The Billionaire Professor 2 (2015)

Chapter 7




“Carly, Max wants to know if you have plans for tonight. Want to go out to dinner with Max and me --“  I didn’t get to finish asking her when she quickly replied.

“Sounds intriguing, but I think –“

“And Paul.” I know withholding his name till last was mean, but I so did want to see her reaction.

“Max’s brother?” Now I had her full attention. She raised her eyebrows. Her voice rose an octave. “Hell, yes!”

Of course the four of us had a pleasant time. I was overjoyed to see how well Carly and Paul got along. They bantered between them almost as if Max and I didn’t exist. I couldn’t say the same for Max and me though.

I selfishly confess I missed the sexual playful nature that characterized all my other moments with Max. That doesn’t mean that fantasizing about what could have been that evening wasn’t sexually arousing. Curiously, ever since I met Max, even my sexual fantasy life became more exciting and stimulating.

Carly and I were sitting across from each other at the table. It was Paul’s idea who insisted, like a modest teen, that “boy, girl, boy, girl” seating was “cozy.” His exact words, I swear. I couldn’t make something like that up.

I knew even back at the office that Carly was taken with Paul. And why not? He bore an incredible resemblance to his brother. Both had gorgeous dark, nearly black hair. Both had sea green eyes that pierced your soul spewing out all of your emotions. Both wore the same amazing sensual cologne. Go figure!

Max, bless his soul, did everything he could to keep our “playtime” even a bit active. I appreciated his attempts. He pulled his chair close to me so his knee could “accidently” bump up against mine. He was also strategically positioned so his hand could grab hold of my thigh. So, I guess it was better than nothing.

In fact, it allowed me to anticipate what the night might bring. You know what Andy Warhol said about anticipation, “The idea of waiting for something makes it more exciting.”

He placed his hand on my knee as often as he could between eating and using his phone. I, in turn, would place my hand on his thigh, teasing him each time with getting as close to touching his dick as I possibly could.

But I found that I, like Max, seemed to be involved in a cell phone conversation via text. Carly texted nearly immediately after we were seated. She was overwhelmed with anticipation and nervousness.

She needed my encouragement as well as advice on how to react to Paul’s remarks. She thought that knowing his brother as intimately as I did, I could help provide some advice.

We texted back and forth nearly nonstop even as we talked with the brothers, each of us staring down at our phones we had hidden under the table.

Carly had come under the sexual spell of the St. James family. Of course, until that moment, I never knew the family had possessed any such sexual spell. My phone erupted with a series of short texts. At one point, as I looked up at Paul, I rapidly texted her, “What red-blooded American girl wouldn’t be craving his body right now?”

And so it went all evening with Carly and me, texts flying back and forth in cyberspace. What I didn’t realize for a while though, that while our texts were taking flight back and forth from our ends of the table, there was another series of texts being sent between the men, criss-crossing ours. Just like airports had air traffic controllers, our table was in dire need of a text traffic controller.

Curiously, I noticed that Max, too, seemed to be uncharacteristically involved in a texting conversation. On one visit my hand made to his thigh area, I accidentally squeezed his cell phone instead of his thigh. For a moment, I thought I had actually worked my way up to his penis. But then I realized that even though his dick got hard, it still didn’t have that metal feel to it.

After I quickly withdrew my hand, he smiled and winked at me. Then he sent me a text, “Nothing wrong with dreaming, you know.”

When the meal came, I realized that the men, even though they had ordered these huge steaks, didn’t start eating right away. Both brothers acknowledged arrival of the meals at the table and then bent their heads down. Now I know they weren’t saying grace over their foods.

That’s when it finally became clear to me. Just like Carly and I were texting each other, the brothers were busy texting each other as well. I could only hope that Paul’s correspondence to Max were asking about Carly’s availability.

I’m sure we made quite a sight that evening. We had lively discussions about art, about which Max was passionate about and politics, which turned out to be Paul’s passion. This made Paul all the more attractive to Carly, who was a journalism major. Despite the lively conversation, something tells me the real conversations that night were happening under the table – via texting.

So this is what twenty-first century dating was all about.

After dinner, Carly and Paul went up to Max’s penthouse where Paul was staying. They had made arrangements while we were eating that they were going to continue the research that would find any piece of evidence, no matter how small that would call off the hounds of the local police department from trailing and questioning Max at every opportunity.

They were determined that Max eventually had to “slip up” as they told him and reveal something that would conclusively prove he killed his ex-wife and stole the piece of art she outbid him on that day at Christies auction house.

The pressure was building to find someone in the wake of his past who wanted him framed for murder. There was one person who went to great lengths – murder and grand theft itself – to make it look as if Max did it.

After Paul and Carly left, Max folded his white linen napkin and said, “You appear disappointed, my dear.”

“Uhm, I just . . .”

“.  . . was expecting us to play after dinner.”

Max’s eyes twinkled with excitement as he rubbed my thigh under the table.

“Well, yeah,” I simply said. I always liked it when he referred to what we do as ‘play.’ It made it sound as if the time we spent together having sex sound as fun as child’s play. And since it brought out the best in me, I like to think it somehow touched my inner child as well as my inner sexual beast.

“We’re going for a long walk in the woods tonight and if we find a bed of leaves or soft grass or anything else as equally as inviting, then who knows what may occur?”

He wrapped his strong arm around my waist as we left the restaurant. When we arrived at the restaurant, there were no photographers anywhere to be found. You couldn’t say the same thing when we came out. Now on the way out the paparazzi, the tabloid reporters, the internet videographers and who knows who else were crowding in close to the entrance of the restaurant, waiting to snap a photo, a thirty-second video clip of us or if they were extremely lucky perhaps even a small sound bite of Max proclaiming his innocence.

The press were even calling me by name, pressing me for a comment.

Max deftly guided me as he negotiated his way through this chaotic sea of bizarre media with minimum exposure, quickly tucked me into the vehicle and hustled over to his side of the vehicle. He hit the accelerator and the Lamborghini did what only Lamborghinis could do – left them all in the dust, so to speak.

“That didn’t even seem to rattle you,” I said, after I turned around to make sure no one was following us.

“I’ve winded my way through larger, rougher media crowds, my love,” he said as his strong fingers squeezed my knee and stroked it. You think as familiar as his touch was, it wouldn’t affect me anymore. Not! I still reacted as if it were the first touch. My clit waited in anticipation for what lay ahead. I found my body preparing to get wet and slippery for the eventual, delightful conclusion of the beginning signal of our version of foreplay.




Damn. Yes, I was glad to see my brother. And I unquestionably welcomed his help at clearing my name. After all, his place of employment alone opened doors that even I couldn’t get into. The New York Times. Certainly he could also be of great help to Jazmin and Carly as they searched for answers.

Okay, so I admit it. I was being short sighted. But having two dinner guests that evening at the restaurant – Paul and Carly – severely limited the extent to which I could “play” with Jazmin throughout the meal.

If that weren’t bad enough, Paul blew up my phone texting me all evening long, asking questions about Carly, most of which I couldn’t answer. He seemed “smitten” with her. When he finally understood I knew very little about this woman, he began sending me a series of texts about revealing my past to Jazmin. Frankly, the topic was getting old.

But I knew it had to be done. And tonight, I suppose was as good as any night. Something told me that Paul’s insistence might be related to some evidence he had found that could help point the finger at someone else, but he didn’t want to reveal it until I had come clean with Jazmin.

He was always the brother who got his ducks in a row before he started a project. Not me. I just jumped in, made a huge splash in the water and then tried to calm the seas as I swam to shore. Perhaps my brother’s method was superior to mine. I had never really given it much thought before this.

To make matters worse, I felt even more outside pressure about my past, the moment we exited the restaurant. I’m not sure how they found out where we were eating, but the sidewalk was littered with paparazzi and nosy reporters and videographers trying to make a name for themselves. With my arm already around her, I held her even closer to me as we worked our way through to the car. Wasn’t it enough that her name and picture had already been plastered on not only more newspapers, television shows and internet stories as each day passed? Now these media heathens wanted more.

I hoped as I helped her in the car that I had minimized her as collateral damage. I had promised Paul I would reveal my past to her tonight. It was as if the universe were kicking me in the ass to do so as soon as possible.

And, don’t get me wrong, I had every intention of doing so. But then I looked into her soft, trusting eyes, I tried to imagine explaining it to her. As soon as I visualized my confession, I saw nothing but a hurt and painful look on her face. I didn’t want to be the person responsible for that look. I didn’t want this wonderful woman, who had placed so much trust in me from our very first encounter, to begin to lose faith in me.