Banking the Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires Book 2)(10)

My cock pulsed.

Oh, Jesus.

As I watched every single page of her flipbook of motion with utter fascination, all I could do was answer her honestly. Put my boner away around her?

“Not f*cking likely.”




After dropping my big-tire, 1964, sweet-as-f*ck Chevy Nova SS off at my parents’ house, we were back on the road. I’d wanted her to come inside, but all it took was one self-scrutinizing glance at her T-shirt and the connotation of an early morning visit to make her refuse. “No way am I meeting your parents in a shirt that talks about petting my kitty before you have the pleasure,” she’d said. I’d started to ask if that meant there was a chance of it happening soon, but thought better of it.

I’d rather have her fall into my trap without realizing it.

And in the end, she’d made the right choice. After a night of way more excitement than they were used to, my parents were still in bed. A couple of quick kisses and apologetic good-byes from their bedside, and they were still none the wiser about my drama-filled night.

“Thank fuuuuuck,” Cassie moaned again as we crossed the Hudson River by way of the Tappan Zee Bridge.

Any other time, any other place, and her moan probably would have had my titty-attuned tail wagging wildly. But not right now.

I had a serious cramp in my left thigh and my knees were about to become a permanent fixture in my chest, and still, as I glanced at my watch, I knew I had no other option but to trick my beautiful chauffeur into making another detour in this tiny f*cking clown car.

After a night in the slammer, I could and would skip out on almost anything but this. There was a little girl with big eyes and a bigger heart waiting for me, and I’d have to be dead or dying to break a commitment with her.

“Um, Cass?”

“What?” she snapped. Her eyes looked like an exact embodiment of the root of all of the world’s evil.

I sunk my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from laughing and looked out the passenger side window to conceal my smile. “I know you’re not exactly happy with me right now—”

“Understatement,” she emphasized.

“But I think I’ve got a cramp in my cock. Maybe you’re not all that fond of mine, but you like them in general, right?”

Her eyes narrowed as she considered my lead-in. She wanted to ignore me completely, but Cassie couldn’t deny her affinity for the D.

“What’s your boner want now, Thatcher?” she asked suspiciously.

Laughter no longer concealed, I told her a version of the truth, but I wrapped it in a multitude of flirting in an attempt to distract her.

“Oh, honey, I can assure you, it wants many, many things, a great number of them from you. But I’m actually not coming on to you right now, not trying to insult your intelligence, and not asking your tits to keep my boner company.”

“I don’t get it. What else is there from you?” she teased, and I laughed. Because for the first time ever, from maybe the least expected person ever, she didn’t sound serious when she said it. She sounded like she didn’t actually think my intelligence stopped at the head of my dick. That my titty talk and boner references were just a coating for everything underneath. It seemed like she could see it—without prodding or encouragement—and that wasn’t the norm. Most people never know more than a surface layer of each other’s personalities. They take the bolder characteristics of a first impression at face value because they’re lazy, and they carry those expectations and prejudices throughout the entire relationship. Maybe something about Cassie’s appetite for new experiences made her dig deeper than the rest.

“Please,” I begged, seeing the exit I needed approaching in the distance. “Just get off this exit and take me to the CVS a couple of blocks down.”

“I don’t know where I’m going—” she hedged, and I interrupted quickly so she didn’t have time to overthink it.

“I do. I come up here all the time. I’ll tell you where to go. Everybody wins. I’ll get to stretch my legs, and I’ll buy you a bag of Cheetos for your trouble.”

“And a Diet Mountain Dew.”

Bingo. I’d found a momentary weakness in her defenses.

“Yes,” I agreed. “And a Mountain Dew.”

“Diet!” she corrected.

“Yes. Diet. I promise. As long as the weight loss doesn’t come from your tits.”

She smiled and shook her head. “Sorry, bud. But the boobs are always the first to go.”

Regular, I thought. Definitely getting the regular.

“Turn right,” I instructed as we crested the hill of the exit ramp and approached the bottom.

As we got closer and closer, I kept expecting the car to slow, but it never did. Cruising at what had to be fifty, Cassie flew right out into traffic without even slowing amidst my screams.

“Jesus Christmas! Are you f*cking nuts? Why the hell didn’t you stop back there?” I yelled, looking back over my shoulder and grabbing the “Oh shit” handle without shame now.

“Oh. You wanted me to stop?” she asked, all mock-innocence. “You didn’t say stop. You just said, ‘Turn right.’”

Holy hell, she is insane!

“The stop was implied by the giant red sign!”

Her face took on a Gru-like air—as in, evil genius. “Maybe next time you’ll be a little more specific and a lot more cordial.”