Tapping Her (Bad Boy Billionaires #1.5) Page 4

  Once my breathing slowed and my mind could finally form coherent thoughts, I realized I was supposed to be peeved at my husband. I started to pull away from him, but his arms were locked around my body like a vise-grip.

  “No way, Benny. You’re staying right here.” He leaned forward, kissing a path across my shoulder blades.

  My body trembled. “I’m angry with you,” I whispered.

  “Liar.” I felt his lips turn up at the corners against my skin.

  “I am not lying,” I retorted.

  “Yes, you are,” he said, punctuating the statement with a few small thrusts of his hips. His cock was still inside of me, and somehow, still gloriously hard. “You know what I think?”

  “What?”

  His lips brushed the shell of my ear. “I think you’re just acting like you’re mad at me. I think you’re trying to get me to have crazed-wild-angry sex with you because you’re insatiable. You want to have my cock inside of you this entire honeymoon.”

  Bingo.

  “That doesn’t sound like something I’d do.”

  “Of course not.” He laughed. “Stay there, baby,” he instructed as he slipped out of me.

  A few minutes later, after he cleaned up his mess, my husband placed me on top of the island. His hair was still wet from his swim, but he had thrown on a pair of khakis, top button undone and revealing my favorite happy trail. His hands caressed my thighs as he leaned forward and placed a soft, sweet kiss against my lips. “Are you sure you still want to fight?”

  I shrugged.

  His teeth latched on to my bottom lip, tugging gently. “Your body might be trying to say yes, but your eyes say otherwise.”

  “What do my eyes say?”

  “‘My husband fucks like a god.’”

  Giggles spilled from my lips. “Be careful, Mr. Brooks, your ego is showing.”

  He grinned. “Did I meet the requirements of the contract?”

  I nodded. “There’s a chicken Caesar salad in the fridge.”

  “I. Love. You,” he said, each word punctuated by playful kisses before he headed for the food.

  Pulling my laptop on top of my thighs, I tapped my finger against the mouse, and the screen came to life. A new email from Wes was sitting in my inbox.

  To: Georgia.Brooks@Mavericks.com

  From: Wes.Lancaster@Mavericks.com

  Georgia,

  This email started out strong but ended…oddly. I have a feeling I don’t want to know the details, but I agree with your initial comment about disliking the exclusivity. We’ll keep this contract in negotiations until we get our guys the offer they deserve. Tell Kline I said hello.

  Wes Lancaster

  President and Chief Executive Officer

  New York Mavericks

  National Football League

  I blushed from head to toe. It was one thing for Wes, my boss, to be one of my husband’s best friends, but it was another thing for him to know I was writing emails while being sexed by my husband.

  “Thanks a lot,” I muttered as Kline sat down at the breakfast bar, placing his plate beside my thighs.

  “Thanks for what?” he asked around a mouthful of salad.

  “Your sneak-attack made me send a half-written email to Wes.” I held my laptop in front of his eyes, pointing to the message I’d inadvertently sent. “And now he probably thinks I’m just typing up emails while you’re fucking me.”

  “Serves him right,” Kline responded with annoyance. “If he doesn’t want sexually flawed responses from you, he shouldn’t be sending my wife contracts while she’s on her honeymoon.”

  My earlier concerns about my husband not taking my busy work schedule very well had just been confirmed. Sure, his reaction was mild compared to most, but Kline wasn’t a lose his temper kind of guy. That reaction, albeit, not all that impressive, was him showing his dislike for the situation.

  “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you,” he said after taking a big gulp of water. “Your mom sent a package. It was sitting on our deck when I got back from my swim.”

  “Shit,” I muttered. “I’m not sure I want to open it.”

  Kline grinned, knowing full well my mother wasn’t known for sending care packages filled with food or gifts from Target.

  I hopped off the island and moved toward the deck, where a large cardboard box sat beside the opened doors. The box was made out to Mr. and Mrs. Brooks with the resort’s address below it. The sender? Dr. Crazypants.

  “How in the hell did she manage to get a package to us in Bora Bora? I avoided giving her our hotel information for this very reason.”

  “She’s tenacious.”

  I huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, she could give you a run for your money in that department.”

  My fingers removed the tape, and hesitantly, I pried open the cardboard flaps.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I groaned.

  “Toys?” Kline asked enthusiastically, standing behind me and peering over my shoulder. He may not have needed the assistance, but my mother’s generosity never failed him in entertainment value.

  Inside? Three bottles of Anal-Eze—otherwise known as desensitizing lube—four butt plugs in various sizes, and a bunch of other freaky shit I didn’t even want to know how to use.

  “My mom is a fucking lunatic.”

  “Well, it’s safe to say she’s pro-anal,” Kline added, amused.

  New York, Thursday, April 20th, Afternoon

  “I can’t believe you lost their cat!” I shouted, stomping my foot against the pavement of the sidewalk. We’d been walking in circles, covering what felt like every square inch of Central Park and the ten blocks surrounding Georgia and Kline’s. And even though Thatch had suggested we comb the apartment building first, I just knew with the way that little fucker enjoyed licking himself on a daily basis, he hadn’t wasted any time hanging around, and was probably out looking for pussy in the streets.

  Thatch stopped in his tracks and turned to face me. God, he was tall. And big. As he moved closer, I realized just how huge he really was—at least six five and every damn inch of him was framed with big, delicious, he-should-be-naked-all-the-time kind of muscles.

  His brown eyes shone in the sunlight as one eyebrow quirked up, and a knowing smile curved the line of his lips, highlighting the dark scruff covering his strong jaw. He was about a week’s worth of growth from having an actual beard.

  “I lost their cat?” he questioned, visibly amused. “The ol’ Thatch film roll shows the cat sneaking out when I was holding back a certain someone who was about to go Fight Club on an elderly woman.”

  “She was not elderly.” I rolled my eyes. “She was like fifty, tops.”

  He laughed, loud and hearty. I kind of hated the way that laugh forced my focus to his lips. They were thick, full, and downright kissable. “Her name is Mrs. Thomas, and she is five years younger than Kline’s grandmother, Marylynn.”

  Well, shit. I guess she was a little older than I thought. Whatever. The bitch—nice, elderly broad—had asked for it. I mean, she’d stepped out of her apartment and basically said I wasn’t classy. Pfffffft. I was the classiest bitch I knew. And if I wasn’t, I was definitely the Cassiest, and that was close-e-fucking-nough.

  “How do you know who that lady was?”

  “Because I know everything, honey.” He tapped the side of his head and flashed one of his signature winks. “If it can be seen, I’m seeing it, and anything I can get a hand in, I do.” His eyes burned with innuendo and confidence. “It’s about time you started figuring that out.”

  “I swear to God, if you wink at me or another horny admirer on the street one more fucking time, I will cut your nuts off.”

  He laughed, again, and then his eyes honed in on my chest. “Ah, don’t be jealous. I’ve been a one-girl-at-a-time kind of a guy since last Thursday. And after the conversation I had with your tits, you’re the number one girl on my list.”

  Christ. This guy. He was maybe the biggest flirt I’d ever met. Besi
des me.

  I pushed my braless chest out, knowing full well my nipples were nearly poking holes through my T-shirt. “These tits? They do it for you, baby?” I purred.

  “Fuck. Yes.” He nodded and swayed toward me like a huge tree in the breeze.

  I ran my finger between my cleavage and then back up, crooking it toward him.

  He followed, like a fucking puppy, until we were chest-to-chest. His gaze met mine, and I flashed him a smile that said, “I want you.”

  Thatch took that as a hell yes, his face morphing to something way more serious than I was expecting.

  His mouth closed in on mine, and that’s when I dropped the seductive act. Both of my hands reached out, and my fingers found his nipples through his shirt. With both index fingers and thumbs working as a team, I pinched and twisted those babies with all of my might. Probably hard enough to leave bruises.

  “Ah, hell!” he shouted, jumping away from me while slapping my hands away in the process. “What the fuck was that for?”

  I shrugged and bit my bottom lip. “I thought you liked it rough.”

  “What?” His large hands covered his chest while his face turned to a grimace. “You are literally the craziest woman I’ve ever met.”

  “It’s about time you started figuring that out.” I tossed his earlier words back at him. “And maybe you’ll think twice the next time you feel like perving out over my fantastic rack.”

  “Maybe if you’d worn a bra, I wouldn’t be so tempted. Your nipples have been saluting me, and every other motherfucker in this city, since we left the apartment.”

  I glanced down and couldn’t exactly disagree. The only reason I wasn’t wearing a bra was because Walnuts decided to use my bag as a litter box and Georgia’s bras were about three sizes too small. My boobs were big, they had always been big, and though I may have been the type to show some skin, I had never set a precedent for trying to poke people’s eyes out with my nipples.

  “Okay, since you’re basically pathetic and can’t stop staring at my boobs, we need to run to my apartment so I can change.”

  “Thank fuck,” he mumbled, following my lead toward the street.

  Five minutes and one ear-piercing whistle from Thatch’s lips later, we were sitting in a cab, heading toward Chelsea.

  “Do you make a habit of prancing around with your tits out like that all the time? And if yes, why don’t we hang out more?”

  “All the time,” I lied. “And we don’t hang out because I can’t do that around you unless I feel like looking at your boner all day.”

  “Which you obviously do. So no problem there.”

  “You wish.”

  “I don’t wish, honey. Ever. I do, and I get—always. If you continue to do that around me, I will propose marriage to your tits, and you can bet your sweet pussy they’ll accept.”

  “They accept nothing less than eight inches and a four-carat pink diamond engagement ring.”

  He winked. “Good thing I’m packing more than eight, then.”

  More than eight? I tilted my head as my eyes moved to the crotch of his slacks. I wanted to call bullshit, but I wasn’t actually sure I could call bullshit.

  Fuck it. No use wondering. I reached my hand out toward his lap until it met his zipper. My fingers wrapped around his dick in a viselike grip, assessing the size and girth through his pants. “Is he a show-er or a grower?” I silently wondered, but I was quickly denied any further exploration when Thatch shrieked the cabbie’s and my ears off.

  “What the fuck?” he asked, covering his thick, semi-aroused cock with his large hand.

  And just FYI, it was most definitely thick, and he wasn’t lying. That man had a lot of inches, and judging by the half-chub state I managed to get him in, he still had more inches to go.

  “First off, that was payback for the boob grab from earlier. Secondly, you can’t say shit like that and not expect me to ask questions.”

  “Ask questions?” he said through an incredulous laugh. “Cass, you didn’t ask shit. You fucking grabbed my dick and—.” He stopped midsentence and then quickly changed his tune. With both hands held away from his lap, he nodded toward the crotch of his pants. “You know what? Go ahead, honey. Ask all the questions you want.”

  I laughed at his forwardness. This man could give me a run for my money in the over-sharer department. “You’re practically gagging over the possibility of grabbing my tits again.”

  “You have no fucking idea how much.”

  “Don’t mind me,” the cabbie interjected with a thick, New York accent. “I won’t even charge extra, dollface,” he offered with a smirk in the rearview mirror.

  I glanced toward the front of the cab, finding the laminated copy of our driver’s New York license displayed on the dashboard, and just barely saw Thatch’s eyes narrow in my peripheral vision. “Maybe next time, Paul,” I teased before hooking a thumb right in front of my giant companion’s face. “I got naked in front of this guy once, and I’ll never make that mistake again.”

  “Take it back,” Thatch demanded, his nosiness over my cab-driver relations forgotten.

  “Consider my curiosity curbed, Thatcher. You can go ahead and put your boner away.”

  “I can’t wait for the day when you eat those words.” His grin was all cocky and self-assured.

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I taunted.

  I was so totally full of shit, by the way. My curiosity wasn’t curbed; it was at an all-time high after getting my grope on. Thatcher Kelly was packing, and my puss-ay was practically begging for a ride on his baloney pony.

  “Oh, yeah?” he asked.

  “Yeah!”

  “Your words are going to continue to feel hollow until you actually take your hand off my dick, Pinocchio.”

  I looked down to see he was right. My small hand sat firm and full in the crotch of his pants.

  How the fuck did that thing get back there?

  “Do you think they have one of those microchips on Walter?” Thatch asked as we got off the elevator and moved toward my apartment door.

  “Micro-whats? What are you talking about?” I slid the key in the lock and opened the door.

  “Microchips,” he answered, following me inside and shutting the door with a quiet click. “You know, when the vet uses a needle to place a little chip under your pet’s skin. The chip has a unique number on it, and if your pet gets lost—” He stopped, assessing the confused look on my face. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

  “Not a clue.” I shook my head, walking down the hall and into my bedroom. “I did hear the words if your pet gets lost, though, so I’m kind of hoping you’re on to something.”

  “You’ve never heard of microchips before?” Thatch stayed hot on my heels, seemingly making himself right at home and plopping his fine ass onto my bed.

  “Um, no. But that’s probably because I don’t have any pets that would require one,” I muttered, rummaging through my armoire and pulling a white lace bra out of the drawer.

  “Have you ever owned a pet?”

  I turned to face him, hand on my hip. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “You just don’t really seem like the pet-owning type.” He shrugged, sliding his giant hands behind his head. His biceps flexed from the movement, making those delicious muscles pop and protrude for my appreciative eyes.

  I had always had a thing for biceps. Big, thick, muscular arms were my jam. And for the love of porn GIFs, did this man have some glorious fucking biceps. I wanted to pet them, caress them, rub my tongue, tits, and pussy all over them.

  Yeah, I don’t understand the whole dynamics of rubbing my vagina on his arms either, but I thought it, so there you have it.

  “Cass?” His voice pulled me from my bicep-humping daydream.

  “Huh?”

  He flashed a knowing smirk in my direction. “You never answered my question.”

  “Obviously, it didn’t seem that important to me. Otherwise
, I would’ve answered,” I retorted as I Houdini’d my bra on without removing my shirt. I honestly didn’t know what Thatch would do if he got another glance at my bare chest.

  “You can touch them, you know.” He flexed one meaty arm and winked. “You can touch any fucking thing you want.”

  Obviously, Mr. Ego hadn’t missed my admiring perusal of his arms.

  I sighed. “Just because I was appreciating your fuck-hot body does not mean I want to play hide the salami. I’d need a blood test before I even thought about letting you inside my tight, hot pussy.”

  “Prove it, honey.”

  “Prove what?”

  He patted the empty spot on the bed beside him. “I need to know exactly how tight and hot before I provide you with a vial of my blood and medical records.”

  “Get over yourself,” I said with a laugh. “And what did you ask me before?”

  “Have you ever had a pet?”

  Childhood memories flooded my brain. “Like, as a kid?”

  “Yeah, did you have a dog or cat or even a goldfish?”

  I nodded, picturing Dad running through the backyard. “As a matter of fact, I did have a pet growing up.”

  He waited a good thirty seconds before saying, “Okay, care to share?”

  “When I was eight, I had a mini-pig. He was the coolest motherfucking pet in my neighborhood. I loved that pig. Probably more than my baby brother, Sean.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Dad.”

  His eyebrows scrunched together. “Dad?”

  “Yeah, his name was Dad. Dad, the mini-pig. He was white with—” I started to respond, but Thatch held his hand up, laughter spilling from his lips.

  “Hold up. Your pig’s name was Dad?”

  “Uh, yeah.” My right eyebrow rose on my forehead, high and annoyed. “How many times do I have to tell you my pig’s name?”

  “Who named him?”

  “Me. I named him. He was my pig.” I stared at him, frustrated by his interrogation. “English is your first language, right?”