted. “Delete that, it's just a joke.”

I scratched my head in what I hoped was an adorable way. “Yeah, that sounded a little familiar. Isn't that how all Snoopy's stories begin?”

He raised his eyebrows. “You're a
Peanuts
fan?”

“Of course. Nobody captures the pathos of being a child quite like Schultz.”

Smith uncrossed his arms and stood from his chair. “I want that. I want for people to say something beautiful like that about my work some day.”

I pointed to the blank page.

“Very well then.” He began to pace the room behind me, and in the low, serious voice again, he gave me a new opening line. It was better than the dark and stormy night line, but not by much. The story began with someone banging on Detective Smith Dunham's door while he was pleasuring a lady who was also his client. She had really big breasts, and we spent a good paragraph describing them.

After a while, I got drawn into the story, and Smith (I had already stopped thinking of him as David or DSW) picked up speed. I felt like I was in a trance as the words flowed through me.

After two straight hours of typing, we stopped, and found I'd typed four thousand words.

Smith seemed shocked.

“Is that a lot?” I asked.

“Stephen King says he writes two thousand a day.”

“So… you're twice as good as Stephen King.”

Smith laughed, hard. “You're killing me, Lexie. I strive to be at least half as good as King.”

“Absolutely not,” I said, adopting the serious tone of one of my favorite teachers. “It's far better to aim high and fall short than aim low and succeed.”

Smith stopped laughing. “That's the most depressing thing I've ever heard. Lexie! Is that from a motivational poster or something?”

“Maybe.” Yes it was. It had been on a large poster in my homeroom throughout twelfth grade, and I'd stared at the words and the soaring birds often.

He shook his head. “There's nothing wrong with lofty goals, or modest goals. So long as you live with hope and take chances, you succeed.” He threw his hands in the air and waved his arms over his head wildly. “Woohoo! Party time! I wrote the whole first chapter thanks to my new friend.”

I chuckled, still sitting on my chair. He was being very silly for a grown-up man.

Breathing heavily, his cheeks pink, he said, “Dance with me!”

He clicked something on the computer to turn on some music, and he hauled me to my feet.

The song was “Fell in Love with a Girl,” by The White Stripes, and Smith's dance moves were unlike anything I'd seen before or since.

I tried to match his frenetic energy, waving my hands over my head, and after a moment, I stopped worrying about how silly I looked, and I threw myself into it.

He grabbed me by the hands, and we twirled around, then he spun me and dipped me. With his strong arm behind my back, he dipped me low to the ground. I gazed into his sapphire eyes, electrified by his hands on my body, and something took hold of me.

When he pulled me back up again, I threw my arms around his shoulders and brought my face to his. I didn't kiss him.

The song changed to “Cry Me a River” by Justin Timberlake, and we continued to sway, slow-dancing, our faces inches apart.

His arms encircled my waist, and he pulled me in tight. There was something in his pants, and it was way too big to be a cell phone. I ground my hips against his, enjoying the feeling of him against my body, and then, finally, when I thought I was going to die if he didn't kiss me, he did.

His lips fell on mine like ripe peaches coming off a tree, and when I parted my lips, I found he tasted as remarkable as he looked. His hot breath billowed like steam on my face, and I needed his tongue in my mouth like I needed his cock inside me.

He pulled away. “Shower with me.”

“What?”

I stood dumbstruck as he unbuttoned his shirt, tossed it aside, and then pulled off his T-shirt.

He was so beautiful with his shirt off, all muscular and golden, with an even tan and a blond trail of hair down the middle of his taut stomach. He dropped his belt, then turned around and removed his trousers and underwear, showing me his butt cheeks, which were also taut and golden. I wanted that ass in my hands, so I followed him as he skipped out of the office, into the master bedroom, past the king-sized bed, and into the luxurious master bathroom.

He got the water running as I undressed myself, moving quickly so I didn't lose my nerve.

I held my arms across my chest as I stepped into the large walk-in shower with him.

As I'd never seen a penis in real life before, much less an erect one, I was understandably shy about looking below the waistline, but I did look, and I didn't have to look far.

There was his cock, thick and reaching up like a strong tree branch you could climb.

Smith kissed my face, lips, and neck, everywhere at once. Heaven found me in the midst of all the warm spray of the shower, my fingertips touching my first cock. It was surprisingly soft and hard at the same time, with the head having some squish at the top, but the shaft being hard just beneath the skin, like wood or bone, which made the names
woody
and
boner
make more sense suddenly.

I got to my knees before him and kissed the head, then ran my tongue down the shaft, my face close enough now that I could smell the musk of his skin.

I stopped for a moment to gaze up at him. I considered telling him I'd never given head before, but then decided to just fake it. I'd heard plenty of detail from my friend Laura back home. She'd just started dating Lars officially, and they spent a lot of time together with his cock in her mouth, by the sound of it.

The water kept coming down, and the heat relaxed me, while the sound of it pattering on the tiles made me think of that exciting night in the park, on the merry-go-round. I put Smith's beautiful cock in my mouth and started to suck, the movements coming naturally as I focused on enjoying the sensation of his skin against mine.