Page 91 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

“It demonstrably is not.”

“You and your damn logic.” I sighed. “Sorry. I guess…I don’t know. I can’t figure out how I feel. I’m supposed to be wrecked. Why aren’t I wrecked?”

“Perhaps,” he said with gentle mischief, “you’ve developed a sense of proportion?”

“Um. Have you met me?”

He leaned in and kissed my nose. “When you’re there, Oxford seems like the whole world. And its values the only values that matter. But you’ve been flourishing elsewhere, and in your own way, for months now. At this point, your degree classification is largely irrelevant.”

“I do”—I squirmed with an almost uncontainable sense of liberation—“feel…maybe…that I’m flourishing. Milieu might want my interview as well.”

“I’m so proud of you. Both for what you’ve achieved at Oxford, and beyond.”

Ahhhhh. Too much. Too much. I flumped over and pulled a pillow over my face. “Oh my God, what are you doing to meeeee?”

“What on the earth’s the matter now?”

“I can’t cope when you’re this lovely. I don’t deserve it.”

“Is that so?” He wrestled the pillow away and rolled on top of me, sliding his knee between my legs. Last night’s nightmare seemed very distant indeed as he gazed down at me like a wolf with an exceptionally delicious rabbit between its paws. “Because I can also be terribly cruel.”

My cock got hard so quickly it practically sproinged. “Fuck yes. Please be cruel to me.”

He caught my lower lip between his teeth and tugged until I whimpered. It was such a sweet, sharp pain.

“But first,” he murmured, “let me make something very clear.”

Some boys liked diamonds. I liked being sexually threatened. I nodded eagerly. “Okay.”

“When it comes to me, I decide what you deserve. And I will feel proud of you when I damn well please.” He nipped at my chin. Then moved down my neck, making the skin dance under the scrape of his teeth. “Understood?”

I tipped my head, already breathless. “Y-yes.”

“Good. Now, then. Shall we see what you deserve today?”

Apparently what I deserved was to beg and moan a lot. To get covered in bites and bruises. To be sweaty and mindless and helpless. And, finally, when I was literally crying, to come like the end of the fucking universe.

Leaving me used and abused and sated and happy.

* * *

Caspian had to fly to New York on Sunday. But—apart from the time I spent on the phone, first to my folks, who were thrilled for me, and then to Nik, who’d got a first, of course—he was all mine for Saturday. Remembering how much he’d enjoyed our family game night, and facing up to the fact that I was never, ever, ever going to be remotely interested in learning how not to suck at chess (even from Caspian). I took him down to a board game shop in Seven Dials. He wanted to call a car but I insisted we walk, since it was only half an hour, through Hyde Park and Mayfair, and that turned out to be exactly the right call. Because the day was shiny with sunlight and Caspian let me hold his hand and, for a little while, we were lost together in the London crowds. Just another couple.

I thought I was never getting Caspian out of the shop but we finally settled on a few two-player games. Caspian chose Hive because the assistant described it as “like chess with insects” and I went for Fungi because it was about mushrooms. We headed home via our local Waitrose so I could buy lunch—picnic food, mainly, of the sort best nibbled between committed bouts of sex and board games—and I wasn’t sure Caspian had ever been in a supermarket, or at least had forgotten how they worked, because he looked distinctly bewildered the whole time we were there.

I spent the afternoon having my arse handed to me (in a nonsexual way) by an increasingly apologetic Caspian. But it worked out okay since I was far more attracted to his ruthlessness than I was embarrassed by my own abundance of ruth. And I got to tease him about it and make him blush, which was far more satisfying than winning anyway. Then we watched The Force Awakens again. I tried to tell Caspian other movies existed—that even other Star Wars movies existed—but he said he felt he might have missed things the first time round and wanted to study the film further. Because he was a ginormous dork.

It was more Star Wars than I would normally have been up for, but I liked…no, I loved being able to indulge Caspian. Draw out his tentative pleasures. Catch the gleam of happiness as it crept shyly into his eyes. Also real talk: my toenails were a complete state, and this gave me an opportunity to sort them out. Even if it meant subjecting the man I desired most in the universe to the sight of me hunched over on the sofa like an elderly baboon. Or, y’know, Yoda before he got all CGI. I went for blue-black glitter and teeny-tiny silver stars because I thought Caspian would like it. And I guess he did because he threw my freshly beautified feet over his shoulders and fucked me into a puddle of happy goo as the credits rolled.

Probably ruining the Star Wars theme for me forever.

Or improving it immeasurably.

I couldn’t quite decide.

After that, I was pretty much done for, but it turned out Caspian wanted to take me out for dinner. As in put-clothes-on-call-a-car-spend-more-money-than-I-was-comfortable-with-maybe-we-could-just-stay-home-and-I-could-make-pasta-instead dinner. Apparently he wanted to celebrate my accomplishments and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Not that I tried to say no very hard. And it was quite a complicated no anyway, because the no-ness was largely about the fact I would never be able to do anything like this for him. But what I really wanted to say was yes. Because, while it involved far more chauffeuring and Michelin stars than I was used to, it was…a date. A date with Caspian Hart.

He wore charcoal gray with a slate gray shirt, a maroon tie, and dark gold pocket square. And looked, as ever, ridiculously gorgeous and well put together. So I nobly pulled on my one suit—my crappy, exam-doing suit—only for Caspian to send me back into the bedroom to change. It wasn’t until I reemerged, this time in rainbow tie-dye skinny jeans, a T-shirt, and my plum velvet jacket, that I realized he’d dressed for me. Not in the sense that we looked remotely similar. But he’d clearly chosen his tie to complement my jacket, the boldest splash in his otherwise subdued palette like a private tribute to my very favorite color.

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