Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1) Read online

  I crossed the office quickly, my shoes slapping out a muted rhythm on the marble tile and a whistled tune flying from my lips.

  Georgia Cummings.

  My employee and the cure for my Stacey Henderson-themed nightmares.

  She’d been working for my company for a couple of years now, but as I approached, I realized I’d never actually looked at her in all that time.

  A glance here, a smile there, a professional exchange every week or so. But I’d never studied her body the way I was now.

  I knew I hadn’t.

  Because I sure as fuck would have remembered.

  Petite in stature but curvy in shape, her body was a perfect pint-sized hourglass perched precariously on top of razor-thin five-inch stilettos.

  Her goddamn calves looked like they had been carved out of granite, and the rounded cheeks of her ass grabbed on to my eyes and refused to let go.

  She moved slightly as I got closer from behind, and she bent at the waist to do something in the filing cabinet in front of her.

  The gloriously short filing cabinet.

  I watched as she went about her business, wondering how I’d managed to so effectively blind myself to her. I worked really hard at treating every single employee with fairness and without prejudices. I could remember the looks Dean had given me when he’d thought I wasn’t looking, and the friendly crinkles at the corners of Pam’s eyes. The devil was in the details, my dad had always told me, and I did my best to notice them. Except for hers.

  As I tried to picture her smile from memory—and couldn’t—I knew all of my compartmentalizing engines must have been running at full fucking steam to protect me from getting into something I shouldn’t.

  But those engines weren’t running now, the override switch turned and fully engaged thanks to Meddling-Mom-Maureen, and as the fabric of Georgia’s creamy white dress pulled tight over her ass, alarms started blaring.

  “My neck.”

  A sway of her tight-white-fabric-covered hips accompanied her off-key singing.

  Something told me she didn’t know I was standing behind her.

  “My back.”

  More torture in the opposite direction.

  “Lick my pussy—”

  Ears bleeding. Pants tightening.

  “—and my crack.”

  Holy. Fuck.

  I had to stop her before it got even worse. Better.

  Quickly, I shook my head to clear it and then reached forward to tap her smooth shoulder.

  Hair flung out in an arc, she turned on her heel at warp speed, her eyes widening in horror as she pulled on a white cord to release an earbud from her ear.

  “Shit.”

  I smiled. Her eyes widened impossibly further.

  “Mr. Brooks. I’m so sorry.” She clamped her eyes shut in shame. “I didn’t know anyone else was still here.”

  Her face was mostly hidden in shadow as she tilted it to the ground, but I was still almost positive I saw her mouth the word ‘shit’ again.

  “It’s all right,” I offered, and her head snapped up in question. I grinned slightly. “The singing and the shits. In fact, if you really need to, you can say it again.”

  Her face froze in shock.

  “I can tell you want to,” I prodded. “Maybe even three or four more times.”

  “Three. Four.” She shrugged helplessly. “Forty, maybe.”

  “Forty shits?” I questioned, raising a brow in amusement.

  “Depends on how much you actually heard, I guess.”

  I craned my neck to one side and back again.

  “I’m not sure. I’m feeling particularly attuned to your neck and back, and, well, the rest I’m not sure I can say in an office environment.”

  “Oh my God,” she cried and sank her face into her hands, embarrassment renewed.

  “Definitely forty shits. Maybe even fifty.”

  I coughed on a chuckle before tucking it away, knowing it was the perfect time to get on with what I needed.

  “It’s okay. I know how you can redeem yourself.”

  Her gaze jerked up from the floor and her eyes widened with hope. “Yeah?”

  “Tomorrow night. Go to the benefit for the Children’s Hospital with me.”

  Horror contorted her face into a scrunched-up version of itself. Not exactly what I was going for.

  “What? Go to the…with you… No.” She shook her head frantically, desperately even, her bright red hair swinging to and fro before settling helplessly on the white fabric at her shoulders.

  “No.”

  I had to admit, the double, emphatic nos threw me a little. It wasn’t that I thought no one could turn me down. They could, and hell, they probably should. But they hadn’t in a long time.

  Not in a very long time.

  “You’re busy?” I offered as an excuse, hoping her visible discomfort was more about being caught off guard than anything else.

  One slim wrinkle formed between her eyebrows, and the corners of her eyes seemed to pinch together slightly. “No. Not busy.”

  Ouch.

  For the first time in quite a while, I struggled to find my words. “I…uh…well. Okay.”

  She forced a fake smile in response.

  And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to give up.

  Walking around her desk and into her space enough that she backed up a couple of steps, I leaned my ass into the surface behind me and crossed my arms.

  She rubbed goosebumps from her arms in a nervous fidget.

  “So, how definite is this ‘no’? Is it an ‘I’m mildly considering it, but I’m thinking no’ or a ‘not a snowflake’s chance in hell no’ or maybe somewhere in the middle where negotiation lives?”

  She shook her head as if mystified and tapped the toe of her stiletto twice.

  My gaze shot down the length of her legs and back again, only to find her bright cerulean eyes narrowed slightly at the end of my circuit.

  “I’m not disgusted with you, if that’s what you’re asking, but negotiation isn’t likely.”

  Jim Carrey inhabited my body and took over my vocal chords before I could stop him. “So you’re telling me there’s a chance?”

  “What the hell is going on here?” she snapped softly at the ceiling, almost as if to herself. Her eyes jumped to me. “Why are you asking me out? Why now? None of this is making any sense.”

  The only thing I could do was give it to her straight. Whether it was a good thing or not, I never could stop the honesty. It was just my nature.

  “Look. For some godforsaken reason, society has decided to care about my completely uninteresting life because I have money, and because tabloid fodder is way more important than donations or time volunteered, they want me to have a date at every function I attend. Normally, this wouldn’t be an issue, as in they can go fuck themselves, but in another slap of fate, my mother has decided she cares. Wants a daughter-in-law and grandbabies and all that crap.”

  Her previously peachy-tan skin blanched white.

  “But she has terrible taste, and though I know next to nothing about you, you’re already guaranteed to be better than any of my other options.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Trust me, I intended that as an insult to the others, not you.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m not trying to marry you, though I’m sure I’ll enjoy our time together endlessly—”

  “I’m sure.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at her mockery.

  “I’m trying to avoid ending up with another chattier, day-spa-loving version of Walter.”

  “Walter?” she asked with good reason.

  “My cat.”

  Incredulity warred with confusion on her face, pulling her lips out flat to the sides and back again several times.

  I knew I was talking her in circles. I just hoped her confusion would lead to grudging acceptance.

  Just when I feared she’d chew her lip raw if she kept on at that pace for much longer,
she broke the silence with one simple question. “Why me?”

  Once again, honesty prevailed.

  “Because you’re here.”

  She pursed her lips around the sour of my words, but as I tore my gaze away to look into her bright blue eyes, I knew I wasn’t done.

  Not with her, not with this conversation, and not with being stupid for the day.

  “And you’re fucking beautiful.”

  “Beautiful?!” I shrieked, slamming the door to my apartment behind me. The walls shook from the undeserved abuse. “For fuck’s sake, all it takes is one guy—who’s never even been on your let’s get naked together radar—to call you beautiful and you’re acting like some desperate hussy! Really? Really? That’s all it takes?” I dropped my purse to the floor and kicked off my heels. “Where is your pride, you stupid hussy! Where is your fucking pride?”

  Cassie barreled out of her room like a herd of buffalo with a curling iron in hand and the cord trailing behind her, startling me enough that I slammed my ass into the counter of our island.

  “Where’s the stupid hussy?” she yelled, eyes manic and searching.

  I rolled my own eyes dramatically, too pissed at myself to laugh at her antics. “You’re looking at her!” I pointed at myself like a lunatic. “She’s here! She’s right fucking here!”

  “Oh,” she sighed, losing her aggressive stance, dropping the unlikely weapon to her side, and standing straight at once. “You don’t count. I thought there was actually a stupid hussy out here you needed to be saved from. I was ready to throw down and beat some ass.”

  “Oh, I am a stupid hussy. A pathetic slut who’s a disgrace to our gender. Trust me.”

  “Nooooo, you’re not. You’re a Wheorgiebag, but even that isn’t a real whore. Whores have excessively loose vaginas. I’m talking big enough to store all of their whoring money, and yours has never even been open for business. Probably couldn’t even fit a nickel.”

  She had a point. My vagina was sealed tighter than Fort Knox. A proverbial “do not pass go” zone for all cockbandits begging entry. It wasn’t because I was a prude or saving myself for marriage. I had just never found the right guy I deemed worthy of thrusting into my goodie bag.

  Maybe I was too picky. Maybe my sex therapist mother had driven me to insanity. Or maybe my expectations of waiting to do the deed with a man I had an actual connection with were unrealistic in this day and age. I mean, the plethora of dick and sac pics floating around social media could’ve been evidence of this.

  Don’t even get me started on the reaction I received from men when they found out I was a single, twenty-six-year-old woman with an unclaimed V-card. I might as well have told them I was a unicorn who could shoot sparkles out of my ass.

  And it wasn’t like I was averse to all sex. I was a big-time advocate for oral. Well, as long as there was a giving and receiving clause in the agreement. Call me crude, but if I’m going to suck it, you’re going to eat it. Period. End of story.

  Despite the shocked reactions and stigma revolving around being a woman who had made it through college with her virginity still intact, I stuck to my guns, refusing to just give it up to whoever was hard and willing. It wasn’t a statement of abstinence or strong religious views. It was just me, being myself, and doing what I thought was right for me.

  That’s the most important thing when it comes to a woman’s sexual prerogative. She should decide what she really wants without being influenced by social norms or penis peer pressure.

  “You’re doing it again,” Cassie interrupted my thoughts.

  I tilted my head, confused. “What am I doing?”

  “You’re doing that ‘this is why I’m still a virgin’ inner monologue thing. Do I need to turn on the fireplace for a bra-burning ritual? Or should we throw out the razors and let our pit hair run rampant?”

  “You’re a pain in my ass.” I laughed. I couldn’t help myself.

  “I love you too, my beautiful, virginal best friend.”

  I ignored Cassie’s shit-eating grin and strode for the fridge. Lord knew there was a giant glass of wine with my name on it.

  “Let’s hear it,” she demanded, plopping down at the kitchen table. “Why are you a stupid hussy?”

  Grabbing a bottle of moscato from the fridge, I filled a coffee mug to the brim. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s too embarrassing.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure you don’t. That explains why you were just talking to yourself about it.” She eyed me with a pointed look. “Spit it out, Georgia Rose.”

  I shook my head, taking a giant swig of sugary wine.

  Cassie stared.

  I shook my head again.

  Her eyes did that scary death glare thing where I started to be concerned for my well-being.

  “Okay,” I relented, holding both hands in the air like I was being held at gunpoint. “Okay. But you have to cool it on the creepy eyes first. You’re wigging me out.”

  She smiled. “Works like a charm. Every. Single. Time.”

  I groaned.

  “So,” she encouraged, gesturing with her hand. “What has your panties in such a twist?”

  “Kline asked me out.”

  “Kline? Who’s Kline?”

  “Kline Brooks…Mr. Brooks…” I offered, jogging her memory.

  “Holy fucking goat scrotums! Kline Big-dicked Billionaire Brooks? Your crazy-hot, super-rich boss?” she continued before I could utter a response. “Say whaaaaaaat? How in the hell did this happen?”

  “First of all, what do you mean by ‘how in the hell did this happen?’ I might be a virgin, but I’m not a two-bagger. I can look pretty when I actually take the time to brush my hair.”

  “Oh, cool your jets. You’re gorgeous and you know it. Kline Brooks would be one lucky son of a bitch to score a date with you.”

  “And how do you know he has a big dick? You’ve seen him once. And it was a five-second ‘Oh, that’s my boss, Kline’ conversation while we were walking across the parking lot. You haven’t even met him in person.”

  “Five seconds is all I need.” She tapped the side of her head. “You know my cockdar is off the chain. I can sense a giant swinging penis pendulum from at least ten miles away. It’s a God-given talent, Georgie.”

  I choked on my wine. “Let’s not bring God into this.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “God knows the G-spot needs a more than adequate-sized wiener to get the job done.”

  “I’m pretty sure that comment just got you wait-listed for heaven.”

  “Probably.” She shrugged. “Tell me you said yes to Big-dicked Brooks.”

  “Stop calling him that!” I shouted, unable to hold back laughter.

  “Oh, c’mon, Virgin Mary, you know your boss has that ‘Hello, ladies, I’m packing’ swagger.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Tell me you said yes to him. For the love of God, tell me you’re going on a date with him.”

  “He’s not my type.”

  “Georgie,” she groaned. “He’s handsome. He’s successful. He’s not propositioning you for a five-dollar blow job. What’s not to like? I don’t get it.”

  “Five-dollar blow job? What are you even talking about?”

  “Obviously, bad propositions.” She held out both hands, irritated. “Even the worst blow job—with teeth and chapped lips and poor suction—is worth more than five bucks.”

  I sighed. “Look, he has like eleventy bajillion dollars in his bank account. His suits cost more than our apartment. We are not on the same level. Not even close.”

  “First off, that’s not a number. Secondly, who the fuck cares? Why are you judging him by his money?”

  “I’m not judging.”

  She nodded, eyes wide. “Oh, yes you are. You’re totally judging.”

  “But…he’s…”

  “Stop it.” A stern finger was pointed in my direction. “Stop being judgy.”

  Was I really judging Kline by his money?

  And more importantly, did he really have a big
d-i-c-k?

  “You’re going on a date with him, aren’t you?”

  I feigned confusion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You little hussy! You’re freaking out because you said yes, didn’t you?!”

  Her evil, victorious laugh pushed me over the edge. “Fine!” I shouted. “He called me ‘fucking beautiful’ and I folded like a deck of cards. I might as well have lifted my skirt and spread my legs for him. I was pathetic. Like some swooning, teenage girl. I said yes because he tossed a goddamn compliment in my direction!”

  “God, I’m sure it’s going to be absolutely terrible for you. Having to go on a date with a rich, successful, gorgeous man who also happens to give you compliments.” She feigned shock. “Oh, the humanity!”

  I stared at Cassie for a good three seconds before her words sank in. And then, I couldn’t stop myself from laughing after muttering, “You’re such a bitch.”

  Maybe I was being a tad bit ridiculous over this whole scenario. It was just one compliment. And I only agreed to one date. How bad could it be?

  Darth Vader’s dark side ringtone filled the room, vibrating my phone across the counter.

  Incoming Call Dr. Crazypants

  “Ugh,” I sighed. “It’s my mom. Lord help me, I’m not in the mood for her randomness.” I sent her call to voicemail, too tired to keep up with her rambling.

  My mom, otherwise known as Dr. Savannah Cummings, was a force to be reckoned with. She spent her days counseling couples and her nights doing God only knows what with my father. Sex therapy was her game and bringing sexy back into the bedroom was her claim to fame.

  And yes, I was well aware of the “sex therapist named Cummings” irony. My mother was too. Several years ago, she had made a point to use that satire to her advantage—on a billboard, hovering over a main interstate that led straight into New York City.

  Her slogan: “Dr. Cummings wants you to come…visit her brand new office.”

  Needless to say, eighth grade was a pretty hard year for me.

  Conversations with Savannah mostly consisted of small talk about my dating and sex life and her usual spiel about the importance of masturbation. “Make sure you’re masturbating at least once a day, Georgia Rose. It’s imperative for your sexual health.”