Typist #3 - The Wicked Redhead and the Billionaire Novelist (Erotic Romance) Read online

  Typist #3

  The Wicked Redhead and the Billionaire Novelist

  Billionaire Novelist

  © 2013 Mimi Strong

  Description: Smith Wittingham, the bady-boy billionaire novelist, whisks his typist away from the cabin in Vermont. Tori's never been to Montreal before, and it's a wonderful city to go shopping and get in trouble. After a visit to a sex shop, Tori's ready to explore new things. Smith asks if she would have sex with another man while he watches. She thinks he's just trying to provoke a reaction, because he loves making her angry, so she counters by saying yes. "You might learn a thing or two by watching," she says. "Like how to treat a lady."

  Length: Novella of 25,000 words, or 100 book pages long.

  Spice Level: Erotic, some roleplaying. WARNING: Contains GROUP SEX and scenes that some readers may find offensive. This is an ALPHA MALE romance and contains some BDSM, etc. M/F, for adults, 18+ only.

  PART 1: MONTREAL

  Of all the exotic places a billionaire could take a girl to impress her, Smith Wittingham chose Canada. The helicopter, which was insanely loud but fun, took us from his cabin in Vermont, to a small airport. From there, we took an adorable little private charter plane to Montreal.

  I hadn't traveled much, except for one trip to Mexico a year earlier, so everything was exciting and new to me.

  We were in the air, on our way to Canada, and I kept giggling and pressing all the buttons for air and reading lights, then messing around with the little television screens.

  Smith frowned, his sandy-brown eyebrows meeting under the thick, blond widow's peak of his hair. He said, “Tori, you're so easily amused.”

  I gazed into his cool blue eyes, feeling embarrassed, but then defiant. “I'm enthusiastic. Get over yourself and enjoy the ride.”

  “Speaking of ride…” He waggled his eyebrows and nodded to his lap. We were alone in the aircraft's cabin, but it was noisy, brightly lit, and not the sexiest place.

  “I'm still feeling nauseous from the helicopter,” I said.

  “Nauseated,” he corrected.

  I stuck my tongue out at him and he leaned over and kissed me. He didn't take long to get more frisky, attempting to get his hand down the waistband of my shorts.

  “I'm nauseated,” I said, pushing him away.

  He pulled back, his eyes flashing with anger. “I make you sick?”

  “The plane. And the helicopter. Don't take it personally.”

  He turned away from me, glowering at the tiny screen showing an animated movie.

  We didn't talk for a while, and he seemed content to pout and attempt to ingest all the alcohol on board the plane.

  As he tossed back something mixed with orange juice, he finally said, “You're a tease.”

  “So's your mom,” I said.

  His eyes got big, and I made a mental note—I'd found an insult that actually insulted him. I'd known him for less than a week, and though I'd called him nearly every bad name I could think of for a guy with more money than manners, each epithet seemed to make him stronger. He was like the Incredible Hulk of assholes.

  But I liked him.

  He turned off the movie and switched on some music.

  Even as he drunkenly sang along to cheesy eighties ballads playing over the airplane's speakers, I couldn't help but smile at how cute he was. They say wealth and power makes men more attractive, but Smith would have been hot as a wedding singer. He had thick, blond hair that came to a point on his forehead and begged to be ruffled. His nose was strong, with a pointed tip, and his full, kissable lips were always twitching on the verge of some mood shift. The cleft in his chin was the perfect finishing touch, and he'd been shaving every day so I could nuzzle him without getting a rash.

  He finished the drink. “Blow job?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He looked like he might smash the glass, but he got up and refilled it instead.

  I'd said no because of the pilot, a kindly older gentleman who'd talked my ear off about the plane's specs. The plane was his baby, and I didn't feel right acting like a filthy whore at his place of business. Other places, sure. I'd certainly not been very demure over the previous five days at Smith's Vermont cabin. It was a wonder we were halfway through typing his novel, given all the fucking we'd been doing.

  And then there was the fighting.

  That morning, I'd discovered he'd emailed my mother before we met, and I found it both creepy and flattering that he'd pursued me based on thinking my mom was interesting. At forty-one, he was much closer to her age than mine.

  I put my head in my hands. What was I doing? Someone was bound to get hurt, and in these situations, isn't it always the young girl?

  Smith sat on the other side of the plane from me, nodding and humming as the drinking slowed. He seemed to be wearing himself out, winding down for a nap, just like a good baby.

  He gave me one lingering, pathetic look, and I groaned as I rolled my eyes. I unfastened my seat belt and crossed the plane to take a seat next to him.

  The plane bumped from turbulence, and I grabbed onto the back of a seat for balance. “Was that me? Are you sure we're not going to tip the plane over?”

  He chortled. “It's not a boat, Tori.”

  I took the glass of booze away from him. “Don't spoil your dinner,” I said.

  “You're a good assistant. I mean typist. Secretary.”

  My stomach tightened with anxiety. “We talked about this. We're dating now. I won't have you introduce me as a member of your staff and then have you pinching my ass in front of people.”

  “But it's so entertaining.”

  “It's not fair to me, though. How would you feel if I treated you like my pet on a leash?”

  He gave me a wicked grin.

  “First things first,” I said. “Introduce me as your friend, if you must, but no more of this secretary business. Not in front of other people.”

  “You're ssso-see-see-serious when I'm drunk. Why are you so smart? You should write the book, not me. I juss' say the words, but you're the one writing it.” He waved his hands around wildly. “I hass-to-tell you somesing-sss-iss impo-po-tant.”

  “Then say it slowly. You're slurring and stuttering.”

  He put one hand on my chest, as though trying to transmit the information by touch.

  “Sheri isss-you, Tori.”

  I groaned and pushed his hand away. “Yes, I know that character's based on me. Not your best-kept secret, Smithikins.”

  “No. No-no-nuuuu-noooo. She is you.”

  I thanked him for his honestly, then excused myself to go look for anything food-like to help absorb the alcohol in his system. I found some crackers in the cabinet with what was left of the booze, and for the next fifteen minutes of the flight, I fed crackers and water to Mr. Wittingham, the world's wealthiest drunk novelist.

  I still didn't know much about him, beyond the fact he'd earned his first billion dollars with some patents and another family business before moving on to writing crime novels. I hadn't been a reader of his work, because I found his Detective Smith Dunham character to be a womanizing, manipulative prick, but my mother was a fan.

  Despite being controlling, devious, and stubborn, Smith Wittingham did have his good qualities. For example, he gave me mind-blowing orgasms. His constant desire for me got me so worked up, and as much as he wanted to consume me, I wanted to be consumed by him. In public, I wanted to be treated with respect, but in private, I wanted him to pull my hair, hold me down, and selfishly use my body for his pleasure.


  Just thinking about my inexplicable, completely inappropriate lust for him got me turned on. My nipples hardened, and sitting became uncomfortable, due to the swelling in my pussy. I glanced around the cabin to make sure the door to the cockpit was still closed, and I unbuttoned my seat belt.

  Smith raised his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth quirking up to match.

  “I'll be your stewardess today, sir,” I said, one hand on my hip as I stood before him. “Would you like coffee, tea, or me?”

  “Tea would be nice. Hot tea.”

  “How about I pleasure you instead, sir?”

  “How would you do that?”

  I got down on my knees, though my pussy ached for him more than my mouth, and I unzipped his trousers.

  “Orally,” I said.

  “But I thought you said…” His eyelashes fluttered as I touched his manhood, and he stopped questioning my change of mind.

  Compared to the green forests of Vermont, Montreal was a hive of people, all of them skinny, smoking, and talking in French.

  We arrived after eight o'clock, and went directly to dinner without stopping at the hotel.

  The waiters at the fancy-schmancy restaurant Smith took me to all spoke English, but their accents gave me the giggles. I tried not to smirk when the waiter was talking about the food, but the super-French rolling of the Rs and the whole thing was just so damn cute. Smith picked up on my discomfort and kept asking the poor man question after question.

  Once we were alone again, he waggled his eyebrows at me.

  “Tori! Haven't you been to Quebec before? You know, there are other people in the world besides Americans.”

  “Other accents are fine. But French makes me giggle. Too many comedy skits, maybe, with people making fun of French waiters?”

  “How about Australians?”

  “Ooh, they have a cute accent. Especially the boys.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Really? They're always so loud, especially the women.”

  “There are Australian women? Huh. I never noticed.” I flashed him a big grin.

  In response to my joke, he got a devious look in his sea-blue eyes. The man would make one sexy merman, with eyes like sapphires when he turned on the charm, making me feel like ice cream melting under a blazing-hot summer sky.

  I fidgeted in my fancy chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs. The wine, which probably cost more than my week's wages, was going to my head, bubbling around in there with images of Smith naked, sprawled on his back with that golden trail of stomach hair leading to his golden treasure. Was it possible to become addicted to a person? I kicked off one shoe under the table and trailed my toes up his leg suggestively.

  He leaned in on his elbows and whispered, “Would you like me better if I was Australian, like your ex, Todd? I wonder if he still thinks about you when he's making love to his new redhead.”

  I pulled my foot away in shock.

  “What are you talking about? I never told you about Todd.”

  “His new redhead has larger breasts. If you ask me, I think small tits are the greatest gift God gave man, but it takes all types to make the world go 'round.”

  I shook my head. “I suppose this was all part of the research you did before you hired me. Fuck. What else do you know?”

  He grinned, those sapphire eyes glinting across the candle-lit table, mocking me. “I know you pucker your lips right before you come. You look like you're kissing an angel.”

  He puckered his own lips and fluttered his eyelashes to illustrated.

  “Yeah? This is what you look like when you come.” I grimaced and made a grunting noise.

  There was a clattering around us, as people in the dining room set down their utensils and stared in shock at our table.

  Smith squirmed in his seat.

  “Oh, baby,” I said, louder now, and still grimacing. “Oh, redheads! Creamy, milky tits. Oh, oh, I'm coming.”

  He put his hand over his face and looked down.

  I was too pissed-off at him for mentioning my ex to stop, not that I wanted to. He'd made a game of coaxing me into being worked up so we could have angry sex, and now it was time to see how he liked the same treatment.

  I slammed my hand on the table. “I'm gonna pull your hair and come on your back now, and you're gonna like it.” I wasn't yelling, but the people near us could definitely hear everything. Most of them looked like they could use the entertainment, too.

  Smith peeked at me between his fingers and said, “You love it when I pull your hair. You're a wicked girl.”

  I stood up, the napkin from my lap falling to the floor. “Blam,” I said, miming that I was stroking a cock in my hand. I gritted my teeth and said between clenched molars, “Blam, blam, thank you ma'am.” I thrust my hips, banging into the table and shaking all the dishes.

  One of the fancy-looking ladies sitting nearby found this hysterical, and she began laughing, braying like a donkey. Her hair looked like a helmet of extensions. Within seconds, the other women around us joined in laughing, much to the consternation of their older husbands.

  The French waiter appeared at my side. “Mademoiselle, may I assist you in any fashion?”

  I grabbed the bread from the basket at the table.

  Smith sat still, not allowing a reaction on his face.

  “I'll take my dinner to go,” I said, and I walked out with a handful of bread.

  I didn't turn back to see Smith Fucking Wittingham sitting alone at the table, because the image in my mind was perfect. That would serve him right for toying with me, using my own private information to throw his superiority in my face.

  Outside the restaurant, I got into the town car that was waiting. The driver didn't seem at all surprised to see me so soon, and without Smith. I didn't know the hotel we were staying at, but the driver did, so I had him take me there.

  PART 2: THE HOTEL LE ST. JAMES

  The penthouse at the Hotel Le St. James rivaled any room I'd ever seen in person. I took the private elevator up to the suite, and stepped out into the pages of Architectural Digest. My heels made a sexy noise on the Italian parquet floors as I walked through the space, soaking in the opulence. To my surprise, the huge windows were doors, and led to a fifteen-hundred-square-foot wrap-around terrace, overlooking the city of Montreal. I stood outside and let the distance-muted sounds of the city float up around me. The air was mid-summer muggy, and not as refreshing as Vermont, but the view more than made up for the fumes.

  The sun was setting behind the beautiful city skyline, and the sky shifted to indigo. I went back into the room and considered ordering room service, but raided the refrigerator instead. The place didn't just have a mini-bar, but an actual gourmet kitchen. You could cook a turkey and have ten people over for dinner at the long table, which made me laugh. I wondered how many movie stars had stayed there.

  I rooted around the fridge, which had been nicely stocked for us, looking for something to calm my nerves.

  I wondered, what would Jennifer Lopez drink when staying at the Hotel Le St. James penthouse?

  Champagne. Definitely.

  But I was no Jennifer Lopez, so I grabbed a beer, some trail mix, and chips.

  I kicked off my shoes, pulled off my bra, and walked back out to the patio. I cracked open my beer, got comfortable in a lounger, and had a picnic by myself.

  After half an hour, I felt lonely. I'd checked in with my mother that morning, in Vermont, but she didn't know where I was now. I thought about going out to buy a new cell phone, since Smith Fucking Wittingham had dropped mine in a glass of water, but figured it would be too late.

  With nothing better to do, I dove into a glass of vodka, ice, and loneliness.

  After an hour, my lips and body were numb, and I started feeling bad about my behavior. Had he stayed behind in the restaurant alone and enjoyed both of the meals we'd ordered? With all those people staring at him?

  After two hours, I started to panic, and more vodka didn't help. Had he left me in Montreal? />
  I deserved it, after causing such a spectacle… even though he totally deserved everything he got for talking about my ex, Todd, and another girl's breasts.

  The worst part was, I hadn't even known for sure until then who Todd was dating. If it really was a redhead, then I knew exactly who it was. My friend Rochelle. The idea caused a fury to rise up inside me, choking my throat with hot rage. Todd was the one I was angry with, not Smith, who was just being Smith.

  Where was he?

  Was he out soliciting a prostitute, to get back at me? Would he come back to the room and show me the red lipstick around his cock?

  All these thoughts tortured me, until the view inside my head was an endless slide-show of men using and dumping me, then marrying the next girl. If only I'd had some sense and refused the first man—fought the pattern—maybe my life wouldn't have turned into one giant clusterfuck. If only I'd lost my virginity to a teenager, maybe I wouldn't be so fucked in the head.

  I leaned over the railing of the patio, trying to see Smith out there, in the darkness and night lights of the city.

  The vodka wasn't much comfort after all.

  The lights blurred.

  People. Cars. People in love. People going about their lives. Everything was happening below, and there I was, alone in my room like a bird in a cage. A beautiful cage.

  I couldn't take the city anymore, so I went back into the room and took a shower. I sat on the marble tile, with the warm water pouring down like warm, cleansing rain.

  I woke up in the king-sized bed, my skin prickling with the uneasy sensation that I wasn't alone.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  Smith looked relaxed and unflappable, wearing nothing but drawstring pajama bottoms and sitting at the foot of the bed.

  I gazed over his broad, muscular chest, and down that golden treasure trail. Damn if I wasn't horny for him, too. After worrying about him all evening, the passion I'd felt for him the previous day in the airplane had only grown by not being properly satisfied. He had a tantalizing lump below his drawstring waist.

  “My eyes are up here,” he said.