The Arrogant Artist : A Billionaire Boss Romance (International Bad Boys Set Book 2)

pool. My dinner consists of crusty baguettes, cheese, and some cold cuts and, of course, a nice bottle of wine. It’s quiet out here. There’s not a soul out amongst the fields that surround the property, but I like the serenity. I could get used to this pace of life.
I cut off another chunk of camembert and lather it onto the crusty slice of bread. Taking a bite of the deliciousness, it nearly sends me into an orgasm. I unlock my cell and take a picture of my spread and upload it to Instagram. Got to make everyone think I’m having the time of my life and not moping about with a broken heart. I share the photograph of my beautiful meal with the backdrop of the setting sun over the lavender fields and hashtag the shit out of it. #livingmybestlife #blessed #thisisthelife #summerjob #donthateme #singlelife
Once I post the image, the timeline refreshes—I didn’t realize I was still following Toby. Staring back at me on my feed is a picture of him with a blonde, kissing on a carriage ride in Central Park. He looks happy. They both do. The image is a direct arrow to my already broken heart. I take a big gulp of my wine to ease my nerves, then scroll to the next image, and it’s a picture of the two of them together at the airport. She’s kissing his cheek. The caption reads, I’ve missed my girl, so great to finally be together.
“Wanker,” I curse at my phone, then I proceed to neck the bottle of wine. I stare at the image of the girl on the screen, who has been sleeping with my boyfriend all these months. Of course, the alcohol makes me start comparing myself to her.
We’re total opposites. She’s tall, tanned, blonde, big-boobed, and a totally fake Barbie doll, who’s wearing designer clothing. Her hair is perfect with makeup applied like a damn professional.
Then there’s me. A short ass with strawberry blonde hair and skin that looks like it hasn’t seen sun since birth. I have pancake tits that might just make a handful if I’m lucky. I hardly wear makeup, and my clothes are more high-street than designer.
Now I’m on a roll. I take another swig from my bottle of wine and click on her name and start scrolling through her images. Thank God it’s not on private. So many photographs of the two of them together doing all these touristy things in New York, smiling, looking happy and carefree when, in reality, they’re cheating assholes.
I keep scrolling like I’m going to stop now. Then I see the images of them in Aruba. He fucking took her on holiday while I was at home missing my boyfriend.
What a fucking scumbag.
Wanker.
Asshole.
“Fuck you, Toby Masters. Fuck you!” I curse at my phone.
My night turns kind of blurry after that as I finish the bottle of wine and devour the ridiculous amount of cheese and cold cuts for one tiny human. I’m drunk. And it’s hot. I keep staring at the glistening blue pool before me, tempting me to take a dip in its cool water.
As I said, I’m drunk, so deciding to jump in under the moonlight seems like the best plan ever. I can’t be bothered going upstairs to grab my swimsuit, so I strip off to my underwear and jump into the pool, letting the cool water sober me up and refresh me, maybe even baptize me because it feels amazing against my hot skin.
This is the last time that I’m ever going to think about that douche canoe, Toby Masters, and his Barbie doll ever again. I’m in the South of France, motherfuckers, and working for an uber-awesome artist.
This beats selling magnets to tourists back in London.
My body finally turns into a prune after spending time lazily swimming in the cool water, and I feel like I’ve shed my old life like dead skin. I’m ready to welcome a new future, a future which I have no idea where it will lead me, but it has to be better than where I have come from.
I slowly step out of the pool, unsteadily making my way up the stairs. Luckily, the early summer breeze is still warm as I stand in my underwear, which is completely see-through now, wondering where the towels are located.
It’s only then I notice a man standing in front of me.
I scream with surprise because I thought I was alone.

6
Louis
I should be looking away as the water drips over her near-naked body. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do—as if you’re a gentleman, Louis—but I can’t. Not when her innocently white underwear is completely see-through.
This is apparently my new assistant, and I’m drunk. Not like that’s a surprise to anyone. The bottle of tequila sits loosely in my hand, but I watch her in utter fascination as she emerges from the pool like some majestic siren of the sea. My fingers grip the bottleneck tighter as I wonder what she’d taste like. Is she as innocent as she looks?
The thin material clings to her lithe body, water droplets falling over her chest, running over her hard nipples. I bite my lip as the blood begins to travel south.
Her breasts are small and pert with the most perfect blush-pink nipples, the color reminding me of the roses that grow along the wall beside the pool. They release the sweetest of perfume in the summer. Would she smell as sweet?
I follow another droplet down her stomach until it disappears into her underwear. I silently groan as I notice a dark line underneath the sheer material, a line I want to run my tongue along as my head is buried between her creamy thighs. Those long fingers of hers gripping my hair, urging me to suck her bud harder, almost pulling my hair from my scalp as she thrashes about underneath me, taking every last bit of her orgasm from her sated body. My dick twitches, hardening with each dirty