Billionaires Dollar Series

He growls. “Damn it. Tell me you’re close, don’t hold back, I can’t-”

“I’m close. I wish my fingers were your tongue. I wish you were inside me.”

“Oh baby, me too.”

I close my eyes at the endearment and flick my fingers back and forth. Pleasure starts deep inside, spreading to my stomach, my legs, my entire body. It’s too much. I moan, my body arching, my orgasm exploding through my senses like a tidal wave.

Through the phone, Cole groans loudly, cursing.

And then both of us are just breathing.

“Wow,” I murmur. “Are you still there?”

“Barely. Fuck. I should’ve taken off my shirt.”

My laughter is breathless. “That was so hot.”

“Beyond. I wish I was there, though. Fucking you in a bathtub is now high on my list of priorities.”

I glance down at my narrow little tub. Unlikely, although I’m sure he’d find a way to sex me senseless anyway. “So do I. My fingers are good, but they’re not you.”

He groans. “Don’t. If you keep talking, I’ll get hard again, and my dick is already sore from how hard I was stroking.”

“Famine. Disease. Thirty-seven times eight.”

Cole laughs, the sound rich and full in my small bathroom. “Thank you. Crisis averted.”

“Have you conquered the world yet?”

“Only half,” he says. “Some people resist my rule. Curious, that.”

I snort. “Put me in touch with their leader?”NôvelDrama.Org owns © this.

“Rude.”

I sink deeper into the warm water, my body feeling languid and loose. “Two girls came into the bookstore today. They wanted to take a picture of the bookheart.”

There’s a pause, long enough that I wonder if I’ve ruined everything by mentioning the store. It’s the reason we’ll only ever be casual, after all.

But then he laughs. “You’re feeling pretty good about that, I’m sure.”

“Yes. I think the word is ‘vindicated.'”

“That’s a good one,” he says. “You have an eye for that sort of thing, Skye.”

I have no idea what to say to that. “Is the weather nice in LA?”

“It’s always nice. But I’ve been in back-to-back meetings, so no chance of enjoying it, I’m afraid.”

“Poor little developer.”

“The poorest,” he agrees, a smile in his voice. “So tonight I was your booty call, as you so flatteringly put it?”

I want to protest, but when I open my mouth to, they all fall flat. He’s right. “Yes,” I admit. “I’m happy you picked up.”

“I’m happy I was the one you called.”

There is no one else, I want to say. But that would reveal more than I’d want to. “Honored is the right word,” I say.

“All right.” His voice is teasing. “Honored.”

There’s a knock on his end, audible even on the phone. “Damn it, I need to go.”

“Take care,” I say, and regret it immediately. What was I doing? Signing off an email?

“Later, Skye.”

The phone call ends and I sink further into the bath, and then further still, until my head is under the water. It seems like an accurate description of how I’m feeling-in way over my head.

The next morning, there’s a delivery to the bookstore. Skye Holland, the packet says. Fragile.

Karli is on the phone when it arrives, and I quickly carry it out to my car and away from her eyes. My suspicion is confirmed when I tear up the cardboard, too eager to wait.

It’s a box filled to the brim with bath salts, bath bombs, bubbling bath oil. It smells like Bath & Body Works on steroids. And below it, a small bullet vibrator. Water-friendly, it says on the box in pink letters.

I want to sink through the ground. I want to open the box and test it.

And attached, a small handwritten note.

Booty call me all you like.

A low whistling in the bookstore makes me smile. Timmy is bent over his oceanography book, intent on finishing his homework, whistling on and off. When it comes to anything animal-related, he’s more than motivated.

I hardly have to help, either-and as much as I like doing so, that’s getting tougher and tougher. Parts of his math homework have already begun to look alien to me. At least I can be helpful in his English class.

“Are whales and dolphins friends?” he asks, not bothering to look up.

I smile down at the cash I’m counting at the register. “I don’t know. They don’t live together, and I don’t think they spend a lot of time together, but they don’t dislike each other. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” he says, scribbling something in his notebook. “Kind of like you and Mom.”

I lose track of my counting completely. It’s an offhand comment, like he’s stating something obvious. “What do you mean?”

He looks up, pushing his glasses back. “You don’t spend a lot of time together.”

“We do,” I say. “Some.”

“Not much.” His voice is cheery with a child’s triumph. “Either I’m with her, or I’m with you, but I’m not with both of you at the same time.”