Bought By The Billionaire

Chapter 7: Bought By The Billionaire - Chapter Seven

“What do you think?” Those blue, blue eyes stare into mine. At some level, I feel that I should be outraged. This man, who I only met earlier today, is offering me a position as his personal … what? Concubine? Mistress? Whore? Call girl?

But it doesn’t feel like that. I like him. And he seems to like me. And if I could concentrate on my studies instead of cleaning up rooms after some jerk has had too much booze and thrown up …

He is still silent, gazing steadily into my face.

I make up my mind. “When do I start?”

He nods and smiles, then looks at me and says, “When do I start, Master?”

Yes, of course. I cast my eyes down. “When do I start, Master?”

“Right now,” he says cheerfully, but then pauses. “Outside this apartment, a simple Sir will be sufficient I think.”

“Yes, Master. And what would you like me to do, Master? Right now?”

“I assume you can type? Yes? There’s a computer and printer in the office through there.” He points at another door. “You can start by writing a letter of resignation. After that, you can join me in the bedroom.”

I wake up in my dingy bedroom, and for a moment, I stare up in confusion at the ceiling, the events of the previous day swirling up inside me.

It seems unreal—fantastic but unreal. I shake my head. After meeting and having mind-blowing sex with a complete stranger, he offered me a job as his … his what? Courtesan? Call girl? And I accepted.

He said he owned the hotel. He said he owned a huge company. And I believed it all. Took it at face value.

My stomach churns. Things like this don’t happen to girls like me. Was I taken in by some con man, after a quick roll with the maid?

I wrote a letter last night, resigning my old, horrible job cleaning at the hotel.

my job! What did I do

his suite. I’ve not delivered it yet, so technically,

surreal to me — from my foolish decision to use

about making some coffee and toast. My head doesn’t work in the morning until I have coffee inside

intercom buzzes. “Delivery for

back. “Just leave it in

“Sorry. Needs a signature.”

“Okay, I’m coming down.”

Am I expecting anything? I shake my head, trying to think if I have perhaps ordered something on the internet and

and the smell of dampness. In fact, he has two items for me, a letter and a package. Puzzled, I sign for them and take them back to my apartment. Opening

“Dear Miss Kimberley,

pleased to inform you that your application for an internship with our

to our offices

breath as I do so at the stated salary, which is much, much more than I earn now in my

drift to the parcel. With slightly trembling fingers, I open it to find a skirt and jacket, blouses, and a pair of shoes, all very sensible and business-like, but beautifully made and expensive looking. I check the labels and take a deep breath. These designer

slinky fabric over my curves. Looking at myself in my cracked mirror, I have to admit, the outfit looks great, and not quite as sensible as I had first thought. The jacket is tightly tailored to my trim waist and large breasts. The blouse is cut just low enough to suggest cleavage without actually revealing anything. The shoes

did he know my size? For

my new job. I gulp down my coffee. A little low-key makeup and my long red hair confined into

*****

glass, I hand over the letter at the reception. The receptionist checks my name against a day book and directs me to the tenth floor, where I find a second

out the letter. “Hello, my name is Elizabeth Kimberley. I was

Haswell

through on an intercom. “Mr Haswell, Elizabeth

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