Banking the Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires Book 2) (41 page)

Soft rock filled the silence, Bob Seger’s “Night Moves” deepening the already curved line of my lips.

Cassie looked from the road to me several times before sliding her way across the bench style seat and settling her entire body into the crook of my arm.

I didn’t waste time pulling her closer and keeping her there as I drove down the gravel line of my parents’ driveway and out onto the mostly deserted road.

I’d made this drive before. In this car, with a girl in exactly this position, but I’d never felt this at ease. Like no matter where the night led, it would be somewhere good.

Cassie hummed along to the music as I drove and listened, and before I knew it, it’d been a full ten minutes and we were pulling down the dark, muddy tracks that led to the lake deep in the woods.

“Is this what I think it is?” she asked, perking up and forcing my arm to fall from her shoulders.

“I don’t know. What do you think it is?”

“It’s either the place of teenage dreams, premature ejaculation, and first-time fondles, or the site of my death.”

I laughed. “Door number one, honey.”

“Holy shit. This place must be legendary for you. Do you store all the bras in your trunk? There’s a shrine, isn’t there?” she asked, rapid fire.

“I’ll have you know I’ve only been here with five women.” She raised an eyebrow, and I pretended to think it over. “Okay, six.” She rolled her eyes. I threw my hands in the air. “Fifteen, max.”

“Quit now while you’re not even remotely ahead.”

“Good idea,” I agreed as I pulled to a stop and dumped us into immediate silence with one turn of the key.

“Come on,” I called when she didn’t move or say anything. I pulled myself up and out of the car and watched as she did the same, gesturing for her to follow me to the trunk with the crook of a finger.

Mentally, she didn’t come willingly, but her body wouldn’t let her say no.

God, I loved the idea that I affected her that strongly.

“Is this where I have to volunteer my bra as tribute? Because I’ve got bad news.”

“I know. You’re not wearing one.” We both smiled. “And that’s not even remotely bad news.”

“Does this mean I have to donate something creepy to your collection? Like teeth?”

I barked a startled burst of laughter. “There’s no collection,” I told her. “Pinkie swear.”

“Oh, man,” she muttered as she linked her smallest finger with mine. Mine was double the size of hers. “Now I know you’re serious. Breaking out rule number nine.”

Rule number nine: No pinkie swears unless you mean it.
Of course, I’m paraphrasing here.

She huffed adorably at the sight of my wink. I ignored the mock frost and popped open the trunk to find all the good stuff still there.

“A blanket?” she asked as I pulled it out and reached deeper into the dark opening. “And a CD player? Wow. Welcome back to the 90s.”

The corners of my eyes crinkled as I slammed the heavy metal trunk shut. “Come on.”

“Oh, I’m coming. Tell me you’ve got some 90s CDs in the car to play on that sucker.”

“Sorry to disappoint, but it’s the radio or silence.”

“Or you could serenade me?” she offered.

“I get it. How you’d think I’d have the voice of an angel, what with my obvious good looks and all-around above-average talent, but trust me, my voice isn’t performance worthy.”

“Are you actually
admitting
to being bad at something? Do you feel okay?” she teased.

“It took fifteen years and several video recordings for Kline, Frankie, and Wes to convince me that I was anything less than superior. I mean, it’s so unlike me.”

“You’re also not top-notch at being modest. Just saying.”

“Pshh,” I said as I spread the blanket on the ground close to the edge of the water. “Who needs modesty?”

“Um, most people. Public figures. Polite society.”

“Girls in cotillion?” I added with a skeptical eye. “Those rules are archaic. The only people who need to be modest are those who feel genetically inclined.”

“So, not me or you, I guess.”

“Exactly.”

“And what
am
I supposed to be?” she asked as I sat down on the blanket and leaned back onto my elbows. It was a completely different perspective to see her from below rather than towering above. I took advantage by surveying the line of her jaw and the curve of her creamy cheek to see which angle I liked better.

“That’s easy.” She put her hands on her hips and waited for my revolutionary answer. “
You
. All you’re supposed to be is you.”

“Am I supposed to be sexy?” she asked with a smirk as she leaned down to turn the radio on. The simple beats of Chris Stapleton’s “Tennessee Whiskey” were just starting to build on the very first station, and she left it to play softly into the night.

Subtle but sure, she started a sway of her hips, back and forth like a form of hypnosis.

“Oh, yeah,” I agreed as I watched them move. “Sexy is
definitely
you.”

Her eyes lit, a reflection of moonlight making them shine bright across the distance to mine. Like a tree in the breeze, she moved with ease, just barely mimicking the beat of the music but leaving no doubt that she’d fully embraced it.

She started to move in my direction, up from the outstretched location of my feet to the side of my hip and back again. Her eyes followed mine the whole time, and my heartbeat seemed to build in intensity.

Her back became my focus as she turned away with a flick of her hair and a wave of her arm, before bending at the hip like a hinge. Excited eyes sought mine from the gap between her legs, but the sight of her ass in the air made compliance a struggle.

“You okay, Thatcher?” she asked, her voice a tease.

My answer came out in a hearty rasp. “Yeah, baby. I’m real fucking good.”

Back up to standing, she moved quickly, spinning her way to my head and dropping to her knees directly behind it. I dropped flat to my back, pushing my elbows down into the blanket roughly.

She leaned over my face, her tits swinging the front of her dress with every sweet movement. I was fucking spellbound.

Her dance was more sensual than overtly sexual, but my dick obviously didn’t know the difference.

Sweet Jesus.

I reached behind my head with the cock of an arm until the palm of my hand met the warm skin of her thigh. It was soft and luscious, and I could feel the muscle move underneath it as she continued her torture.

And then my hand wasn’t on her anymore as that leg kicked up behind her into a full extension. Her whole body turned on a pivot with a flourish until she fell to my chest—executing a split directly on top of me as though I was an apparatus.

“Holy fuck,” I muttered to myself, and she smiled.

“Strip aerobics, baby. You wanna be my pole?” she asked with a wink of her own.

Goddamn
.

“Count me in seven nights a week.”

A
s we sat at the bar, drinking beers, eating peanuts, and enjoying the ambiance that was a small-town bar, I could still feel the pulse of Thatch between my thighs.

There’d been no stopping him after showing him some of my best naked dance moves under the stars. One orgasm, two, he’d worked me over like we weren’t outside on the edge of some random lake, but instead, like we were putting on a porny performance for millions. Just the thought of it made me smile.

But the sex had done the opposite of its usual, waking me up to a level that I knew I’d need something else to soothe the pounding pulse of my energy enough that I could fall asleep. So I had convinced him to take me to the infamous Sticky Pickle for a nightcap.

The satisfied look in his eyes told me I could have swayed him into pretty much anything.

He kept up a steady stream of affection in my direction—kissing my forehead, sliding a lock of hair behind my ear, flashing flirty winks and charming smiles. And every time he grabbed my left hand and kissed my ring, I’d threatened to slap him in the dick again.

Honestly, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much fun.

“Shit,” Thatch muttered as his eyes glanced toward the front of the bar.

“What?” I asked and swiveled on my stool to watch three guys stroll in through the door. They were loud and boisterous, and my initial thought was that they looked like small-town douchebags looking for trouble.

I turned back toward Thatch. “You know those guys?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I grew up with them.”

“They look like assholes.”

He smirked. “Hit the nail on the head, honey.”

One of the guys made his way to the bar and stood as close to Thatch as was humanly possible without sitting in his lap. “I’ll take three Buds, Charlie,” he told the bartender before turning his attention to us. “Oh, hey, Thatch,” he greeted, and it was anything but friendly. “You brought a friend. How fucking precious.”

Thatch ignored him, stood, and turned to me. “Wanna shoot some pool?”

His blatant avoidance had me tilting my head in confusion.

“Uh, sure, okay,” I agreed and took his outstretched hand. I let him lead me over to the back corner where three pool tables stood in a row before I started asking questions.

“What was that about?”

He handed me a pool stick and grabbed the rack. “That was me avoiding trouble.”

“Was this the same kind of trouble that I had to bail you out of?”

“Exactly that kind of trouble,” he muttered.

His body language was all off—stiff neck, clenched jaw, and his normally playful brown eyes were practically black with irritation. I hated seeing him like that, strung so tight that I feared he might snap in half. Thatch needed a distraction, and he needed it quick.

I set my pool stick down and slid my body under and between the long arms that were currently racking the balls. My back was pressed against the green felt, and our faces were mere inches from one another.

His brows rose in curiosity. “What are you doing?”

I wrapped my arms around his neck and grinned. “Just flirting with my fiancé.”

“Is that right?” His mouth turned soft, quirking up at the corners.

“That’s right, baby,” I whispered against his lips before taking his mouth in a slow kiss. My tongue teased his in a slow circuit.

He grabbed my hips and responded with a dirty, sexy, wet fuck of my mouth as he pressed himself against me. My body was practically clinging to his by the time he found the willpower to pull away.

“Thank you.” He pressed one final kiss to the corner of my lips. He knew my game, but he didn’t make a big thing of it, so I didn’t either.

I grinned while he stood and straightened the bulge in his jeans with amused eyes pointed in my direction.

“Can I break?” I asked as my fingers slid the chalk over the tip of my pool stick.

“Be my guest.” He gestured toward the table.

Things had managed to stay pretty smooth after that. We played two rounds of pool without any trouble from the three dickheads milling about the bar. Thatch had won both times and was adamant each win equaled three blow jobs.

“Your math is all wrong,” I retorted with a hand on my hip. “One round. One blow job.”

“I’m a numbers guy, honey. My math is never wrong.”

I laughed and flipped him off.

“Just rack the balls while I go play some songs,” I ordered and walked over toward the jukebox, sliding a few dollars out of my back pocket.

As I scrolled through the depressing list of song choices, I wondered if I’d find anything worth playing.

Conway Twitty?
No.

“The Thong Song”?
Nope.

“She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy”?
Jesus, take the wheel before someone in this small town dies from shitty music.

R. Kelly, “Stuck in the Closet”?
Fuck no.

Shania Twain, “Any Man of Mine”?
Okay, now this I can handle.

As I waited for the machine to process my credits, the dickhead from earlier decided to make his appearance. He leaned one greasy elbow against the wall and crowded my personal space.

“I’m Johnny. And you must be one of Thatch’s fuck buddies.” His skeevy gaze honed in on my chest before it finally met my eyes.

I glanced around the room to find none of Johnny’s friends in sight and Thatch chatting with an older guy by the pool tables, his back to me.