The Billionaire Boss Next Door(50)

“Use your legs, woman,” I coach, wondering if I need to spend more time at the gym. In all regards, Greer is a petite woman, with just the right amount of curves. I shouldn’t be struggling under her weight, but it’s like she’s lined her pockets with lead or something.

She laughs, of course, because apparently when she’s drunk, I am incredibly funny. “Legs. That’s a funny word, don’t you think? Like, who came up with that? Why aren’t they called trunks? Or yims? Or blosts?”

“I’m not sure. But if I run into anyone who was around during the previous millennia, I’ll let you know,” I mutter and try to avert my eyes when the hem of her skirt moves up her perfect thighs a few inches too far.

What feels like miles upon miles of her silky-smooth skin is right there. In front of me.

Good God. My dick hardens immediately.

Before I can even think about doing something stupid, I snag the edge of the wrinkled comforter at the edge of the bed and toss it over her body before that skirt decides to migrate any farther.

Abruptly, she sits back up, squishes my cheeks together and guffaws, speaking in a voice laced with baby talk. “Oh my, my, someone’s cheeks are awful cheeky, aren’t they?”

When she reaches out with a pesky hand and runs her fingers across the cotton knot at my hips, I shove a gentle hand to her shoulder and settle her back into the bed.

I’m completely unsure what her plans were, but I know they wouldn’t have been good.

For her—she’s drunk. For me—I wish I were drunk at this point. For my fucking sanity. Or for my carefully constructed willpower, for that matter.

“Just relax,” I instruct. “Go to sleep and forget this ever happened.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she challenges, and I can’t help but laugh.

“Trust me, Greer,” I say, and like my hand has a mind of its own, it reaches out and slides a lock of hair out of her eyes and behind her ear. “You’d like it too. Probably even more than me.”

For a long moment, she looks up at me with those big blue eyes of hers, and my chest tightens.

God, even drunk, even slurring crazy shit I don’t understand, even when she’s talking back to me at work, she’s beautiful.

“That’s what they want you to think,” she says quietly, and her eyelids start to droop with sleep. Each blink lasts longer and longer, and I’m damn near mesmerized by the way her long lashes fan down over her cheeks.

“Yep. That’s exactly what they want you to think,” she repeats, and I blink from my trance.

“They?” Who the fuck is she talking about?

“The Wimwoms,” she says seriously. “They want you to think that I’m a frog and you’re a prince or something like that, and that our kiss could cure the world. But it can’t. I know because I’ve pictured it, and all that happens is explosions.”

“Explosions?”

“Bombs.”

“Bombs?”

“Big ones.”

Sweet Jesus, what did she drink tonight?

“Greer, did you go to a club tonight? Did someone drug you?”

“A club!” she shrieks with her eyes now closed and devolves into a fit of hysterical laughter. “No way! Just dinner with a witch, a cornball, an iPhone, and a whole bunch of delicious pickles.”

I pinch my eyebrows together in concern, and she reaches up to smooth them with just one finger.

“Green eyes,” she says. “Goddamn those goddamn green eyes.”

And then she’s out. Dead to the world and snoring just enough to confirm she’s breathing.

I shake my head and take a deep breath before looking down to my now fully hard cock.

Fuck, this is becoming a problem.

I turn her so she’s safe on her side, shove away from the bed, grab the trash can from her bathroom, and set it beside her bed before leaving.

I don’t look back, given my dick’s obvious inability to behave, and head straight for my apartment to pass out in my own bed.

It’s after midnight, and if I don’t end the day now, there’s no telling what else will happen.

I step out into the hallway quietly, being sure to lock her door behind me, and walk the five steps to my own. I grab the knob and turn…nothing.

Oh fuck.

I jiggle again; no give.

Nooooo. Are you kidding me?

I look frantically around the hall for a key that doesn’t exist. For all the unpacking and settling I did earlier this evening, not one moment of it included hiding a spare key in case I locked myself out.

And I’m still in a towel. Only a towel.

What am I going to do?

Thoughts scatter and dart through my head like rats as I try to grab ahold of one long enough to come up with a plan. By the time I do it, I’ve settled against the door of my apartment, leaned my head back, and covered my eyes with my hand to block out the light.

My dick, however, the traitor, is still hard.

Luckily, the name that comes to mind does a good job of changing that.

Quincy. Quincy is dating Emory, and Emory’s parents own the building. Surely, he can get a key to let me in with as little humiliation as possible.

Right?




Wrong.

Quincy’s laugh is downright obnoxious as he comes through the front door of our apartment building and meets me in the lobby.