Free BILLIONAIRE (Part 5) by Juliette Jones Page A

asked him.
    He kissed my mouth again, sucking on my bottom lip, dipping his tongue into my mouth like he couldn’t resist the taste of me.  A light groan escaped him.  “I have never, ever taken a week off to indulge myself.”
    “So this is a special occasion,” I said, taking his plump lip between my teeth.
    “Yes.”
    “What is the occasion?” I asked.  Just to hear him say it.
    “ You , my sweet Lila,” he said against my mouth, his fingers tugging gently on my nipple through the thin fabric of yet another new top, “are the occasion.  The sweetest little occasion in the entire goddamn fucking universe.”
    He kissed me deeply then, pushing his tongue into me like he did when he was inside me, making love to my mouth with his as he pulled me onto his lap.  I nestled my backside against his hard length, fitting him between the curves of my ass, wiggling and willing.  I was wearing a short blue skirt that rode up easily under his wandering hands.
    The car pulled to a stop.
    “ Fuck ,” he said under his breath.
    “We’re at the hotel,” I said helpfully.  “Down, boy.”
    He looked at me like he was considering locking the doors, holding me down and having his wicked way with me, waiting chauffeur and honking traffic be damned.  “I’ll down boy you, darlin’, as soon as I have half the opportunity.”  It wasn’t his comment that struck me but the hint of an accent.  And this wasn’t the first time I’d detected the slightest note of a southern drawl in the inflections of his speech and it made me wonder about his history.  His childhood.  Aside from the obvious details of his beauty and his wealth, it was true that I knew almost nothing else about Alexander.  He had a brother.  He owned a number of companies.  He’d gone to Princeton.
    Maybe this week would give me an opportunity to mine for nuggets of information about his backstory, which he seemed cagey about giving.  This, I understood only too well.
    I shimmied off of his lap, rearranging my clothing.
    “Too many damn distractions,” he was muttering.  “I’m going to lock you away for the entire week and make love to you however and whenever I want.  With no interruptions.”
    “Sure you can, honey,” I teased him, laughing at the aroused, disheveled state of him.  The door was being opened by the oblivious driver, and I took my opportunity to step out onto the sidewalk.
    We had pulled up in front of a charming very-Parisian-looking hotel, with sculpted wrought iron balconies.  L’Etoile was scrawled across the pink awning in looping script.  Star.   How apt, somehow.  My French did not extend much beyond reading this word, introducing myself, and, in a stretch, ordering a bottle of wine.  For some reason, the name and the look of this enchanting haven seemed perfect.  It was cute and inviting and quaint, and I absolutely loved it.
    Alexander, after a minute or two, climbed out of the car and stood next to me, huge and exotically American.  His black hair and white teeth and obvious prosperity made him stand out like a sparkling, preppy pirate king amid a sea of stylish underlings.  Everything about him, from his impressive size to his superb, masculine shape, screamed alpha.
    And this place .  We were not far from the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, and its magnificence and unequivocal romance cast its aura around the entirety of the scene.  Along the streets in either direction, there were cafés and bakeries with little al fresco tables congregated in colorful clusters.  People gathered and milled, and every single person looked like they might have just stepped off the set of a fashion photography shoot.  Across the street and beyond the merchants was the river Seine.
    “Take these bags to my room,” Alexander was telling the bellboys.  “And have a bottle of your best champagne brought to the suite immediately.”  His orders were somewhat gruff.  He was grumpy, maybe, from the fact that his erection