Banking the Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires Book 2)(93)

Sweet Jesus.

I reached behind my head with the cock of an arm until the palm of my hand met the warm skin of her thigh. It was soft and luscious, and I could feel the muscle move underneath it as she continued her torture.

And then my hand wasn’t on her anymore as that leg kicked up behind her into a full extension. Her whole body turned on a pivot with a flourish until she fell to my chest—executing a split directly on top of me as though I was an apparatus.

“Holy f*ck,” I muttered to myself, and she smiled.

“Strip aerobics, baby. You wanna be my pole?” she asked with a wink of her own.

Goddamn.

“Count me in seven nights a week.”





As we sat at the bar, drinking beers, eating peanuts, and enjoying the ambiance that was a small-town bar, I could still feel the pulse of Thatch between my thighs.

There’d been no stopping him after showing him some of my best naked dance moves under the stars. One orgasm, two, he’d worked me over like we weren’t outside on the edge of some random lake, but instead, like we were putting on a porny performance for millions. Just the thought of it made me smile.

But the sex had done the opposite of its usual, waking me up to a level that I knew I’d need something else to soothe the pounding pulse of my energy enough that I could fall asleep. So I had convinced him to take me to the infamous Sticky Pickle for a nightcap.

The satisfied look in his eyes told me I could have swayed him into pretty much anything.

He kept up a steady stream of affection in my direction—kissing my forehead, sliding a lock of hair behind my ear, flashing flirty winks and charming smiles. And every time he grabbed my left hand and kissed my ring, I’d threatened to slap him in the dick again.

Honestly, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much fun.

“Shit,” Thatch muttered as his eyes glanced toward the front of the bar.

“What?” I asked and swiveled on my stool to watch three guys stroll in through the door. They were loud and boisterous, and my initial thought was that they looked like small-town douchebags looking for trouble.

I turned back toward Thatch. “You know those guys?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I grew up with them.”

“They look like *s.”

He smirked. “Hit the nail on the head, honey.”

One of the guys made his way to the bar and stood as close to Thatch as was humanly possible without sitting in his lap. “I’ll take three Buds, Charlie,” he told the bartender before turning his attention to us. “Oh, hey, Thatch,” he greeted, and it was anything but friendly. “You brought a friend. How f*cking precious.”

Thatch ignored him, stood, and turned to me. “Wanna shoot some pool?”

His blatant avoidance had me tilting my head in confusion.

“Uh, sure, okay,” I agreed and took his outstretched hand. I let him lead me over to the back corner where three pool tables stood in a row before I started asking questions.

“What was that about?”

He handed me a pool stick and grabbed the rack. “That was me avoiding trouble.”

“Was this the same kind of trouble that I had to bail you out of?”

“Exactly that kind of trouble,” he muttered.

His body language was all off—stiff neck, clenched jaw, and his normally playful brown eyes were practically black with irritation. I hated seeing him like that, strung so tight that I feared he might snap in half. Thatch needed a distraction, and he needed it quick.

I set my pool stick down and slid my body under and between the long arms that were currently racking the balls. My back was pressed against the green felt, and our faces were mere inches from one another.

His brows rose in curiosity. “What are you doing?”

I wrapped my arms around his neck and grinned. “Just flirting with my fiancé.”

“Is that right?” His mouth turned soft, quirking up at the corners.

“That’s right, baby,” I whispered against his lips before taking his mouth in a slow kiss. My tongue teased his in a slow circuit.

He grabbed my hips and responded with a dirty, sexy, wet f*ck of my mouth as he pressed himself against me. My body was practically clinging to his by the time he found the willpower to pull away.

“Thank you.” He pressed one final kiss to the corner of my lips. He knew my game, but he didn’t make a big thing of it, so I didn’t either.

I grinned while he stood and straightened the bulge in his jeans with amused eyes pointed in my direction.

“Can I break?” I asked as my fingers slid the chalk over the tip of my pool stick.

“Be my guest.” He gestured toward the table.

Things had managed to stay pretty smooth after that. We played two rounds of pool without any trouble from the three dickheads milling about the bar. Thatch had won both times and was adamant each win equaled three blow jobs.

“Your math is all wrong,” I retorted with a hand on my hip. “One round. One blow job.”

“I’m a numbers guy, honey. My math is never wrong.”

I laughed and flipped him off.

“Just rack the balls while I go play some songs,” I ordered and walked over toward the jukebox, sliding a few dollars out of my back pocket.

As I scrolled through the depressing list of song choices, I wondered if I’d find anything worth playing.