Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1) (8 page)

“B
eautiful?!” 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.”

My mother, the sex therapist, was a bit of a weirdo. But she was my weirdo and I loved her dearly. I just couldn’t handle her open-ended questions and virginity interrogation at the moment.

I downed the rest of my wine and slammed it on the counter. “I’m calling it a night. I’ll see you on the flipside, Casshead.”

“Night, Wheorgiebag.”

Without wasting time, I did the usual bedtime routine—face washed, teeth brushed, and comfy sleep clothes applied—and happily plopped my tired ass into bed.

But sleep refused to come.

My brain had reached the hamster-on-a-wheel stage of insomnia. Thoughts raced and unanswered questions refused to leave. I kept replaying Kline asking me out, over and over again. And all I could think was, why me? What made him all of a sudden show interest in me?

“And you’re fucking beautiful.”

I wasn’t dealing with a shortage of self-esteem by any means. I considered myself an intelligent, attractive, confident chick. Now, I wouldn’t go as far as saying I was perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but I knew how to highlight my strengths and downplay my weaknesses. Heavy makeup, spandex, and the color yellow were always a hell no. Long hair, red lips, and a pair of well-fitting jeans that accentuated my ass were always a hell yes.

My confusion over Kline asking me out wasn’t about my attractiveness.

I’d never had a man like him on my radar.

We were total opposites.

He had a chauffeur. I took the subway. He wore Armani. I shopped at vintage, secondhand shops. He had enough money to invest in things like hedge funds and annuities. I had a fifty-dollar bond from 1996 that my grandmother had gifted me on my birthday. Fingers crossed that baby would gain another two dollars and twenty-five cents this year.

My life and his life were pretty much worlds apart.

Or was Cassie right? Was I judging Kline Brooks by the fact that he had more money than God? Or was I just freaked out over the fact that my boss, the CEO of Brooks Media, had asked me out?

My dating experiences hadn’t been the best. They generally ended on epically bad notes. So, what would happen if Kline and I dated a few times and the shitstorm that was my overall luck with men took over?

Fuck.

I had to do something to take my mind off things. It was time to take things into my own hands. Literally. There was no sleep aid better than a climax-induced coma. Just one shot from the orgasm bottle and I’d be out like a light, racing thoughts and restless nights be gone.

Grabbing my vibrator, I lay back, spread wide, and pictured Chris Hemsworth in all of his Thor glory. I’d been on a recent Avengers kick—Captain America, Thor…hell, even Black Widow when I was feeling frisky. Scarlett Johansson in that black leather suit could make a lot of women switch-hit.

A few minutes into my fingerbating session, Thor’s hammer was hard and ready. Things were feeling good. Real fucking good. Muscles were tight, fingers were moving at the perfect pace, and Amen for my vibrator, the glorious little clit tickler that he was. I was on the brink, white spots dotting my vision, and then, Thor and his hammer cock slowly morphed into someone else. Someone I had never fantasized about before.

Kline.

He was hovering over me, his hot, naked body mere inches from mine. That body—good God, that body. Lean, tight, toned muscles. So many fucking muscles. Washboard abs and that perfect V pointing right down to his…um…
yeah
…
Big-dicked Brooks.