The Last Eligible Billionaire(78)

I cross the room, and her stylist retreats as I lean down to kiss her.

I miss kissing her.

Those plump lips and that sweet tongue and her soft noises—she’s exquisitely, uniquely perfect.

“Wow,” Hyacinth says. “You should keep this one, B. I’m getting turned on just watching.”

I pull out of our kiss, and Begonia smiles at me while she wipes at my lips, where I presume I’m now wearing her lipstick. “It’s like having two Keishas in the house,” she whispers.

“I have another house in the Hamptons. We can be there alone by eight if we leave now.”

Begonia laughs. “Of course you do.”

“Hello, Mr. Billionaire. You invited me.” Hyacinth sounds so very similar to my Begonia, but there’s no mistaking the difference between them.

“No arguing,” Begonia declares as she loosens my tie for me. She glances at her sister. “Not when you’re abandoning me right before this ball.”

I lift a brow at Hyacinth.

She sighs. “I miss my babies and my husband and my bed and I kinda can’t wait to walk through my front door looking like a fucking queen. Plus, this dress is totes amazeballs, but I’d spend half the night tugging it up and down to pee, and I’ve needed to tell Jerry he’s getting snipped for a while, and what better time than now, when I can walk through my front door and start issuing orders like I’m the love child of Martha Stewart and Cleopatra? Begonia swore you wouldn’t mind if I took the dress and ran.”

I have no idea what my face is doing right now, but I manage to push aside thoughts of Jerry and his impending doom as I nod. “Correct. Enjoy the dress and run.”

And I get Begonia to myself tonight.

I hardly mind.

She’s already tossing her head back and laughing. “It’s not as bad as she makes it sound,” she assures me.

Hyacinth snorts. “B, you can’t tell a man that. It’s always as bad as we make it sound.”

“Speaking of bad,” I interrupt, “Begonia, have you been to a gala before?”

“In Richmond with Chad. Kind of. Not in New York with the Gossip Girl crowds.”

“If you’ve seen Gossip Girl, you’re prepared.”

“She hasn’t seen it,” Hyacinth offers. “She quit reading the gossip magazines because she was upset when some celebrity went into rehab and it was all the headlines were about for months, and Gossip Girl was like an extension of that.”

I remember. And the reminder of Begonia’s sensitivity for others makes knowing that my time with her is limited even harder to bear.

“Mr. Rutherford, we need to finish,” Begonia’s stylist murmurs.

I acquiesce and retreat to my own dressing room, despite the fact that a leisurely shower will have me ready well before Begonia.

And by leisurely, yes, I do mean I lock the door and double-check it so that the dog can’t get in, close my eyes while the hot water pounds my neck and shoulders, grip my cock, and jerk off to images of Begonia’s glorious body and the memories of her panting my name in the meadow.

And nearly two hours later, I’m waiting in the sitting room off the foyer, reading a biography of Catherine the Great and not comprehending a damn word, when I hear voices.

The ladies are ready.

Hyacinth for her private flight home—she’s reiterated the request through my staff, and all is prepared for her—and Begonia to accompany me.

I step out of the sitting room, casually stroll to the door for the best vantage point despite wanting to jog, and when I glance up, all I can do is stare.

I’ve seen Begonia in a gown before. She was lovely for our evening picnic in Maine.

But tonight, she’s more.

Her bright hair has been trimmed and styled and frames her face, which seems to glow even brighter.

Whatever she’s done with her lashes and her eyes—they utterly pop. Her lips are ripe cupid’s bow cherries, her cheeks soft and round and perfect. She’s selected a few pieces from the family jewels, with emeralds around her neck and dangling from her ears, all complementing her hair.

And the dress—

I’d thought her mermaid dress, as she called it, made her shine.

Tonight’s ensemble puts every other dress in existence to shame. It’s silver, sparkling in the light of the chandelier, with a strap over one shoulder but bare on the other, the fabric clinging to her from her breasts to her hips and flowing down to the floor, with a slit just high enough to let her thigh play peek-a-boo as she descends the stairs. She looks like an elegant holiday package topped with a bright bow, and I would very much like to unwrap her.

Begonia in her leggings and an oversize T-shirt, coated in clay and muddied water, is beautiful.

Begonia in jeans and a crop top pushing a bike along a dirt path on an island in Maine is perfect.

Begonia dressed to the nines for a gala takes my breath away.

And it’s not the dress.

It’s Begonia in the dress.

I do believe she’ll fit in better tonight than I will.

Somehow, she’s managed to dress to fit in with the highest of the high-class in Manhattan, but still maintain everything that makes her her.

“Aww, B, he’s speechless,” Hyacinth whispers, and yes, it’s every bit as loud as you’d expect of Hyacinth whispering.