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“Oh, nothing really,” I replied. “What about you?”
He gave me a sideways smile. “Oh, there’s nothing concrete on the schedule. But I have some ideas.”
18
Melinda
After breakfast, Andrew suggested that Pierce show me his collection of Italian art. The billionaire took me by the hand and led me into the parlor, which had a billiard’s table, several couches, a few chairs for lounging, and walls that were covered with art.
I quickly stopped caring about the Italian Renaissance as he pushed me up against the wall and kissed me with as much passion and desperation as I remembered from last night.
“Do you use that pickup line often?” I asked between hurried kisses. “You want to see my Italian art collection?”
“It works every time,” he replied before practically ripping my pants down. I gasped as he lifted me into his arms, pushing me back against the wall. Within seconds, his own pants were down around his ankles and he was lowering me onto his stiff cock. I was already drenched, and he slid into me with wonderful ease.
The door was closed, but I was keenly aware that the mansion was filled with servants and assistants. Despite that, I couldn’t help but let out a long moan of ecstasy as Pierce held me against the wall and fucked me, holding me in his arms and pounding me with barely-restrained desire until the priceless paintings rattled so hard I was afraid they would fall off their mountings.
Then I closed my eyes, savored the mindless drive of our bodies, and stopped caring about the stupid art.
After two weeks of boredom, the next three days were a flurry of activity. Pierce and I were screwing like rabbits—three or four times a day. Pierce’s hunger for me was insatiable, pouncing on me no matter the hour. Which I didn’t mind, because I was absolutely loving being his sexy surrogate.
And when we weren’t getting sweaty in the bedroom, we were getting sweaty together via traditional exercise. Pierce biked for an hour in the gym every morning before breakfast. One morning, I got a cup of coffee from the kitchen—there was always someone there, waiting in case we needed anything—and sat in the gym to watch.
“You going to sit there and enjoy the view?” he asked. He was wearing neon green bike shorts, but nothing else. His chest was sweaty and chiseled as he hunched over the bike, pumping his legs.
“Mmm hmm,” I replied, taking a long sip of coffee.
I did enjoy watching him. In fact, I was pretty damn wet at the sight of him exercising. And when he was done, he grabbed a handful of my hair and gave me a sweaty kiss, spun me around, and bent me over the exercise bike. After yanking down my sweatpants, he buried his cock into me from behind.
“Is that what you were waiting for?” he growled.
I replied with a long moan of agreement.
Pierce kept my hair in a tight fist as he fucked me like that, tugging slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me that I was totally in his control. And when I surrendered to his sexual whim, I loved it. Soon I was rubbing my clit between my legs and arching my back for him, until we were both crying out in the gym and coming together, my inner walls trembling along with his pulsing cock as he gushed inside of me.
Then we ate breakfast together on the terrace, watching the sunrise and smiling happily.
Pierce also went for a long run every afternoon. After watching him leave several days in a row, I put on my own running gear and met him down by the stairs leading to the beach. I was stretching when he arrived.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.
“What does it look like?” I picked that exact moment to bend over to touch my toes, stretching my hamstrings out. And, of course, giving him a view of my ass in the skin-tight shorts.
“It looks like you want to distract me from my long run,” he said with a half-grin.
“If you’re distracted, that’s your own fault.” I slowly stood back up and looked over my shoulder at him. “I’m here to innocently join you on your run.”
“If you can keep up,” he said.
I snorted. “I may not have played collegiate sports in several years, but I still go to the gym three times a week.”
“Oh, then you should have no problem sticking with me. Let’s go.”
But as he started his Garmin watch and jogged down the stairs, I wondered why he had said it in such a cocky tone.
We started running on the beach. That was difficult since our shoes sank into the sand with every step, but I was able to match him stride for stride without a problem. He was only running a nine-minute mile. I usually averaged seven minutes per mile when I went to the gym.
I didn’t say anything about it, and I was soon glad that I remained silent. After three miles running up the beach, Pierce turned onto a path that led up into the jungle. The trail was well-worn, but the heat was oppressive here. Five miles ticked by, then six. By mile eight, my heart rate was much higher than I was used to. I rarely ran more than three miles at a time. Even though the jungle foliage blocked the sun, it seemed to hold all the heat and humidity like an oven. That wasn’t even mentioning the steady incline as we moved inland, up and away from the beach.
