Lahat ng Kabanata ng Naughty Nikki: A Billionaire Romance: Kabanata 51 - Kabanata 60

~ Nikki ~A very snazzily dressed maître d’ receives us in the foyer of yet another overly stated restaurant, one of many that make me wonder if I’ll ever be able to eat at a chain franchise again. Or if I’ll be spoiled into believing there’s no sense in dining out if there aren’t five stars associated with the restaurant, and a tuxedoed host (with tails and gloves, even) to gush over us. He swiftly divests us of our outerwear and there is a lovely coat check woman to whisk the garments off to a closet for safekeeping.We’re ushered along the perimeter of the room, to a table for two in a cozy corner, by a fireplace, and with a gorgeous view of the Eiffel Tower from our private, panoramic window. The place settings are elegant, the flatware fancy, the water goblets and wineglasses all intricately crystal-cut. As expected, and yet… Still so astounding.There is a starburst chandelier hanging above our table, emitting a dim, romantic illumination. Candles serve as centerpieces.An atten

~ Nikki ~My knees are knocking together as we leave the limo and make our way toward the suite. I’m drowning in delirium and gazing up at Jameson with fluttering lashes. He chuckles.I have an arm twined around one of his and I’m swaying a bit from the wine and the orgasms… And the exciting thoughts of things to come.I snicker at that notion. Somewhat ecstatically.Jameson gives me a knowing look and I try to contain all the impulses clawing at me. No easy feat, but at least I’m not terribly dizzy and giggling like a schoolgirl.I’m damn close, yes. There’s plenty to be said for aphrodisiacs and decadence. The primary aphrodisiac being Jameson, of course. I’ll give the food and beverages all kinds of kudos, but it’s the man who has my blood humming and my body thrumming.There’s an electric palpitation to my heartbeats and I might actually be floating on air.Jameson seems to know it.That only sets me more on fire.When we’re in the suite, he suggests, “Why don’t you go into my bat

~ Nikki ~There are rose petals everywhere. Dozens and dozens of them. Red, cream and yellow, all scattered about as though they were loaded into a cannon and discharged. I envision, for a second, how this scene would look as they rained down on the suite, with me standing beneath the delicate barrage.I’m not one to fantasize about roses and candlelight and sensuous music. But I’ll willing admit… I’m totally into this visual.I lie a little to myself and simply consider that it’s only because we’re in Paris that I’m so captivated and euphoric. I won’t feel this way in Italy or Zurich or anywhere else. Not even if there actually was business to tend to in Hawaii or the Maldives.Unfortunately, I’m not the least bit convinced of my tiny fabrication. We could be in a roadside motel in the middle of nowhere—no ambience whatsoever—with coyotes howling in the distance, and I’d still luxuriate in the ripples of delight through my body. I’d still feel my skin tingle. I’d still experience the

~ Nikki ~We are sitting at the railing, overlooking the stage, with no obstruction of our view, whatsoever.Overhead, the red-and-white-striped, billowy awnings—with their accompanying small-bulbed, string lighting—create a Big Top effect that’s enchanting.Everything is red. Strikingly red. Almost a deep crimson that is sexy and seductive, rather than that cheesy, middle-of-the-road red that just screams Valentine’s barfed all over, and it’s not a pretty sight. Know what I mean? Maybe not. I have a thing about red, I guess. It can look dated, like… 1980s taffeta bridesmaids dresses with those tremendously puffy sleeves and ginormous bows on the butt, and the sickly sweet color that seems flimsy, in a weird way. My aunt’s wedding photos, from her super-short-lived marriage, makes me think of this.Here, however—and despite the old-fashioned feel and the “antique red” accents—the crimson is warm and perfectly paired with all the golden lighting and gas lamps.Below us, there are tiers

~ Nikki ~The man possesses many gifts. Many, many gifts. He’s talented in all manner of fields and arenas. And he also excels in the bedroom.I’m pretty damn sure Jameson could write his own tantric or Kamasutra manuals and they’d fly off the shelves.For that very reason, I carefully inch backward, place a foot on the bench, cautiously balance, and then ease onto the edge of the mattress, sitting comfortably. I flatten my palms at my sides to steady myself.And spread my legs.Jameson’s expression darkens to that of a lustful lover who knows precisely what his partner wants.Well, okay, I’ve made it abundantly clear what I want. But he’s wholly attuned and rests a bent knee on the bench. His hands skim over my thighs and shove the hem of my nightie up to my waist as I raise my hips. Then I settle in again. He wedges his large frame between my legs and leans in to kiss me.I find myself twining my calves around his waist, locking the embrace with my ankles. He groans and then deepens