Banking the Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys, #2)(13)

Thatch: Yes, and speaking of my Supercock (perfect nickname), he wants to FaceTime your tits. Put them on the phone, please.



Me: Meh. You should have texted me sooner. I already rubbed one out.



Thatch: In my shower???



Me: No way. I prefer to masturbate in a bed, Thatcher.



Thatch: So what you're saying is you've just been lying around in my bed  all day (during breaks from snooping through my place), rubbing your  pussy all over my sheets?



Me: Is that a problem?



Thatch: Hell no, but my apartment has rules.



Me: Rules?



Thatch: If I'm not there to witness, then you have to record it for my viewing pleasure.



Me: Put your boner away, Thatcher.



Thatch: Pretty sure you started this, Crazy. I'm not the one hanging out  at your apartment, swinging my dick around and jizzing all over your  sheets.



Me: Okay. I'll give you that.



Thatch: I'll be done with this meeting at 1:30. Prep those gorgeous tits for FaceTime with my Supercock.



Me: Sorry to disappoint, but I've got lunch with Georgie.



Thatch: You owe me.



Me: I owe you nothing.



Thatch: Once the details of last night become clear in that pretty  little head of yours, you'll realize you actually do. Enjoy your lunch,  honey.



What was that supposed to mean?

We fucked, we came, we fell asleep. Pretty sure none of those things  constituted an IOU on my part. I didn't bother trying to read between  the lines, figuring it was just Thatch being Thatch more than anything  else, and finished getting ready. Even though I had to borrow a pair of  his underwear and alter one of his shirts, I was thankful to find a  knee-length black, knit skirt inside my purse. And it was clean.  Jackpot.




I walked into Georgia's office forty-five minutes later to find her  sitting behind her desk, staring at her computer and shaking her head.  "The answer is no," she said. I ruled out any possibility of a  business-related FaceTime because she was grinning like a loon. The  coast seemed clear to slide in for a closer investigation.

Moving around her desk, I found Kline on the screen, smiling back at his wife.

I met Kline's eyes over her shoulder. "Hey, Big Dick, how's it hanging? Am I interrupting a lunchtime jerk-off sesh?"

He chuckled in response and looked up and to the side. From the vast  knowledge afforded to me by TV crime drama, I took that as a yes.

"Christ," Georgia muttered, the color of her perfect cheeks deepening to a rosy flush. "Can you stop calling my husband that?"

"When you stop being embarrassed about it, I'll stop doing it."

"And this isn't a ‘jerk-off sesh,'" she corrected, air quotes  accompanying her words. "This is Kline's daily video chat where he  offers me a job and I politely decline."

"Come on, Benny. You'll have way more fun at my office," he chimed in, waggling his eyebrows. His blue eyes shone with innuendo.         

     



 

This frequent conversation between the two of them wasn't a surprise.  Kline had been trying to get her to come back to Brooks Media ever since  she had resigned and had taken a job working for Wes at the New York  Mavericks. But Georgia was her own woman, and even though he teased her  about working for him again, he was ultimately proud of his wife and  everything she had accomplished.

Kline was so good for Georgia it wasn't even funny. His presence in her  life didn't hold her back from anything. No, he made her flourish into  an awesome woman, who also happened to be getting some  fan-fucking-tastic loving on the regular.

"Gotta go, baby. It's lunchtime, and I'm starving," she said, and  despite Kline's best efforts to keep her on the phone with pouts and  good-natured humor, she managed to end the call.

"Where to?" she asked as she got out of her chair and grabbed her purse.

Orange-yellow gooey goodness flashed before my eyes. "Shake Shack? I've been jonesin' for their cheese fries."

"Sounds good to me."

We headed out of her office, and after a three-block walk, we were  sitting at an outside table, feasting on chocolate shakes and cheese  fries, and enjoying the sweet summer air laced with the delicious aroma  of burger grease. And human excrement. You never really escaped the  lingering hint of every form of human foulness in New York.



I know it sounds awful, but upward of a million people put up with it daily. It's all about priorities.



"All right, spill it. What happened between you and Thatch last night?"  she asked after taking a hearty sip from her straw. Her eyebrow hooked  up with intrigue, and I couldn't help but notice she'd plucked a really  nice shape for her brow bed this time around.

"How'd you know about last night?"

"Oh, come on," she said through a laugh. "Kline, Thatch, and Wes are  worse than gossiping teenage girls. My husband was way too excited to  share his conversation with Thatch this morning. Normally, his video  chats start with, ‘Come on, Benny. Come back to work for me,'" she  imitated his deep voice. "But today, he went straight for the juicy  gossip."

"What did Thatch tell him?"

"Nope. I want to hear your side first."

"Fine," I said around half-chewed meat and cheese sauce, wiping the  grease off my fingers with a napkin. I was obviously a delicate lady.  "It was typical Thatch and Cass. We talked about his boner. You know,  same old shit, different day."

She rolled her powdery blue eyes. "You spent the whole day and night  together, Cass. Tell me you talked about something else besides his  boner."

"And my tits, too. He's a big fan."

"Your boobs are the size of my head. Of course, he's a big fan."

"They're not that big."

She snorted. "You have double Ds. And both Ds stand for damn."

I laughed at the inflection of her voice and the size-specific gesture she added to the front of her own chest. "True."

"So, did you make any progress on the topics of conversation?"

"Sorta. We fucked last night. That seems to have helped. It at least channeled part of his focus to my pussy."

"Jesus! You what? Talk about burying the goddamn lede."

"Why are you so shocked? I figured that was the first thing Thatch would've told Kline."

She shook her head.

"Yeah." I shrugged. "I sleep-fucked him."

"God, I hate when you call it that. Do you know how bad it sounds?"

"Okay, I didn't exactly sleep-fuck him, but he woke me up after I fell  asleep on his couch, and then next thing I knew, I was horny and trying  to bang him. You know how I get when I'm tired but can't fall asleep. I  need a release or else I'll just be staring at the ceiling all night,  watching the time pass at a snail's pace."

"Tell me you were awake while fucking him."

"Oh, yeah. I was fully aware of what was happening."

"Was he?"

I flashed an annoyed look. "Of course, he was. If a man falls asleep  while a chick is grinding her pussy on him and shoving her tits in his  face, then he is either narcoleptic, gay, or should seek medical  attention."



What? If men can have double standards, so can we.



"True." Georgia grinned. "So … "

"So?"

"How was it?"

I tilted my head to the side. "How was what?"

"The sex!" she exclaimed, slamming her hands down on the table. Our cups  shook from the vibrations, and a few people turned in our direction.         

     



 

"Slow your roll, Susie. You're about ten seconds away from reenacting  When Harry Met Sally, and I'm not so sure that couple feeding their dog  ice cream is going to appreciate it."

She giggled, grabbing a fry from the basket. "Great movie."

Oh yeah, only murderers and puppy-mill directors didn't recognize that showing of cinematic genius. "Fan-fucking-tastic movie."

"All right," she said, leaning across the table. "Tell. Me. Everything."

"Wheorgie encouraging an overshare? Color me impressed."

She gestured with an impatient hand for me to continue.

"Well, it was good sex. Great sex, actually. His dick and mouth are  talented, that's for damn sure. I would have come twice had my pussy not  demanded to be penetrated."

"Da-yum, that's a good session of sleep-fucking, then."

I laughed, and I couldn't stop myself from replaying the night's events  in my head. I really had enjoyed last night. Thatch had a body made for  fucking. That was pretty much all there was to it.

"So I'm assuming Thatch enjoyed himself too?"

I rolled my eyes. "His cock was inside me, and my tits were in his hands …  Of course, he enjoyed it."

"Are you sure about that?" she pushed, even though I'd spoken perfect fucking English.

I tilted my head, scrutinizing her secretive expression. "What do you know that I don't know?"

"Nothing," she said, but her shifty eyes said otherwise.

"Spill it."

"I don't know anything," she tried to convince me, but the grin she was  fighting made it quite obvious she was full of shit. God, she was about  the worst liar in the history of liars.