THE BILLIONAIRE'S BLIND DATE

Ethan Reyes-Thorne

I didn't have this rule earlier. When I was a lot younger and more naive, I would get involved with any woman from any corporate family. But as years went by, I realized that it might create possible problems later on. They always expected things. Like overnight sleepovers. And public affection. And commitments.

I shudder at the very thought of a commitment.

So I instituted Rule Number Two: no dating employees. Now I only sleep with women who are either unconnected to Zaku Holdings or part of a rival business circle—like the Davenport Group or Fulop Capital Partners—or just regular civilians from the city.

Unconnected women also make it easy to stick to my third rule—no sleepovers. I spend the night at their place once or twice, then I come home to the corporate residence or find a hotel room in the Zaku Business District.

In any case, if it's somebody from one of the rival firms, I'll find a guest suite in one of the corporate estates. We have our fun for as long as we want, and then afterwards I go back to my place or sometimes Adrian's apartment. Not lately, though, not since Elena moved in with him and they became engaged three years ago. I've let them have their little picture-perfect love bubble.

Which brings me to my last rule—no commitments. I decided years ago I wouldn't have a partner, fiancée, or wife at all.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against long-term relationships. They're fine for others. But they're not for me.

Every woman I have been with has been fine with these rules. I'm upfront with them as regards what they're getting from me: sex-wonderful sex, I might add-and that's it. No kissing, no dating employees, no sleepovers, no commitments.

So, of course, I'm taken aback when I wake up in a guest room with a naked blonde woman sleeping next to me.

Fuck. My. Life.

I freeze on my back, my hands trapped behind my head, no breath passing in or out as she rolls to her other side, revealing full lips and long lashes. A dark green sheet tangles around her feet, showing off her petite ballet dancer’s body.

Imogen.

Everything from last night floods into my mind: the dinner at Elena and Adrian's for their wedding party, Imogen flirting with me, making eyes at me throughout dinner and dessert; Imogen's signature red nails grazing the length of my body before her lips wrapped around the tip of it; Imogen sinking herself onto my body and taking everything I gave her all night long.

And Imogen collapsing in the bed next to me, saying, “I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute before I drive back into town.”

And now it's… Well, I don't know what time it is, but based on the way the sunlight peeks through the off-white curtains, it's morning.

Which means I slept over with a woman.

Which means I broke Rule Number Three.

“I need to get out of here,” I whisper.

I can't get caught like this. I can't let anyone know what happened last night.

I look at Imogen, at her dainty body, her chest rising with every breath. Her small breasts are pale and smooth, two tiny pink nipples topping them. Both of them stand at attention, perked up by the cooler air of the bedroom. She isn't my usual type-she is soft, small, and delicate. But last night she showed me exactly what she could do with that flexible little body of hers, and damn if she isn't talented. Both on the stage and off it. In the bedroom and out of it.

I bite my knuckles as she shifts again. My morning erection makes itself known, hardening as the sexy thing next to me moans in her sleep, her lips parting with a soft sigh. Her hand rests on my chest, and her breasts nestle against my side, her thighs parting as her leg slides up mine.

I can't see it, can't see her shaved pink core, but I remember the look, the taste, the feel of it. The faint, sweet smell of her arousal releases into the room as she moves. And somehow, my arousal is even harder.

Goddamn it.

“This is exactly why I don’t do sleepovers,” I mutter, rooted in place on the bed with Imogen sprawled almost on top of me.

What am I supposed to do? Do I slide myself out from underneath her? Should I cover her with the comforter when I leave? Do I write her a note, or send her a text?

I am out of my element here. But I have to leave. I cannot get caught having a sleepover. I cannot get caught breaking one of my rules.

My teeth grit together and I scoot my body, pausing and holding my breath every time Imogen makes a noise or shifts her position. It is a slow game, a long game, but I have to make sure she doesn't wake up.

Inch by inch, I make my way to the edge of the bed. Victory is in sight. The finish line draws closer. I can taste freedom, sweet, sweet freedom and—

And Imogen's eyes snap open, meeting mine.

We are staring at each other, her naked, partially draped over me, me naked, trying to sneak away.

I grimace. "Um."

She groans, rolling onto her back, hands covering her eyes. "I'm sorry," she mumbles. "I rarely do sleepovers."

I just stare, stare at her naked chest and her pointy pink nipples and her full lips, forcing my eyes not to travel to the apex of her thighs. To that tantalizing, tempting, delicious spot I found myself in several times last night.

I shake my head. "I don't either," I say, scrubbing my hand over my face.

She peeks at me from between her fingers. “Yeah, I didn’t peg you as the sleepover type.”

She rolls to her side again, sliding closer, and gives me the same 'fuck me' eyes complete with fluttering lashes from last night. Her hand caresses along my abdomen, touching every muscle with her small, delicate fingers.

“Since we're like this, though,” she says, licking her lips, “we may as well have a little fun.”

She finds my hardened body and scratches her nails on it just like the night before. My head tilts, I groan through my teeth, trying to hold it in. "Im-ogen."