Banking the Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires Book 2) (17 page)

I never give in first
.

He smiled at that and shook his head, tilting it down to look at his phone at some kind of naked picture of Georgie, no doubt. His eyes came back to me, a full Tyra Banks
smize
engaged.

What? So I like America’s
Next Top Model
. Sue me.

“Why aren’t you driving this little game?” he asked, clicking the lock button on the side of his phone and setting it on his desk. “You seem to be sitting back and letting her call the shots, and that’s not normally your style.”

“You’re right,” I agreed, doodling some flames on a nearby Post-it note. “That’s
not
my style.”

I didn’t wait and see, I
did
. I didn’t let things happen; I made them. And no woman was going to outlast me. First rule of life: the woman always goes first. Through doors, into orgasm, and in this case, crumbling to the pressure in a battle of wills.

“Fuck right,” I went on, truly fired up now. I probably should have paid more attention to the smirk on Kline’s face, but apparently, I wasn’t quite done being young and impressionable no matter how old I got.

“Oh, honey!” I called as I stepped through the door to my apartment, a new sense of purpose in my step. I’d been inside Cassie’s mouth, and pussy, and by the end of this night, I was going to repeat both.

I was fucking determined.

“Cassie?” I called when she didn’t answer, surveying the apartment with a keen eye. Nothing looked amiss. No new boxes of tampons littered the kitchen counter, and there was no Hello Kitty throw blanket on the couch.

I smiled to myself and shook my head, curious to see what else she’d come up with. She thought outside the normal box. I take that back—my favorite brand of woman wasn’t constrained inside a box. She was sitting dead center inside her endless loop of crazy.

“Yo, Cass!” I called down the hall to no answer.

Anxiety tightened my chest as I moved in that direction toward my bedroom. Maybe she had given in, moved out—gone on some shoot with exotic men in an exotic location—and my apartment would be all mine again.

God, I hope not.

I stopped dead in my tracks at my line of thinking. I hoped not?

That was ridiculous.

Still, it drove me forward again, the quiet in my bedroom and lack of activity in my closet sinking a pit into my stomach.

Before I could look around, hunt for her belongings that I’d battled so heartily to hide throughout the week, the doorbell rang.

I changed direction and headed back out of my room, down the hall, and straight to the door. When I opened it, a flower version of a centaur filled the doorway.

He wasn’t actually half man, half flowers, but the enormous bouquet blocking the entirety of his body from his waist to his face sure made him look like it.

“Delivery for Cassie Phillips?” he asked. My heart swelled and sank at once as soon as he said the words, an extreme war of wills between the two versions of me playing out in my head. She was getting deliveries to my apartment, which was insane
and
insanely comforting. But she was getting flowers,
fucking blood-red roses
, and those fucks usually came from pricks with dicks.

Six feet, five inches worth of blood started to boil.

“Yeah, thanks,” I said, nearly yanking the huge vase from his arms. He shrugged and took off as I shut the door behind him.

Two angry steps ate the distance between me and the kitchen counter. The glass of the vase clanged against the stone as I slammed it down and rifled through the blooms to find a card without shame.

“Aha!” I shouted as my forefinger and thumb closed around the soft paper of the envelope and yanked it out.

It was too fucking tiny for my big fingers to open delicately, and it ended up looking like I’d chewed it open, but I could throw that evidence away.

The first side was blank, but the second was filled with the scrawl of whatever employee had taken the order.

Dearest Cassie,

You’re so bangable.

Love, Thatcher’s Boner

“Did you send these?” I looked from the card to my dick in question, but after several seconds of irrational thought, I knew he couldn’t have done it. He’d been with me all day.

The only other explanation, however, was that she’d sent them to herself, as
me
. Or as part of me.

Jesus
.

“Is she actually crazy?” I asked myself aloud. I shook my head and laughed, talking to myself again. “Maybe. But you definitely are, asshole.”

“I
wrote the best fan fiction scene during my break,” I gushed to Georgia as I hopped on the A train after finishing up a late shoot in Hell’s Kitchen.

“Fan fiction?”

“Uh, yeah,” I scoffed and adjusted my camera bag over my shoulder. “You know I
love
to write
Fifty Shades of Grey
fanfic. Don’t you ever check my Wattpad page?”

“You still write on there?” she questioned in surprise.

“Hell yes, I do. I’m still waiting for E.L. James to read my work and fall madly in love with me.” I’d been writing
Fifty Shades of Grey
fanfic since I devoured the entire series a few years back. I had always loved to write, but it was
that
series that had actually motivated me to put my fingers to the keys for my own enjoyment. It was probably one of the best things I had ever decided to do. There was just something about writing your own little world of whatever the hell you wanted. It was downright liberating.

“Pretty sure she’s a little busy to be reading fanfic on Wattpad.”

“You’re ruining my BDSM buzz.”

“Sorry,” she said through a laugh. “I honestly had no idea you still did that. I thought that was a 2013 thing.”

“And here I thought, every time I published something new, my Wheorgie was actually reading it. Some best friend you are,” I teased even though I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t normally stick with things this long.

“So, explain how this works to me. Do you just rewrite Ana and Christian’s story or what?”

“No. I apply their story to my life and create my own little fantasy world of BDSM, hot sex, a sweet-ass apartment that isn’t located anywhere near my shitty place in Chelsea, and a perfect cock that can get it up on demand.”

When the word cock left my lips, a woman across from me, dressed in plaid loafers and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, threw the stink-eye in my direction. “Disgusting,” she muttered loud enough for my ears.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, lady. Don’t eavesdrop if you’re going to get pissed about what you’re hearing.

“Hold on, G.” I stared at Loafers until her gaze met mine again. “Would you prefer I say
penis
?” I questioned brashly. “Please, let me know how
you
would like for me to continue
my
phone conversation.”

She scoffed and stood up from her seat, moving down the aisle to the opposite end of the train.

“For the love of God, don’t get arrested on the subway,” Georgia said into my ear on a laugh. “Chelsea is not shitty. Especially not our building. There’s a fucking elevator and a doorman. And,
technically
, you’re not even living in Chelsea anymore.”

Thank fuck
. I told myself it was just the apartment making me feel that way and not the giant ogre whose bed I shared.

“God, I can’t wait to get out of there. Between the construction, the constant dust, and the overall depressing vibe I get every time I walk through the neighborhood, I’m ready to move out.”

I couldn’t see her, but I knew my little Wheorgie was shaking her head in silent defense of Chelsea. But I was my own woman, goddammit, and if I said Chelsea was shitty, it
was
.

Especially compared to Thatch’s floorplan.

“Are you going to find a new place once you’re done playing house with Thatch?”

I laughed. “Actually, I am. While Thatch is busy trying to one-up me, I’ve been busy getting our old apartment back up to snuff. I’m meeting with a contractor tomorrow to get the floors and kitchen redone.”

“Well, shit. That’s convenient,” she responded. “But I’ll reiterate…Chelsea isn’t that bad.”

“Oh,
puh-lease.
” I laughed, loud and boisterous. “You are so far out of the Chelsea loop it isn’t even funny, sweetcheeks. Your opinion means jack shit when you’re living in a goddamn suburban oasis with your mogul husband where all you have to worry about is which room to bone him in.”

A guy had replaced Mickey’s number one fan across the aisle, and he grinned at me. I held his eyes until he started to blush.

Georgia giggled. “Speaking of my husband, he just walked into the bedroom. Are you almost home? I’d sleep better if I knew you were back.”

Right
. Like Big Dick was going to let her go right to sleep.

“Wait…
which
home are you going to?”

“Yes,” I answered as I walked off the train and headed for the steps that would get me to street level. “And my swank new pad in Midtown, of course.”

“Okay, well, call me tomorrow if you’re free for lunch.”

“Sounds good.” I ended the call and slid my phone into the pocket of my jean shorts.

The walk to Thatch’s apartment was about five blocks, and since I was getting home so late, the sidewalk traffic was a breeze. Six minutes later, I was getting off the elevator and unlocking the front door of my home away from home.

“Thatcher, I’m home, and I’m hungry as a motherfucker!” I shouted as I kicked the door shut with my Converse-clad heel. My mind was already one-tracking straight for the special delivery of roses I had sent around two this afternoon, and I didn’t give two fucks if I woke him up.

I probably should have cared, but I wanted at least one interaction with him. Now
that
, wanting it so bad I didn’t really have control of my actions anymore, I cared more about.

Perfect,
I thought to myself once I saw the outrageously large bouquet sitting on the kitchen table. They looked ridiculous in his neutral apartment, their blood-red petals damn near blinding compared to the black-and-white décor. I plucked the note from the center of the vase and couldn’t stop myself from grinning as I read the brilliant words.

God, I’m a fucking genius.

Well, a
horny
genius.

I had come up with the flower delivery plan on my break, while I was three spanks deep into my fanfic scene. My brain had been so goddamn fixated on Thatch while I was writing that I could
not
stop thinking about having sex with him again. Hell, my pussy might as well have written that chapter.
If only she could hold a pen
.

But I wanted Thatch to ask for it. And if I couldn’t have that, I wanted some outside reason, like a floral offering from his dick.

“Well, look who’s home,” Thatch greeted as he walked into the kitchen, wide awake and completely fucking fuckable. He was freshly showered and dressed comfortably. It should’ve been illegal for a man to look as good as he did in a simple pair of black jersey shorts and a white cotton tee. His eyes caught sight of the note in my hand. “You’re getting in a little late.
Busy
day?” he asked with a knowing smirk.