Page 3 of British Billionaire
Poppy’s right behind me on a gelding called Jimbo. I walk over to her and help her down. Her body brushes against me as she lands on he feet. My arms slide around her body. She’s so damn sexy, it’s hard to remember she’s here for a job, not a date.
“How was that?” I ask. “Not so bad, was it?”
“It was actually kind of fun,” she says. “Once I got the hang of it.”
I smile at her answer. She doesn’t know it, but she’s just passed a test.
A lot of people don’t like being out of their comfort zone. They’re not the kind of people I like to hire.
I want someone who will take on any challenge headfirst. Someone who won’t back down. Someone who is willing to do anything -within reason - to get the job done.
"Errr, Jacob..."
She looks at my arm. I realize I’m still holding her. Looking at her. Gazing at her body like I want to cover her in cream and ravage her body with my cock.
She probably thinks I’m some weird, creepy rich guy who lives all alone in the middle of nowhere.
She’d be right on three counts.
I am rich.
I am weird.
And I do live alone in the middle of nowhere.
But I’m not a creep.
“This is where you live?” she asks, looking at my not-so-modest abode.
“You like it?”
“It's a fucking castle!” she says. Then, instantly, she covers her mouth with her hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to curse.”
"It’s fine, you’re England now. You can curse all you fucking like. In fact, I’d think it was fucking weird if you didn’t.”
She smiles at me from beneath thick, dark lashes. My dick hardens in my jeans, transforming into titanium.
I walk in through the side entrance and she follows me to my office.
It warns in here. The fire’s been going all morning. I sit down in my big leather armchair and put my feet up. I instantly feel relaxed and at home.
Poppy stands by the door looking uncomfortable. She's probably wondering what heck is going on.
It’s all part of the plan.
I want to keep her on her toes.
“By the door are three boxes.” I pause for dramatic effect. Poppy looks at the boxes and then turns back to face me. She’s undone her jacket. The shirt she’s wearing is white. It’s wet and see-through and I can make out the pattern on her bra. I like it. I like it a lot. “Inside them are investment applications from one hundred different companies. Your job today is to choose the best one.
“If you pick right, you’re hired. With a salary starting at roughly two hundred thousand American dollars a year, plus benefits. If you pick wrong, you’re on the first plane back home.”
“There must be some kind of mistake.” Poppy bites her lip. She fiddles with the hem of her coat. A log in the fire falls and a bloom of smoke bellows up into the centuries-old chimney. Outside, it’s still raining. The water lashes against the windows. It’s like we’re in a very comfortable, very expensive carwash. “I came here to interview for the position of executive assistant. I don’t know anything about investment applications or picking the right company. I didn’t even go to college.”
I stand up and pour myself a glass of vintage Scotch. The fiery liquid warms my bones. “I don’t have assistants, Poppy. Assistants are for people who can’t wipe their own fucking ass. Do I look like someone who can’t wipe his fucking ass to you?”
“No, Jacob,” she looks me dead in the eyes. A playful smile on her lips. “You look more than capable of wiping your own ass.”
I raise my eyebrow. Impressed her by her balls. The rumors I’ve heard about her are true. She is special. More impressive than I ever thought she could be.
