Shopping for a Billionaire 3 (2 page)

He hands me coffee travel mugs.

“Huh?”

“Look closely.” The tumblers are made of clear plastic with black tops, like coffee travel mugs. But when I look closely I see it—plastic pretend wine glasses built into the coffee mugs.

My laughter fills the night. “These are perfect!”

“Sippy cups for grownups. Grace highly recommends them.”

“Then give Grace my thanks.”

He unscrews the tops off the wine “glasses” and pours us each a healthy amount of white wine. Each movement is deliberate, careful, firmly in control. He puts the tops back on and hands me mine. We’re sitting together, hips touching, knees up and braced. I’m comfortable like this.
March was an unusually wet month and April wasn’t much better for the first week. The ground is springy but not wet, the verdant greenery of the new plants poking out with sweet hope.
A
fly
buzzes by my ear and I ignore it.

The view is gorgeous, as farmland and fields roll with glacier-made hills and valleys before us. A ring of thick woods surrounds the view, and it’s a welcome relief from the chatter of the city just a few miles away. Route 9 is an endless str
i
ng of mini-malls, regular malls, grocery stores, and chains, all buttressed by the city or Route 495 and its business belt. We’re sandwiched between the suburbs, the city, and massive
i
nterstates, but in this quiet, reflective spot we could be anyone, anywhere,
at
any time.

I gulp the first half of my wine. A fruity flavor with just enough sweet
ness
to make it easy to drink but dry enough to be enjoyable, I compliment him on the choice.

“Grace, again, I must admit,” he confesses.
No embarrassment. Just the gentlemanly acknowledgement.
 

“Then to Grace,” I say, raising my tumbler for a toast.

“To Toilet Girl,” he says with a playful smile.

“To Hot Guy.” We drink. We kiss. We sigh. He reaches for my now nearly empty tumbler and picks up a giant strawberry covered in dark chocolate.

“To first dates,” he says as he hands it to me. My mouth fills with the second-best-tasting thing this evening, the first being him.

“This is our second date,” I say around a mouth full of divine fruit and chocolate.

“It is?” He seems genuinely surprised. “I thought Monday was a business meeting.”

He’s playing me. I swallow quickly and grab my wine to finish it off and clear my mouth.

“If Monday was a ‘business meeting,’ I can only imagine how you define a ‘merger,’ Mr. McCormick.”

“
Is that a request for a demonstration, Ms. Jacoby?” His mouth is on mine before I can answer, tasting like fruit and happiness. His tongue parts my lips and this time he’s more insistent, the earnest sweetness swept aside by a familiarity that grows between us. His hands envelop my waist and pull me to him as he reclines back on the blanket.
 

We’re lying down now, his legs
stretched out along my own
, one knee pushing between my thighs as his heat seeks mine.
He smells so good and tastes even better as his tongue runs along the edges of my teeth, hands in my hair, then down my back, caressing me like he owns me.
 

Or wants to.

My own hands can’t get enough, and I shift, feeling his hardness against my belly. Knowing that he’s hard for
me
sends an electric zing through my entire body, making me wet and needy. I’ve never felt such all-consuming want for someone else, a lust that threatens to wipe clean my common sense, to eradicate my inhibitions, to make me move and react from a place of primal desire.

His hand slides under the waistband of my jeans, hot skin against the small of my back, and I moan, that small sound of pleasure driving him to explore. His other hand slips over my breast, cupping it, and I take his touch as permission to see what I can discover on him.

This is a lovely ga
m
e of
I Spy
. Except we’re using our hands.

He fills his palms with my ass, his own throat letting a low growling sound that makes me wetter. The wind makes the field undulate as the sun peeks out from behind clouds, making a final, desperate attempt to shine before its day ends.
A
ll I can do is feel. My sex begins to throb, breasts swollen and plaintively wanting more of his body, his fingers, his touch.

His wanting me is the most erotic turn-on ever. Knowing he’s hot for me, feeling his response to
my
presence,
my
mouth,
my
touch.

Me.

“Shannon,” he whispers. Just my name. I understand, because his name zooms through my mind a million times a minute right now, trying to embed itself in deep grooves, to make it the only word I can think even when my mind is completely gone and I am nothing but sensation.

Declan.

This feels so good. So achingly good to have our hands and skin and lips and tongues all working together to get acquainted. He kisses my neck and one hand runs a long, luscious line up from my ass over my ribs to cup a breast from underneath, his thum
b
tweaking one nipple until it’s rock hard.

I gasp. I want so much more. The movement pulls my shirt out completely from my
waistband and I wiggle, primed for him. In addition to throwing EpiPens in my purse, I’ve added
a handful of condoms because you really never know. Splendor in the grass…
 

“You are so lush,” he whispers as he pulls away, my mouth raw and burning from so much kissing. I like it.

“You’re amazing,” I say as he pulls me on top of him, his erection pressing into my abs, my leg falling between his, thigh pinned between two powerhouses of muscled legs. I’m crushing him and he doesn’t care, his caresses insistent and making it very clear that this could go as far as we want it to, all the way, and the Shannon that normally would demur is most definitely not the one in charge right now.

As he flips
me over effortlessly, Declan’s mouth crashes into mine with a roughness that I like more than I would imagine. He’s covering me, the push of tight legs and his hardness on my inner thigh, his hand under my bra now, teasing and stroking until I’m throbbing. Nudging my legs apart, he continues to sweep my mouth with his tongue, leaving me breathless and intoxicated.

And not from the wine.

A
fly
buzzes near my ear and rushes off. Then a second. My shirt lifts up under his controlled hands and he works the clasp of my bra, freeing my breasts.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispers as my shirt pulls up and he slides both hands over my swollen bosom, my breath catching in my throat, body completely vibrating for him.

Gently, he pulls me to the ground again until we’re on our sides, hands exploring, mouths catching and releasing, my mind a blurred tornado of arousal. His hip nudges against mine and my hands go to his jeans, dipping down the front just enough to—

His groan gives me permission.

Apparently, my touch grants him a certain leeway as well, because his hands work the button of my jeans. Normally, I would pause. Date number two (or one? I’m not sure, and math isn’t exactly on my mind right now) is a bit rushed for this, but I don’t care. It feels right. It feels
so damn right
.

Freeing the front of our jeans simultaneously, we both go slow
ly
,
the curve of his lips on mine changing in its slope, our warm, wet exploration delicious and inviting, unwinding slowly as if we both recognize that time and space are ours.
 

His torso is like warm marble peppered with a sprinkling of hair, his hitched breath as I slide down that final half-inch deeply gratifying.

Cupid’s arrow hits its mark just as he reaches my core and I gasp.

No—really. Cupid’s arrow just stung my back.

“OW!” I shout, jolting up, my hand that just brushed against his thick rod now scrabbling across my rib. My bra is loose around my chest and a deep, intense burning is centered right on a specific spot on my back.

“What? What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

I climb off Declan and sit on the ground, filled with pain and insta-worry that I’ve ruined the moment.

“No, no, not you.” A freakish dread fills me as a
fly
buzzes in my ear again.
And then one bites me on my back again.
 

That’s not a
fly
.

“Oh my GOD!” I scream. “Get it away from me!”

Declan looks at me with alarm, his face drowsy with desire and the intimacy we’d just been in the thick of. His hands shoot to his waistband, where he quickly does his button and zips up.

“I didn’t mean to push too hard or to ask you to do anything you didn’t want to,” he says in a rough voice.
The look he gives me is confused and multilayered, open and closed at the same time.
 

I can’t process is because my entire body is throbbing.
Blood and adrenaline and venom pulse through me, a blind cloud of panic descending.
 

T
hen I kind of get it.

“Not THAT!” I shriek. “THAT can come near me any time!”
I point in the general direction of his unzipped jeans.
“I mean the
bee
!” Three lazy, floating
bee
bodies hover over us like unmanned drones centering in on a target.

“
What?” he chokes out.
 

“Call 911!” I scramble for my purse, which is under the backpack. Throwing items randomly in the air, I realize time is precious. At best, I have a handful of minutes.

He frowns, then his entire face changes with dawning recognition. “You’re
allergic
?”
Something more than standard surprise fills his voice, but I can’t parse it out right now, as my body begins to swell.
His phone is out with breakneck speed and he’s dialing
before I can answer.
 

My vision starts to blur.
Unadulterated terror
sets in. The list of steps
to contain the sting
escapes me, all drowned out by the
mental
chant of OMIGOD OMIGOD OMIGOD that won’t stop looping.

I lose track of time. Declan is speaking to someone and describing our location. Then he’s off the phone and I find my purse.
He fishes through his back pocket, pants loose around his upper thighs, and he takes a moment to pull them up, snap, zip.
 

Then h
is hands are on me and he’s holding his wallet. Two condoms poke out.

“Seriously? Now is NOT the time,” I say. My voice is raspy
and distant, like someone’s scratching a cardboard tube shoved up against my ear
.

“Not
that
—here.” He hands me a foil packet of Benadryl, already torn open. I take the capsules and dry swallow them.
I grab the tumbler of wine and, without any other option, I take a big swallow to make sure the pills go down.
 

“Epi
P
en?” he ask
s
sharply. I recoil, even as my vision starts to pinprick.

“How do you know? And where did you get the Benadryl?”

“
My brother
Andrew is highly allergic, too.
Wasps, in his case.
” He’s tossing my tampons and
old cough drops and receipts and
makeup out of my purse with military precision
and laser focus
until he finds the
E
pi
P
en and hands it to me.

I pop the top off, but before I inject, another bee floats over. Looking down, I see the issue: we’re near a nest of ground
bees
. The blanket is literally on top of them.
Leave it to me to make out with Hot Guy on top of a Nest of Death.
 

Declan follows my gaze and realizes it, too. He reaches around me just as I tighten my grip on the pen and slam it as hard as I can into my hip, but he nudges me and
my aim falters as I bring my forearm down as hard as I can so the needle goes deep in me to administer the epinephrine I need and—
 

I inject him in the groin.

“God DAMN!” he shouts, springing to his feet and inhaling so deeply I fear he’ll pass out. One of us has to stay conscious, and at this rate it won’t be me. A sound like rushing water fills my ears.

The Benadryl isn’t helping, and that dose of epinephrine is the only thing keeping me from anaphylactic shock as I feel my breathing speed up, but my throat starts to narrow, as if D
a
rth Vader ha
s
me in his grip
and won’t let go
.
Declan is limping and huffing, taking deep breaths and
making grunting sounds as he comes toward me like Wolverine on the attack.
 

I fumble for my purse and keep trying to say “I’m sorry,” but all that comes out is a strangled whooping noise. Declan grabs the purse from me and I
can see
the veins in his neck bu
lg
ing, can watch his pulse throb in front of me as he pulls the cap off the second
E
pi
P
en, rolls me onto my stomach, pins me in place,
and
pulls my jeans down to expose my ass—

“
What are you doing?
” I rasp.

—and then slams the needle so hard into my butt cheek that the wind is knocked out of me.

The world goes dark, then light again as he scoops me up and begins running down the path toward the cars.
He’s favoring the hip near where I injected him, but still moves with remarkable speed and agility.
My head feels so heavy, and my arms and legs flop, even though I know I should be surging from the
E
pi
P
en’s contents. Maybe it’s the wine.
Maybe it’s overwhelm. Maybe it’s impending death.
 

“I’ll get you there,” Declan says. “C’mon, Shannon. Stay awake.”
That’s an order, the hard grit in his voice like being barked at during basic military training, but his voice strains with fear and a gentleness that tells me I have to listen to him.