Read Online Borrowed Billionaire #4 Under the Sea by Mimi Strong - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mimi Strong
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sighed. “ Let him come to me .”
“Exactly. She used to tell me the same thing. That's how I got my proposal. The thing is, I'd already given up and started putting together an online dating profile—”
“Stop! For the love of clean towels, Suzanne, I adore you, but I don't want to hear your proposal story again.”
“Oh.”
“Wound. Salt. Single girl here. Single and horny.”
“Why are you always so horny all the time?”
I clicked the door shut on the bathroom I was hiding in to take the call. “I'm probably a nympho.”
“Nobody says nympho anymore. It's called sex addiction, and you can go to rehab for it now. Like David Duchovny.”
My pussy was aching. It must have been the idea of the yacht. Of being on a yacht, out on the ocean, with Mr. Luthor Thorne bringing me margaritas and then pulling off my white yacht trousers. We'd be on the deck of the boat, bathed in sunshine glaring off the white surface, and I'd sip my margarita as he licked the salt from my body, hands moving up, tongue moving down …
And David Duchovny would be there, looking all hot and kinda old but still sexy, and he'd say something sarcastic, and then Mr. Thorne would invite him to take over. Then Mr. Thorne would be watching, a giant bulge in his white yacht trousers, as the handsome movie star dove between my legs and …
A woman's voice said, “Lexie. Are you even listening?”
I snapped out of my daydream. The phone was still at my ear, held up with my shoulder, and I had both hands down the front of my jeans.
“I'm not a sex addict,” I snapped as I pulled out my hands. “Sex is a natural urge. You don't call someone a food addict just because they get hungry now and then.”
“Do you want me to call Mr. Thorne back and tell him you'll go meet him on his yacht?”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations, you're a sex addict.”
“Eat a dirty butt,” I said, and I hung up.
A few minutes later, I sent her a text message: Sorry for losing my cool. Thanks for looking out for me.
Ten minutes later, when I was elbow-deep in Mrs. Chong's collection of Royal Family memorabilia, being strangely aroused by an 80s-era plate with a dashing Prince Charles on the surface, Suzanne wrote back: I'm currently negotiating a better offer from Mr. Thorne. I've thought it through and you can use the money. I'll set aside a portion of my commission to pay for sex addiction treatment for you after.
Me: WHAT? AFTER WHAT???
Suzanne: Can't talk. Busy. Will let you know.
After a long, grueling day organizing other people's things, I returned home. Suzanne hadn't returned my calls, and my condo seemed to be holding its breath, waiting. Everything was still. The rooms all seemed an inch smaller, and older.
The intercom buzzed.
I ran to it excitedly, answered breathlessly. “Yes?”
“Alexis, this is Mrs. O'Hara. I seem to have forgotten my keys.”
Of course. I guess I'd been expecting Mr. Thorne, or a delivery from him, like when he'd sent me the dinner invitation. As I took the elevator down to help my elderly neighbor, I considered how time plays tricks on memories. After I'd been ditched at the restaurant, having been rode hard and put away wet (in Grace's equestrian terms), I'd been so pissed at Mr. Thorne. But now, thinking he could have been downstairs pressing my buzzer, my passionflower had blossomed in my panties, just at the possibility.
Indeed, talking to Mrs. O'Hara while I was walking her groceries into her condo, hyper-aware of my engorged labia rubbing deliciously against each other, was a mix of pleasure and annoyance.
She showed me the cyst she'd had lanced, and still, I couldn't get turned back off again. I kept thinking about Mr. Thorne and that sexy body of his. He wasn't as thick and muscled as my friend Jacob, the fireman, but he was graceful. The man knew how to move.
When he'd been behind me in the dark restaurant, thrusting in and out, I'd tilted up, opening myself more to him. I wanted him deep inside me. I
“Exactly. She used to tell me the same thing. That's how I got my proposal. The thing is, I'd already given up and started putting together an online dating profile—”
“Stop! For the love of clean towels, Suzanne, I adore you, but I don't want to hear your proposal story again.”
“Oh.”
“Wound. Salt. Single girl here. Single and horny.”
“Why are you always so horny all the time?”
I clicked the door shut on the bathroom I was hiding in to take the call. “I'm probably a nympho.”
“Nobody says nympho anymore. It's called sex addiction, and you can go to rehab for it now. Like David Duchovny.”
My pussy was aching. It must have been the idea of the yacht. Of being on a yacht, out on the ocean, with Mr. Luthor Thorne bringing me margaritas and then pulling off my white yacht trousers. We'd be on the deck of the boat, bathed in sunshine glaring off the white surface, and I'd sip my margarita as he licked the salt from my body, hands moving up, tongue moving down …
And David Duchovny would be there, looking all hot and kinda old but still sexy, and he'd say something sarcastic, and then Mr. Thorne would invite him to take over. Then Mr. Thorne would be watching, a giant bulge in his white yacht trousers, as the handsome movie star dove between my legs and …
A woman's voice said, “Lexie. Are you even listening?”
I snapped out of my daydream. The phone was still at my ear, held up with my shoulder, and I had both hands down the front of my jeans.
“I'm not a sex addict,” I snapped as I pulled out my hands. “Sex is a natural urge. You don't call someone a food addict just because they get hungry now and then.”
“Do you want me to call Mr. Thorne back and tell him you'll go meet him on his yacht?”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations, you're a sex addict.”
“Eat a dirty butt,” I said, and I hung up.
A few minutes later, I sent her a text message: Sorry for losing my cool. Thanks for looking out for me.
Ten minutes later, when I was elbow-deep in Mrs. Chong's collection of Royal Family memorabilia, being strangely aroused by an 80s-era plate with a dashing Prince Charles on the surface, Suzanne wrote back: I'm currently negotiating a better offer from Mr. Thorne. I've thought it through and you can use the money. I'll set aside a portion of my commission to pay for sex addiction treatment for you after.
Me: WHAT? AFTER WHAT???
Suzanne: Can't talk. Busy. Will let you know.
After a long, grueling day organizing other people's things, I returned home. Suzanne hadn't returned my calls, and my condo seemed to be holding its breath, waiting. Everything was still. The rooms all seemed an inch smaller, and older.
The intercom buzzed.
I ran to it excitedly, answered breathlessly. “Yes?”
“Alexis, this is Mrs. O'Hara. I seem to have forgotten my keys.”
Of course. I guess I'd been expecting Mr. Thorne, or a delivery from him, like when he'd sent me the dinner invitation. As I took the elevator down to help my elderly neighbor, I considered how time plays tricks on memories. After I'd been ditched at the restaurant, having been rode hard and put away wet (in Grace's equestrian terms), I'd been so pissed at Mr. Thorne. But now, thinking he could have been downstairs pressing my buzzer, my passionflower had blossomed in my panties, just at the possibility.
Indeed, talking to Mrs. O'Hara while I was walking her groceries into her condo, hyper-aware of my engorged labia rubbing deliciously against each other, was a mix of pleasure and annoyance.
She showed me the cyst she'd had lanced, and still, I couldn't get turned back off again. I kept thinking about Mr. Thorne and that sexy body of his. He wasn't as thick and muscled as my friend Jacob, the fireman, but he was graceful. The man knew how to move.
When he'd been behind me in the dark restaurant, thrusting in and out, I'd tilted up, opening myself more to him. I wanted him deep inside me. I
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