Body Worship: The Billionaire and the BBW: Body Heat Series Book 3

C
opyright
© 2016 by Madeline Parr.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodies in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email [email protected]

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations

I
’m
like Prince Charming searching for the perfect woman. But I’m not carrying around a glass slipper. Not by a long shot. Instead, I have my Sybian, and I spend every weekend at Body Heat looking for the woman who’ll ride her way to an orgasm and bring my cock back to life. I know she’s out there; she has to be. I can’t keep living like this. I just need to hold on until I find her.

I haven’t met a woman yet who didn’t love my orgasm machine. They perch on the Sybian, on its saddle-shaped leather seat, with the industrial strength vibrator nestled inside them, and wait for me to crank the controls and give them the fucking of their lives. The Sybian does it all, depending on the attachment: stimulates her clit, massages her g-spot, vibrates deep in her pussy, and rumbles against her tight rosette.

It does everything I can’t.

So I sit there, in my perfectly tailored trousers and crisp white dress shirt, while the most beautiful women in the city are humping the leather box in front of me. I work the controls and wait for my broken dick to decide it’s time to play. So far, it’s always ended in disappointment.

Tonight’s diversion is no exception.

I think her name was Sylvie, but I wouldn’t bet on it. She’s a model, I remember that much. Nearly six feet tall and rail thin, with spectacular legs that are now straddling the leather seat. Leather cuffs around her ankles secure her to the Sybian and her hands are bound above her head. The bondage doesn’t do much for me, to be honest, but it has a few important side benefits. It keeps my playmates from touching me; the humiliation of a beautiful woman palming my soft manhood and gazing up at me with a questioning look is not something I ever want to experience again. Once was more than enough. Plus, the restraints look better for the audience.

I sit several feet away from her with the control box in my hands. I watch my partner’s every move, every swirl of her hips, every pant and moan, and adjust accordingly. One knob controls the intensity of the vibration. The other controls the rotation of the shaft. I work them both like a maestro, driving her to the edge of pleasure but not tipping her over until she’s a sweaty, blubbering mess. And then I have no mercy; I force orgasm after orgasm from her body, playing the controls with a practiced hand. I actually hear a gasp from the gallery. Must be a newbie stumbling upon my show for the first time.

I have quite a following at Body Heat. It’s the city’s most exclusive, and secretive, sex club and I don’t doubt for a second that my privacy is guaranteed. It’s like Vegas: what happens here, stays here. The club’s owner, Nova Bennett, has the best security in the business. She’s never had a mole, reporter, or any other unwanted snoop even attempt to gain access to this place. Probably because the regulars pay through the nose for a membership, and nobody’s stupid enough to talk about Body Heat with anybody not associated with the club. Because the punishment would be steep: banishment from this place. Any nobody wants to get kicked out of the raucous playground of the rich and famous.

People come here looking for a good time. Especially if they want to keep it on the down low. The last thing I need is for rumors of my exploits to be published in the city’s gossip rags. Sunday dinner with the family would become infinitely more uncomfortable. On the other hand, it would explain a lot for the bevy of supermodels, socialites, and actresses on my arm over the years who never got past first base. And I’d probably finally lose the nausea-inducing title of ‘City’s Most Eligible Bachelor.’

Nonetheless, for the good of my family name, privacy, and reputation, I have my fun here. Body Heat has several playrooms available for booking. They all have a giant floor-to-ceiling viewing window that opens up to the gallery, the hallway between the bar and the lounge where people linger and watch the fun to get themselves revved up for their own private party time. I have a standing reservation for a gallery room every Friday night and I have no trouble finding an enthusiastic participant. Beautiful women elbow each other trying to get to me; they’re worse than bridesmaids during a wedding bouquet throw. A handsome billionaire? Check. Hometown hero who gave up a cushy job to enlist in the military? Check. Good looking guy who spends hours a week in the gym sculpting a perfect physique? Check. I know what they want. Money. Prestige. To be on my arm. To live like a queen.

My attention turns back to Sylvie. She writhes atop the Sybian as another orgasm tears through her body. The crowd outside stands mesmerized. All eyes are locked on her in admiration. And still I feel nothing. That’s not entirely true. I just don’t feel what I want to feel. I have that vague itch I can’t scratch. A kind of torture, like placing a juicy steak just out of a starving man’s reach. But the crowd watching somehow makes it better. I like having an audience; it makes me feel sexy, in control, and powerful.

I check my watch. Our time is almost up.

Now comes the dicey part of the evening - disentangling myself from an eager partner. I’ve developed a few rules over the years that have served me well. I see a different woman every weekend; nobody rides twice. And I don’t socialize with women from Body Heat outside of the club. It can get awkward. I’ve turned down a lot of phone numbers and rebuffed a lot of advances. Fortunately, it’s easy to let a woman down gently when you’ve just given her ten orgasms. It seems to take the sting out of the rejection.

Sylvie doesn’t even try. I’m impressed and relieved at the same time.

Our time is almost up. I kneel by her side and undo the restraints. She stands on shaky coltish legs and crosses the room to her clothes. It takes her a minute to throw on her wrap dress, run a hand through her hair, and grab her clutch. She leaves without a goodbye and I’m standing in the room alone. I rise to my feet and flip the toggle on the wall that frosts over the viewing glass.

“Show’s over,” I say. A chorus of disappointed groans rises up in reply.

Maybe next time I’ll meet the one. I know one thing for certain: when I do, I’ll never let her go.

O
ne Week Later

I
sit
at the bar and swirl my French 75 around the champagne glass. What I really want is a rum and Coke, but I’m sitting in the city’s most exclusive sex club, not a college bar, and it doesn’t seem quite appropriate.

I don’t know why I’m bothering to feign sophistication. I came here to get laid, not to meet my life partner. But I put so much effort into getting ready, it feels right to continue with the illusion. Getting ready was a multi-day process. Waxing on Wednesday. A pedicure and manicure Thursday morning. Shopping for the perfect dress and accessories Thursday afternoon. Now it’s Friday, and this girl is ready to get busy.

It paid off. I look damn good. I found the perfect dress, which is hard when you have the curves I do. But the green panel sheath has the structure to accentuate my figure, while the black lace overlay adds femininity. Black peep toe heels and a patent leather handbag tie everything together.

I take a sip of my bubbly cocktail and look around at the other women in the room. Rail thin and model beautiful, every last one of them. I’m not, but that doesn’t bother me one bit. So what if I’m a size 14? So was Marilyn Monroe, and it’s not like she was hurting for attention from the stronger sex. I’ve never had a hard time catching a man either, but I’ve been in a bit of a slump lately. Self imposed, you could say, but it’s time for me to break out of it.

“Are you going to spend all night sipping that drink like it’s paint thinner, or should I order you what you really want?” I swivel around, a razor sharp comeback at the ready, and come face-to-face with
him
. He’s leaning casually against the bar and his hypnotic green eyes twinkle with amusement. My heart starts thumping double time, but I don’t show it.

“I’m not sure they have what I
really
want.” I cross my legs, lean back in my chair, and flash him my best bedroom eyes.

“Actually, they have everything here.” He gestures around the ornate room. “That’s kind of the point.” He pauses to take a sip of the caramel colored liquid in his lowball glass.

“Even if they didn’t, I bet you’re the kind of guy who’d send someone to fetch it for me.”

He leans in, conspiratorially, and lowers his voice. “What makes you say that?”

“Because I read the society pages. I know who you are.” Everyone from this area knows about the Manning empire. Old money, from railroads or oil, I can’t remember which. All I know is they invested it wisely, it compounded for decades, and now they practically own the city. They’re arrogant, entitled, and powerful, and Nash Manning is the worst of them. I’ve seen the headlines: if he’s not cavorting with bikini-clad stunners in the Hamptons, he’s canoodling with starlets in the city, or escorting a different supermodel to a ritzy high society event.

Still, he’d be as sexy as hell even if he didn’t have the Manning name, and fortune, behind him. He looks like the square-jawed hero from an action movie, with piercing eyes and full, luscious lips. I imagine the wicked things he could do with that mouth and I feel a flush spread across my cheeks. He’s built like a brick wall, which I attribute to his military service. The press was all over that: the local boy from privilege who gives it up to serve his country for a few tours of duty. And it’s not like he rode a desk for a couple years. He was the real deal. Special Forces, if I remember correctly. He got one hell of a ticker-tape parade when he returned, but his smile was never quite as bright, or as quick to flash across his face, once he came home.

“It seems you have me at a disadvantage.” He tips his glass to me. “Care to level the playing field?”

“I’m Evelyn,” I say as I extend my hand. His hand is giant and warm as it engulfs mine.

“I’m Nash,” he says. “Evelyn. Is there a last name to go with that?” He slides onto the stool next to me.

“Not while we’re in here.” I’m surprised at how comfortable I am with him. I motion to the bartender and hand him my fancy pants drink. “I’ll have a rum and Coke, please.”

“Of course, Miss.” He disappears as quickly as he arrived and I turn back to Nash.

“So you know everything about me, assuming you read what passes for newspapers in this city. I don’t know a thing about you. It just doesn’t seem fair.”

“I’m not giving you my last name.” I shake my head and then reconsider. “But you’re right; it doesn’t seem fair. So I’ll answer three questions for you.”

“Anything?”

“Dealer’s choice. I’m an open book.” The bartender returns and slides my drink onto a cotton cocktail napkin.

“What do you do for a living, Evelyn?”

“I own a boutique floral shop.” I raise the glass to my mouth and take a generous sip before continuing. “It’s tiny, but everything is really high quality and we’ve been steadily getting more visibility. I’m hoping to open a second store at some point.”

“I would have gone with lawyer or investment banker. Never in a million years would I have guessed you’re in the flower business.”

“What can I say? I like pretty things.”

“That’s entirely fitting.” Damn if the beating of my heart doesn’t pick up the pace.

“You are quite the silver-tongued Romeo, aren’t you?” I’m looking down at my dress, smoothing the creases in the fabric when he escalates things quickly.

“I can stop skirting around the issue if you prefer.” He looks at me intently. “What are you here for?” It’s a logical question. I should have seen it coming. But I’m not prepared to answer it.

I don’t want to lie to him, but I’m not ready to tell him everything, either. Not by a long shot. So I decide to discuss the problem without delving into the cause.

“I haven’t been able to ‘get there’ in a while and thought it was time to jump start things.”

“You mean you can’t come?”

I nod yes and try to will myself not to blush. I’m definitely not shy, but talking about such intimate issues with a stranger is out of my comfort zone.

“How long?” he asks.

“Eight months.” His eyes don’t bug out of his head. He doesn’t fall out of his chair or break into hysterical laughter. Instead, he looks at me like he’s just the man to solve the problem, and I’m curious.

“When you’re with a partner or when you’re by yourself?”

“Same problem with both,” I say.

“Have you tried a vibrator.”

I smile and roll my eyes. “This isn’t amateur hour. I’ve tried my Lelo, my Magic Wand, my hand, and the shower head.” I tick the items off with my fingers as I list them all out.

“Has this been a problem for you before?”

“Nope. My life was pretty much an episode of Sex and the City before this.”

His brow furrows and he looks troubled. “And this just happened out of the blue?”

“Yes,” I lie.

“One more question.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re out of questions,” I tease.

He leans in until he’s a few inches from my face. I can smell the bourbon on his breath and his woodsy cologne. “Would you be interested in going with me to the lounge to continue this conversation in a more private setting?”

I stand and collect my handbag. “If you can promise me an orgasm, I’ll follow you to the end of the earth.” He slides a couple of twenties across the bar, places his hand on the small of my back, and escorts me down the hallway to the lounge.