THE BILLIONAIRE'S MISSING PIECE (ENGLISH)

CHAPTER 3: THE RED LIPSTICK

Drake paused at the doorway, shoulder braced against the frame, eyes locked on Naime where she lay sprawled across the sheets. Moonlight slipped through the half-open blinds, tracing silver lines along her bare skin, and the way she watched him back felt like a slow, deliberate pull. She propped herself on one elbow, dark hair spilling over her shoulder, and let her gaze travel down his body with unhurried hunger. That look alone sent heat curling low in his stomach.

He reached for the top button of his polo, fingers steady even as his pulse hammered. One button, then another, fabric parting inch by inch until the shirt slid off his shoulders and pooled at his feet. The belt came next, leather whispering as he tugged it free. Jeans followed, denim dragging over his thighs before he stepped out of them, kicking everything aside until nothing remained between them but air and anticipation. He stood there, exposed, skin prickling under her stare, every nerve awake and waiting.

Naime caught her lower lip between her teeth, a small, wicked smile curving her mouth. She crooked one finger, lazy and commanding, and something inside him snapped taut.

He crossed the room in three strides, the mattress dipping under his weight as he knelt above her. In this space, power shifted without words. Her eyes held his, dark and molten, lips parted just enough to let her breath brush his skin. She reached up, fingertips grazing his jaw, then sliding into his hair, guiding him down.

Their mouths met, slow at first, exploratory, then deeper, tongues sliding together in a rhythm that matched the quickening thud of his heart. He kissed along her jaw, down the elegant column of her throat, tasting salt and warmth. When his lips closed over the soft skin there, gentle suction pulling a low sound from her, her fingers tightened in his hair, urging him on.

His hands found her breasts, palms cupping their weight, thumbs circling slowly until her back arched off the bed, offering more. She gasped, the sound raw and unguarded, and it ignited something primal in him. He lowered his head, trailing open-mouthed kisses across her collarbone, then lower, until he drew one n****e into his mouth. He sucked gently, then firmer, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make her hips lift.

Her breath hitched louder when his hand drifted down her stomach, fingers splaying over the curve of her hip before slipping between her thighs. She was slick, hot, ready, and the discovery sent a jolt through him. He stroked her slowly, learning every flutter, every shiver, watching her face as pleasure rippled across it. Her eyes fluttered half-closed, lips forming silent pleas, hips rolling to meet each careful glide of his fingers.

He kissed his way lower, lips brushing the soft skin of her abdomen, tasting the faint tremor there. When he settled between her legs, he paused, looking up the length of her body. Her chest rose and fell in quick bursts; faint red marks from her own nails bloomed on his shoulders where she'd gripped him earlier, stark against his pale skin.

"Are you ready?" His voice came out rough.

"Yes." She barely breathed the word. "Please."

"Tell me you want me."

"I want you." Her fingers threaded through his hair again, tugging. "Make love to me. Now."

He lowered his mouth to her, tongue tracing her folds, savoring the taste of her, the way she opened for him. He circled her c**t with slow, deliberate strokes, then sucked gently, drawing out every tremor, every broken moan that filled the room. The soundproof walls swallowed her cries as he pressed deeper, tongue sliding inside, curling, tasting her fully. She tasted like salt and sweetness and something uniquely her, and he couldn't get enough.

Her thighs trembled around his head. "Please," she whispered, voice cracking. "I need you inside me."

He rose over her, hard and aching, positioning himself at her entrance. One slow push, and he sank in, inch by inch, until he filled her completely. She clenched around him, a perfect, velvet grip that stole his breath. He paused there, buried deep, forehead resting against hers, sharing ragged breaths.

Then he moved.

Slow at first, savoring the drag and pull, the way her body welcomed him. Her legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, urging him faster, deeper. He obliged, thrusts growing harder, more insistent, the bed creaking beneath them as rhythm took over. Her nails scored his back; his mouth found hers again, swallowing her moans.

Pleasure built like a tide, coiling tighter with every stroke, every shared gasp. Her body tensed beneath him, inner muscles fluttering, and then she shattered, crying out against his lips as waves crashed through her. The sight, the feel of her coming undone, pushed him over the edge. He drove deep one last time, release tearing through him in hot, blinding pulses.

They clung together, trembling, sweat-slick skin pressed close, hearts hammering in tandem.

But the night was far from over.

Naime stirred awake in the dim hush of Drake’s bedroom, the sheets tangled around her legs like a half-forgotten promise. She turned her head and found him still asleep beside her, chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Moonlight slipped through the half-closed blinds and painted faint silver lines across his shoulder, his jaw, the faint stubble that had grazed her skin hours earlier. She tried to tally the times they had collided. On the cool hardwood floor, against the tiled wall of the shower with water drumming around them, sprawled across the leather sofa, and finally here, back in this bed that still carried the scent of their earlier urgency. The number blurred. What mattered was how easily she had surrendered each time.

His beauty was a quiet violence: the carved line of his collarbone, the lean strength coiled in his arms, the effortless confidence that wrapped around wealth and muscle and dark eyes until resistance felt pointless. She had told herself she was only borrowing his body, not his heart. Not this time.

The small bedside clock glowed 2:14 a.m. Naime eased herself upright, careful not to disturb the mattress. Before her feet could find the floor, Drake’s arm curled across her waist and drew her back down with lazy insistence. His eyes cracked open, heavy-lidded and still smoky with sleep, yet unmistakably predatory.

“I’ll drive you home,” he murmured, a voice rough from the night.

She shook her head. “I’ll drive myself. And what happened here, stays here.” Her words came out steady, almost rehearsed. She held his gaze until she saw the understanding settle there.

“Exactly.” A slow grin curved his mouth. He leaned forward and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the curve of her shoulder, lingering just long enough to remind her body what it had wanted all night.

“Drive safely,” he added.

“And no more sweet talk.” She cut him off before the next velvet word could land. She needed the boundary drawn in ink.

He laughed under his breath and lifted both hands in mock surrender. Most women melted under his compliments; Naime built walls with them. She slipped from the bed, crossed to the bathroom, and let the hot water scour away the smell of him. When she returned, towel knotted at her chest, he was propped against the headboard watching her with unhurried interest. She dressed in silence, retrieved the rest of her clothes from the living room, and left without looking back.

The door clicked shut behind her. Drake exhaled once, alone again, but never lonely.

Morning arrived with Clifford’s call. Drake answered from the kitchen, coffee already brewing.

“So… what exactly happened in the office last night?” Clifford asked with a careful tone.

Drake leaned against the counter. “Too drunk. Don’t remember a thing.” A clean lie. He had already wired payment to the man who scrubbed the hidden security feeds. The videos were gone. The night with Naime no longer existed in any archive but memory.

Another delivery bag from Melanie waited outside the door, groceries he had ordered on impulse. He sent Zhinkee a quick good-morning text, then another saying he was on his way to pick her up. This time he meant it. No games. He wanted to know her, really know her.

The Walton residence rose behind tall iron gates, all clean lines and pristine white stone. Drake had seen grander houses, but something about this one felt deliberately serene: a white Narra sofa set gleaming under recessed lights, rare orchids in porcelain pots, abstract paintings that probably cost more than most people’s cars. He chose an Eames chair tucked in the corner and sank into it to wait.

A helper appeared. “Sir, tea?”

“Black coffee, please. Thank you.”

He picked up a glossy magazine from the glass table. Fashion, society, power. He flipped past perfume ads until a double-page spread stopped him cold. Clifford and Naime, two years earlier. They stood close on a balcony somewhere tropical, her head tilted against his shoulder, his arm possessive around her waist. The caption called them Manila’s golden couple. Clifford’s quoted words spilled across the page: how they had met by chance, how every day with her felt like winning something irreplaceable.

Drake stared at the photograph until the helper returned with his coffee. Not every love story ends in sunlight, he thought. Some simply stop breathing.

His fingers began their familiar rhythm against the glass tabletop—tap, tap, tap—his quiet metronome for impatience. Minutes later, Zhinkee appeared at the top of the curved staircase.

She wore a fitted black dress that ended a careful inch above the knee, yellow clutch bright against her hip, silver hoops catching the light. Her hair fell in soft waves; her smile arrived before she did.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “Shall we?”

Drake stood. The sight of her hit like cool air after too long indoors. “You look amazing.”

Her smile widened. She touched his forearm lightly. “Thank you. My car or yours?”

“Yours, mine... your call.”

“With or without a driver?” she asked. “I know safety matters.”

He chuckled. “I can handle myself.”

“No bodyguard?” She teased, a faint blush rising.

“Seriously?”

“Just kidding.” Her laugh was soft, melodic. Something warm and unfamiliar turned inside his chest.

She spotted the Ferrari 458 Italia parked in the drive and gave a delighted gasp. “We’re definitely taking yours.”

They slid into the low-slung seats. Her orange Lexus RC F waited beside it like a bright afterthought. They headed to Greenbelt 5, to one of his restaurants.

Zhinkee looked around the dining room with quiet wonder. “It’s changed so much since I was last here.”

“Wait till you try the demi-pound burger. Angus patty, Prosecco-caramelized onions, Cambozola sauce. Worth every centavo.”

She took one bite and her eyes fluttered closed in bliss. They ate quickly, laughing between mouthfuls, then raised their water glasses in a playful toast.

The rest of the day unfolded like a gift she had not expected: old friends she had missed, favorite corners of the city she had not seen in years, easy conversation that never felt forced. Zhinkee carried herself with a calm independence that drew him in deeper. She did not lean on anyone to feel whole. She simply was.

When he pulled up outside the Walton gates that evening, she turned to him. “Thank you. I had so much fun.”

Before he could answer, she leaned across the console and kissed his cheek. He caught her face gently between his palms and kissed her properly, slowly at first, then deeper, tongues brushing, heat rising fast. Somewhere nearby a CCTV lens watched. He pulled back just before restraint slipped entirely.

“Should we go to your place?” she whispered.

“You sure?”

She answered by kissing him again, longer this time.

Inside his pad they collided the moment the door closed. Zhinkee met his hunger with an eager response yet never quite took the lead. She sank onto the sofa while Naime would have climbed into his lap. The comparison flashed uninvited and he cursed himself silently.

He peeled her dress away, kissed the slope of her throat, the soft swell of her breasts, lingered at the tight peak of one n****e until she gasped and arched. Her fingers threaded through his hair. She was no virgin, yet with him, she felt new again... nervous, alive, unguarded.

Her hand slid along the cushion and closed around something small and smooth. She lifted it into the light: a tube of red lipstick.

She eased back. “What’s this?”

Drake froze. Naime’s bag. The sofa. Last night. “It’s… my nanny’s. She must have dropped it when she was here earlier.”

Zhinkee studied his face for a long second, then handed it over. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be.” He took the lipstick, set it on the side table. “We don’t have to rush anything. Let’s take our time.”

She smiled, small and grateful. “Thank you, Drake. You’re… really nice.”

He grinned at himself. “I know.”

After she left, picked up by the Walton driver—he stood under the shower for a long time, letting the water beat against his shoulders. He glanced at the red lipstick still sitting on the table like an accusation.

He picked up his phone.

To Naime: You left your lipstick here. I’ll be out of town for a week. Feel free to drop by and get it.

He stared at the screen, then at the bright red tube.

A second message followed, fingers moving before reason could catch up.

I want to f**k you. Come over.