Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1)(36)

But I knew there was more, and I gave it to her, sliding a gentle hand from her shin up to her knee as I did. Walter jumped down and trotted off in protest, but we both ignored him.

“And they were both the best kisses of mine.” I decided not to focus on the fact that beyond those kisses, she’d given me much more—including a naked lap dance. With the way her skin burned red about the kisses, I thought the trauma of the rest might make her actually combust.

She opened her mouth just to close it again and forced a visible swallow down her throat. I gave her the time she needed, the time to process my words and run them through a cross-check with her emotions.

I’d had all night, listening to her and enjoying her, to prepare for the blow. She hadn’t.

Just when I thought she might actually say something in return, her phone started to play the opening beats of “Freek-A-Leek” by Petey Pablo.

It was horrendously endearing.

I had Thatch to thank for that kind of music knowledge myself. It used to be one of his favorite songs in our much wilder post-college days.

She jumped up in a hurry, pink hitting her cheeks with embarrassment.

“Sorry. For the awkward ringtone and the interruption—”

“It’s okay,” I consoled with a smile and a wink. “It would have been way more awkward had Shonda, Monique, and Christina called you last night at the benefit.” Her eyes widened in shock.

“Me, it doesn’t bother so much. I’m actually looking for the goodies,” I teased, referencing another one of Petey Pablo and Ciara’s masterpieces I knew she’d recognize.

And it worked, surprising her so much that she almost didn’t make it to the kitchen to answer her phone before it stopped ringing.

I really wasn’t much of a mystery, but she was convinced I was.

With the way I craved her company, I planned to enroll her in the accelerated education program and keep her there until she had me mastered.





The terrace door clicked shut as I answered Will’s call. “Hey, stranger, I’m surprised you’re awake right now.” Elbows resting on the banister, the sounds of an already popping Upper East Side hustled and bustled below me. “Rough call shift?”

“The ER was hopping last night.” Will’s raspy, exhausted voice filled my ear. “From the random text I got last night, it appears you had an interesting evening. Night on the town with Cass?”

“Huh?” I tilted my head to the side. How on Earth would my brother know about my night?

“Oh, come on, Gigi.” He chuckled softly in my ear. “Have you checked your text messages?”

My face twisted into utter bewilderment. “Text messages?”

“You sent me a text message. To which I did attempt to respond, but honestly, I didn’t have a clue what in the hell you were talking about.”

I tried to recount last night’s events, but my brain still had a residual Benadryl fog.

“Check your messages.”

I tapped the screen, putting Will on speaker, while I scrolled through my text conversations.



Me: WILL CAN AN OC GIVE A BENNY!*&



Will: I’d like to buy a vowel, Pat.



Will: Gigi? Hello????



Will: Your Masturbation Camp PTSD is flaring again, isn’t it?



Will: You’re going to be so f*cking sick in the morning.



Will: Seriously, text me if you need anything. I’m pulling an all-nighter in the ER.



Masturbation Camp. My adolescent nightmare that Will won’t let me forget about.

Since my mother was a sex therapist, my introduction to sexual health was not the norm. Three days after my thirteenth birthday, I got my period. While most mothers took their daughters to the drug store to buy pads or tampons, my mother signed me up for Camp Love Yourself.



Before your mind wanders to weird and disturbing places, I should explain that we weren’t sitting around naked, diddling ourselves to Justin Timberlake music videos.



It was a two-week summer camp focused around teaching teenage girls about sex education, as well as encouraging girls to explore their sexuality in a healthy and safe way. Which explained why my older brother called it “Masturbation Camp.”

My empowered and liberated mother was a strong advocate for Camp Love Yourself and their pro rub-yourself stance. “A few rounds of masturbation a day keeps the babies away, Georgia Rose. It’s proven that you’re less likely to give in to your teenage hormones if you’re exploring your sexuality through healthy, self-love methods.”

Needless to say, my experience at “Masturbation Camp” had been about as horrifying and awkward as you’d expect.

It had taken me a good three years to get past the emotional trauma from sitting around a campfire, singing “Kumbaya” with counselor Feather (yes, that was her legal name), while she encouraged us to roast vagina-shaped marshmallows for s’mores. This was one of those life moments where, even ten or fifteen years down the road, I was still wondering if it had really happened.

“Seriously, Wilbur? How many years are you gonna hold on to the Masturbation Camp bit?”

“Forever,” he responded, laughing. “That shit will never get old.”