Tapping Her (Bad Boy Billionaires #1.5)(11)
“What do my eyes say?”
“‘My husband f*cks like a god.’”
Giggles spilled from my lips. “Be careful, Mr. Brooks, your ego is showing.”
He grinned. “Did I meet the requirements of the contract?”
I nodded. “There’s a chicken Caesar salad in the fridge.”
“I. Love. You,” he said, each word punctuated by playful kisses before he headed for the food.
Pulling my laptop on top of my thighs, I tapped my finger against the mouse, and the screen came to life. A new email from Wes was sitting in my inbox.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Georgia,
This email started out strong but ended…oddly. I have a feeling I don’t want to know the details, but I agree with your initial comment about disliking the exclusivity. We’ll keep this contract in negotiations until we get our guys the offer they deserve. Tell Kline I said hello.
Wes Lancaster
President and Chief Executive Officer
New York Mavericks
National Football League
I blushed from head to toe. It was one thing for Wes, my boss, to be one of my husband’s best friends, but it was another thing for him to know I was writing emails while being sexed by my husband.
“Thanks a lot,” I muttered as Kline sat down at the breakfast bar, placing his plate beside my thighs.
“Thanks for what?” he asked around a mouthful of salad.
“Your sneak-attack made me send a half-written email to Wes.” I held my laptop in front of his eyes, pointing to the message I’d inadvertently sent. “And now he probably thinks I’m just typing up emails while you’re f*cking me.”
“Serves him right,” Kline responded with annoyance. “If he doesn’t want sexually flawed responses from you, he shouldn’t be sending my wife contracts while she’s on her honeymoon.”
My earlier concerns about my husband not taking my busy work schedule very well had just been confirmed. Sure, his reaction was mild compared to most, but Kline wasn’t a lose his temper kind of guy. That reaction, albeit, not all that impressive, was him showing his dislike for the situation.
“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you,” he said after taking a big gulp of water. “Your mom sent a package. It was sitting on our deck when I got back from my swim.”
“Shit,” I muttered. “I’m not sure I want to open it.”
Kline grinned, knowing full well my mother wasn’t known for sending care packages filled with food or gifts from Target.
I hopped off the island and moved toward the deck, where a large cardboard box sat beside the opened doors. The box was made out to Mr. and Mrs. Brooks with the resort’s address below it. The sender? Dr. Crazypants.
“How in the hell did she manage to get a package to us in Bora Bora? I avoided giving her our hotel information for this very reason.”
“She’s tenacious.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, she could give you a run for your money in that department.”
My fingers removed the tape, and hesitantly, I pried open the cardboard flaps.
“For f*ck’s sake,” I groaned.
“Toys?” Kline asked enthusiastically, standing behind me and peering over my shoulder. He may not have needed the assistance, but my mother’s generosity never failed him in entertainment value.
Inside? Three bottles of Anal-Eze—otherwise known as desensitizing lube—four butt plugs in various sizes, and a bunch of other freaky shit I didn’t even want to know how to use.
“My mom is a f*cking lunatic.”
“Well, it’s safe to say she’s pro-anal,” Kline added, amused.
New York, Thursday, April 20th, Afternoon
“I can’t believe you lost their cat!” I shouted, stomping my foot against the pavement of the sidewalk. We’d been walking in circles, covering what felt like every square inch of Central Park and the ten blocks surrounding Georgia and Kline’s. And even though Thatch had suggested we comb the apartment building first, I just knew with the way that little f*cker enjoyed licking himself on a daily basis, he hadn’t wasted any time hanging around, and was probably out looking for * in the streets.
Thatch stopped in his tracks and turned to face me. God, he was tall. And big. As he moved closer, I realized just how huge he really was—at least six five and every damn inch of him was framed with big, delicious, he-should-be-naked-all-the-time kind of muscles.
His brown eyes shone in the sunlight as one eyebrow quirked up, and a knowing smile curved the line of his lips, highlighting the dark scruff covering his strong jaw. He was about a week’s worth of growth from having an actual beard.
“I lost their cat?” he questioned, visibly amused. “The ol’ Thatch film roll shows the cat sneaking out when I was holding back a certain someone who was about to go Fight Club on an elderly woman.”
“She was not elderly.” I rolled my eyes. “She was like fifty, tops.”
He laughed, loud and hearty. I kind of hated the way that laugh forced my focus to his lips. They were thick, full, and downright kissable. “Her name is Mrs. Thomas, and she is five years younger than Kline’s grandmother, Marylynn.”