Page 25 of How to Bang a Billionaire

It just happened to be the only time I’d been left so raw by it. Physically and emotionally.

On the other hand, it had also been…impossibly hot.

Maybe the best sex I’d ever had.

And, in some strange way, the truest. The closest to what I ached and dreamed of but didn’t entirely know how to get. Which wasn’t to say I hadn’t messed around, online and off, let the occasional one-night stand be a bit rough with me. Mumbled my “yes, sirs” and tried not to giggle, feeling self-conscious in entirely the wrong sort of way.

It had been different with Caspian.

Somehow I’d trusted him to take from me exactly what I needed to give.

Thankfully Nik was already sleeping, which meant I didn’t have to answer any difficult questions. Questions to which the answer would unavoidably be “I sucked off Caspian Hart.” Wriggling out of my clothes, I flung my boxers into the laundry basket and dived under the bedcovers. It took a while, but I warmed up eventually, and my brain settled down.

It wasn’t like I’d been expecting…well, anything. You don’t give a guy you’ve only just met a blow job and then wait for the proposal.

And, frankly, even the blow job was its own little miracle. Well. Intriguingly above-average miracle. My cock gave a hopeful twitch just remembering. Caspian Hart, the most perfect man I’d ever met, shuddering with passion, clinging to me, and coming apart. And all because of me. I liked to think I was fairly decent in the sack, but I’d never affected anyone the way I did him. Or maybe it was just the change in him. Like watching a stone lion come to life, all fire and claws and thunder.

I put my fingers to my lips. They still felt a little puffy and I traced the edges of my mouth, where he had stretched me wide.

God.

And to think the most I’d hoped for had been a stilted conversation. Sending him off with vaguely positive St. Sebastian’s feels for when the next telethon rolled around.

Admittedly, his exit had been more abrupt than I would have liked, but maybe he hadn’t known how to handle the postcoitus. In case I got clingy or demanding or something. I wouldn’t have. Cuddles were good, breakfast was better, but we were on a balcony at a party and I wasn’t exactly the boyfriend type. I’d tried it, a couple of times, and it had been…fine, but if you couldn’t be a tart at the age of twenty, what was the point of being young, moderately attractive, and armed with a student card that got you cheap beer?

Besides, what else did I need from him, after an experience like that? I was smiling as I snuggled into my pillow. It had been a good night. An extraordinary night. And I was going to think well of Caspian Hart until the day I died.

* * *

Nik got me up the next morning to go to breakfast and I was shockingly discreet. Or hungover. In any case, I didn’t give him any gossip about Caspian. I only said he was hot but aloof and that we hadn’t spoken very much.

Which was basically true.

It was slightly insulting, actually, how quickly Nik accepted it.

I did feel just a little bit guilty about the fact that I hadn’t made more attempts to talk to Caspian about, y’know, fund-raising, but I’d already spent a week on the phones talking the talk, and the dinner wasn’t supposed to be a hard sell. It was meant to get people gently drunk and nurture their nostalgia. I guess I could have at least tried to give him a tour.

Of something other than my mouth.

After I’d put away about a gallon of orange juice and a couple of tons of scrambled eggs, I went casually down to the Lodge to check my pidge.

I didn’t really think Caspian would have left me anything. Flowers? A diamond-studded cock ring? A discreet little note saying, So long, and thanks for all the sex? But there was something in there. An envelope, heavy cream and posh-looking. Not the usual student mail by any means.

I tried not to get too excited.

Except for the part where I got excited.

Imagining an intriguingly dirty arrangement where I met up with Caspian every now and again. Got flown to exotic locations in his private jet to blow him or provide other necessary, um, body services. And maybe sometimes he’d hold me afterward, or we’d go out to dinner, and he’d smoke a cigarette and tell me the things that he didn’t tell anybody else.

Which was when I saw the college crest on the envelope, killing that poor little fantasy before it had a chance to flourish into full-fledged wankbait. Inside, was a neatly typed note inside inviting me to visit the Master at—

Oh shit, I was already late.

I pelted around the quad, through the archways, past the graveyard, and across to Reni, which contained the Master’s office and residence. Up another spiral staircase. And then I was being summoned, panting and sweating and really wishing I’d showered, into the sanctum sanctorum of St. Sebastian’s College.

I’d never been in there before, which I strongly believed to be a good thing, and I wasn’t exactly in the mood for sightseeing. It was the usual Oxford grandeur, cherrywood and dark leather, big arse desk, behind which the Master sat in state. In one of her typically alarming houndstooth numbers.

Dame Frances Cavendish was her name. Her letters, which were embossed on the door and the official letterhead and found their way onto pretty much every collegiate publication, were DBE, FRCPysch, FRCP, FRCPI, FRCGP, FMedSci. No clue what any of them meant beyond “I am better than you, bitches.”

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