Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1) Page 11

  I thought it over for a second. “Do you have any pizza?”

  A wry grin creased his mouth. “You want pizza?”

  I nodded. “Pizza and Netflix. We’ll save the chill part for later.”

  Kline lifted me off the bed and onto my feet as he sat up. “How about you rummage through my closet and find something you like and I’ll order us one?”

  I pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Deal.”

  As I turned for the closet, his hand met my ass, spanking a high-pitched squeal right from my lips.

  “Hey!” I shouted, turning toward him.

  He shrugged, smirking like the devil. “Can’t expect a man to ignore a perfect ass shimmying around in front of his face.”

  “I was not shimmying.”

  “Baby, you were shimmying. But don’t worry, I was definitely watching and enjoying the show.”

  I ignored him, striding—okay, sashaying—into his walk-in closet, where I enjoyed a few moments to myself to swoon over the whole “Baby” sentiment.

  There may have been jumping and silent screaming. Who knows? Maybe I even buried my nose into his dress shirts and put myself in a momentary Kline-induced coma?

  But I will tell you this.

  The pizza was fucking delicious.

  Confused and sleepy, Georgia stumbled out of my bedroom and into the hall, the light from my sun-beaten bedroom windows backlighting her in the doorway. My shirt hung off of her tiny frame in a bloblike shadow and covered her completely, but the image of her naked body underneath was burned on my brain from having it straddling me last night.

  She’d been out of her mind, completely out of control, and most of all, irresistibly fucking adorable. She made the term hot mess look good, and the rambling thoughts of her Benadryl-influenced mind would stick with me forever.

  Honestly, I didn’t know if I’d ever met someone funnier—and I knew a whole lot of brilliantly funny people.

  “I feel like someone buried me alive last night and I spent all twelve hours trying to claw my way out.”

  I smiled apologetically.

  She stopped to lean on the wall at the mouth of the hallway, putting the tips of her fingers of one hand to the skin of her forehead.

  “I’m so sorry about last night,” I told her.

  But I wasn’t sorry. Not really anyway. The only thing I regretted was that I should have taken her to the goddamn hospital in spite of her protests. It could have turned out so much worse. My Catholic roots were a little rusty, but I’d dust off the old prayer playbook to thank the big guy for keeping an eye on this one.

  Inching her way into the room, she settled on the other end of the couch and pulled her knees carefully into her chest, stretching the cotton of my t-shirt to cover them.

  “Fucking lime juice,” she muttered into her knees, the skin of her now normal lips teasing the soft knit of the fabric before looking up at me. “Scotch with lime juice, really? Who even drinks that?”

  I leaned back into the couch, stretching an arm along the back and propping my feet up on the coffee table in front of me to keep from reaching out and running a finger along those lips.

  “Ernest Hemingway drank scotch with lime juice.”

  She chewed the recently healed skin nervously, and I could imagine what she was thinking. Trying to assess how she felt about waking up here, with me, at the same time she considered what I said. She seemed genuinely intrigued that I’d know something like that, but she warred with herself when it came to concentration on it. “Really?”

  I laughed, explaining, “Well, I never witnessed it for myself, but I read it once somewhere, yeah.”

  A smile crept into the corners of her mouth and brightened the blue of her eyes. And the maroon of my shirt already had them blazing.

  Moving her eyes from the couch to the kitchen, down the hall and back again, she asked, “What is this place?”

  I pinched one eye in winklike confusion, attempted to survey the scene from her point of view, and then answered the only way I could. “Uh, it’s my apartment.”

  “Your apartment?”

  “Yeah.” I shook my head. “Why did you say ‘your apartment’ like it’s infested with bed bugs?”

  “No!” she denied vehemently in surprise. “No, it’s nice. It’s just…”

  Silence lingered where words should have been.

  “It’s…” I prompted. “What?”

  Her cheeks puffed out slightly with the sour taste of her thoughts, and I could see her run the scenario of saying it out loud through her head more than once.

  “Georgie. It’s what?”

  “Normal.”

  A laugh slipped out. “Yeah, well. So am I.”

  And it wasn’t that normal, I thought a little bitterly. It had a doorman, for fuck’s sake. I was a single guy. What the fuck did I need a penthouse with six bedrooms for?

  I didn’t want Georgia to think I needed some big apartment. I wanted her to get it.

  “No,” she disagreed. “You’re Kline Brooks.”

  I just shook my head, trying to find the right words to describe how much nothing my fucking name meant to me—and how very little it should mean to everyone else.

  “Trust me, that name doesn’t mean nearly the same thing to me, my relatives, or any of my friends as it does to other people.”

  She untucked her knees from my shirt, stretching her long, tan legs out on the couch toward me and crossing them at the ankles. Unable to resist, I reached down and rested the palm of my hand on her bare shin.

  She watched it happen and paused for just a few seconds before looking back up and into my eyes. She forced serenity over her features, but discomfort lived just under the surface. It wasn’t that she didn’t want it; she just felt awkward because it had been unexpected.

  “What’s it mean to your family?”

  “I don’t know.” I searched my mind for the best way to put it, ignoring her minor discomfort and running a thumb along the skin of her calf casually. “A guy who eats way more pizza than he should and has sweaty feet and a grumpy cat who hates him.”

  “Meowwww,” Walter said on cue, hopping up onto the arm of the couch and startling her.

  “Oh!”

  “Speak of the devil.”

  “Hi?” she prompted.

  “Walter.”

  “Hi, Walter,” she cooed, turning her upper body and rubbing his back from head to tail.

  He purred and nudged into her. “Meowwwww.”

  “Sure,” I scoffed. “Bond with the pretty girl. How fucking predictable.”

  “Was he here last night?” she asked haltingly.

  I bit my lips to stave off the urge to go into detail. “Uh…yeah. The two of you had quite the lengthy conversation.” They had. Georgia and Walter had bonded over pepperoni pizza and reruns of Friends. She sang “Smelly Cat” to him no less than fifteen times.

  The snooty motherfucker purred for every single one of them.

  She nodded as if that made sense. “He seems like the friendly sort.”

  I scoffed audibly.

  “Maybe that’s your problem,” she suggested simply, scratching behind his ears like they were old lawyer friends there to co-prosecute my trial. “You’re being kind of an asshole to Walter. He responds to kind words and soft touches.”

  “Are you kidding me?!” I nearly yelled, pointing to myself and then back at my grumpy old cat wildly. “I’m not the asshole! He’s the asshole! I tried to bring that cat around to me for weeks. I’m just treating him how he treats me now.”

  Walter leaned into her as if scared. That fucking cat con-artist!

  “Aw, it’s okay, Walter,” Georgie swore sweetly, tucking his kitty face between her hands and rubbing their noses together. “I’ll protect you from the bad, scary man.” Her face turned conspiratorial, an eyebrow arching up menacingly to match the traitor-cat, as she looked me in the eye again. “I know how you feel. He tried to poison me last night!”

  “I didn’t pois
on her,” I told him calmly, going along with this crazy conversation for some reason. “I ordered the same drink I’ve been ordering for ten years, and then I gave her the best kiss of her life.”

  Georgie’s playful eyes jumped to mine and turned serious. Panicked even.

  “It was not the best kiss of my—”

  “Uh-uh-uh.” I tsked with a wave of my finger. “Don’t lie now, Benny. I know it was the best kiss of your life for a fact.”

  “And how do you claim to know that?”

  “Because last night you told me so yourself.”

  She gasped. Walter hissed in camaraderie.

  “Right before you kissed me again—”

  Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and everything about her posture said she was two seconds away from sprinting straight out the door.

  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 fucking 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.”

  I sighed. “You’re the world’s worst older brother, you know that?”

  The insult deflected off of him with ease.

  “So, what in the hell were you up to last night?”

  Glancing down at the text messages between Will and me, memories from last night hijacked my brain, taking it hostage.

  The dance. That kiss. My lips. Benadryl. Kline’s bed.

  My jaw hit the terrace, my eyes going wide in shock. The details were hazy, but the basics stood out enough to worry me.

  Did I really get naked in his bed last night?

  “Gigi? You still there?”

  Moments and snapshots from twelve or so hours prior flooded my head. “I’m sexy and naked and ready to fornicate.”

  “Oh, no.” I covered my mouth with my hand.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Bye, Will.”

  “Hey! Wha—”

  I ended the call. I didn’t have time for his shenanigans or the hour-long physician’s lecture that would have occurred had I told him about my allergic reaction. No doubt, Will would’ve been furious I didn’t go to the emergency room last night.

  This moment required an immediate call to Cassie. The line rang three times before she answered, her voice drugged with sleep. “It’s kind of early, Wheorgie.”

  Forgoing pleasantries, I dove right into my current situation, highlighting the main points. My ramble lasted a good three minutes, only pausing to take a quick breath between run-on sentences.

  “So, what you’re telling me is that your date with Kline started off great, until you had an allergic reaction and your face ballooned up like a blimp? And then you chugged a bottle of Benadryl, got naked in his bed, and attempted to hand him your lady flower, but you guys just ended up eating pizza instead?”

  “It sounds even worse when you repeat it back to me,” I whined.

  “Where are you right now?”

  “I’m in his apartment, standing outside on the terrace so he can’t hear me freaking the fuc
k out.”

  “And you stayed at his place last night?”

  “Yeah, I woke up in his bed this morning.”

  “Did he try to usher your ass out of his bed the second you woke up?”

  I shook my head. She didn’t respond.

  “See, the way phone conversations work, is that you actually have to say the words out loud.”

  “You’re such a pain in the ass,” I retorted. “And no, he didn’t try to push me out of bed and send me packing. He was actually pretty sweet.”

  “I’m not sure what the problem is, then.”

  “Are you serious?” I shouted. “I’m mortified, Cass! I pretty much made a fool out of myself last night! I don’t even—”

  “Hey,” she interrupted my rant.

  “What?” I snapped back.

  “Take a breath and think this over,” she coaxed, her voice cool and calm. “Sure, things didn’t go as planned, but…you’re still at his apartment. He’s not acting weird. He didn’t try to shove you out the door. Right?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m assuming you’re nodding your head, so I shall continue,” she said, amusement highlighting her voice. “You have two options here, Georgie. You can either grab your shit and make a beeline for the door and continue to stew in your mortification back at our apartment. Or you can get some tits and go in there and demand a re-do.”

  “A re-do?”

  “Demand you finish that amazing kiss. Or, you know, turn that sexy lip-lock into something else. Something more orally challenging.”

  I ran through my options. I could either let self-doubt rule my brain or walk back into his apartment and show him what a confident, self-assured woman looks like when she’s ready to take what she wants.

  “You’re right,” I agreed, steadfast in my decision. “Embarrassment can go fuck itself. It’s time for a re-do.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  “I love you, Casshead.”

  “Love you too,” she responded, a smile in her voice. “Now, stop wasting time and go in there and kiss the hell out of Big-dicked Brooks.”

  “Okay, that’s my cue to end this call,” I teased. “Have fun snapping pics of muscly men.”