Banking the Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys, #2)(53)

Cassie hummed along to the music as I drove and listened, and before I  knew it, it'd been a full ten minutes and we were pulling down the dark,  muddy tracks that led to the lake deep in the woods.

"Is this what I think it is?" she asked, perking up and forcing my arm to fall from her shoulders.

"I don't know. What do you think it is?"

"It's either the place of teenage dreams, premature ejaculation, and first-time fondles, or the site of my death."

I laughed. "Door number one, honey."

"Holy shit. This place must be legendary for you. Do you store all the  bras in your trunk? There's a shrine, isn't there?" she asked, rapid  fire.

"I'll have you know I've only been here with five women." She raised an  eyebrow, and I pretended to think it over. "Okay, six." She rolled her  eyes. I threw my hands in the air. "Fifteen, max."

"Quit now while you're not even remotely ahead."

"Good idea," I agreed as I pulled to a stop and dumped us into immediate silence with one turn of the key.

"Come on," I called when she didn't move or say anything. I pulled  myself up and out of the car and watched as she did the same, gesturing  for her to follow me to the trunk with the crook of a finger.

Mentally, she didn't come willingly, but her body wouldn't let her say no.

God, I loved the idea that I affected her that strongly.

"Is this where I have to volunteer my bra as tribute? Because I've got bad news."

"I know. You're not wearing one." We both smiled. "And that's not even remotely bad news."

"Does this mean I have to donate something creepy to your collection? Like teeth?"

I barked a startled burst of laughter. "There's no collection," I told her. "Pinkie swear."

"Oh, man," she muttered as she linked her smallest finger with mine.  Mine was double the size of hers. "Now I know you're serious. Breaking  out rule number nine."

Rule number nine: No pinkie swears unless you mean it. Of course, I'm paraphrasing here.

She huffed adorably at the sight of my wink. I ignored the mock frost  and popped open the trunk to find all the good stuff still there.

"A blanket?" she asked as I pulled it out and reached deeper into the  dark opening. "And a CD player? Wow. Welcome back to the 90s."

The corners of my eyes crinkled as I slammed the heavy metal trunk shut. "Come on."

"Oh, I'm coming. Tell me you've got some 90s CDs in the car to play on that sucker."

"Sorry to disappoint, but it's the radio or silence."

"Or you could serenade me?" she offered.

"I get it. How you'd think I'd have the voice of an angel, what with my  obvious good looks and all-around above-average talent, but trust me, my  voice isn't performance worthy."         

     



 

"Are you actually admitting to being bad at something? Do you feel okay?" she teased.

"It took fifteen years and several video recordings for Kline, Frankie,  and Wes to convince me that I was anything less than superior. I mean,  it's so unlike me."

"You're also not top-notch at being modest. Just saying."

"Pshh," I said as I spread the blanket on the ground close to the edge of the water. "Who needs modesty?"

"Um, most people. Public figures. Polite society."

"Girls in cotillion?" I added with a skeptical eye. "Those rules are  archaic. The only people who need to be modest are those who feel  genetically inclined."

"So, not me or you, I guess."

"Exactly."

"And what am I supposed to be?" she asked as I sat down on the blanket  and leaned back onto my elbows. It was a completely different  perspective to see her from below rather than towering above. I took  advantage by surveying the line of her jaw and the curve of her creamy  cheek to see which angle I liked better.

"That's easy." She put her hands on her hips and waited for my revolutionary answer. "You. All you're supposed to be is you."

"Am I supposed to be sexy?" she asked with a smirk as she leaned down to  turn the radio on. The simple beats of Chris Stapleton's "Tennessee  Whiskey" were just starting to build on the very first station, and she  left it to play softly into the night.

Subtle but sure, she started a sway of her hips, back and forth like a form of hypnosis.

"Oh, yeah," I agreed as I watched them move. "Sexy is definitely you."

Her eyes lit, a reflection of moonlight making them shine bright across  the distance to mine. Like a tree in the breeze, she moved with ease,  just barely mimicking the beat of the music but leaving no doubt that  she'd fully embraced it.

She started to move in my direction, up from the outstretched location  of my feet to the side of my hip and back again. Her eyes followed mine  the whole time, and my heartbeat seemed to build in intensity.

Her back became my focus as she turned away with a flick of her hair and  a wave of her arm, before bending at the hip like a hinge. Excited eyes  sought mine from the gap between her legs, but the sight of her ass in  the air made compliance a struggle.

"You okay, Thatcher?" she asked, her voice a tease.

My answer came out in a hearty rasp. "Yeah, baby. I'm real fucking good."

Back up to standing, she moved quickly, spinning her way to my head and  dropping to her knees directly behind it. I dropped flat to my back,  pushing my elbows down into the blanket roughly.

She leaned over my face, her tits swinging the front of her dress with every sweet movement. I was fucking spellbound.

Her dance was more sensual than overtly sexual, but my dick obviously didn't know the difference.

Sweet Jesus.

I reached behind my head with the cock of an arm until the palm of my  hand met the warm skin of her thigh. It was soft and luscious, and I  could feel the muscle move underneath it as she continued her torture.

And then my hand wasn't on her anymore as that leg kicked up behind her  into a full extension. Her whole body turned on a pivot with a flourish  until she fell to my chest-executing a split directly on top of me as  though I was an apparatus.

"Holy fuck," I muttered to myself, and she smiled.

"Strip aerobics, baby. You wanna be my pole?" she asked with a wink of her own.

Goddamn.

"Count me in seven nights a week."





As we sat at the bar, drinking beers, eating peanuts, and enjoying the  ambiance that was a small-town bar, I could still feel the pulse of  Thatch between my thighs.

There'd been no stopping him after showing him some of my best naked  dance moves under the stars. One orgasm, two, he'd worked me over like  we weren't outside on the edge of some random lake, but instead, like we  were putting on a porny performance for millions. Just the thought of  it made me smile.

But the sex had done the opposite of its usual, waking me up to a level  that I knew I'd need something else to soothe the pounding pulse of my  energy enough that I could fall asleep. So I had convinced him to take  me to the infamous Sticky Pickle for a nightcap.

The satisfied look in his eyes told me I could have swayed him into pretty much anything.

He kept up a steady stream of affection in my direction-kissing my  forehead, sliding a lock of hair behind my ear, flashing flirty winks  and charming smiles. And every time he grabbed my left hand and kissed  my ring, I'd threatened to slap him in the dick again.

Honestly, I couldn't remember the last time I'd had so much fun.         

     



 

"Shit," Thatch muttered as his eyes glanced toward the front of the bar.

"What?" I asked and swiveled on my stool to watch three guys stroll in  through the door. They were loud and boisterous, and my initial thought  was that they looked like small-town douchebags looking for trouble.

I turned back toward Thatch. "You know those guys?"

He nodded. "Yeah, I grew up with them."

"They look like assholes."

He smirked. "Hit the nail on the head, honey."

One of the guys made his way to the bar and stood as close to Thatch as  was humanly possible without sitting in his lap. "I'll take three Buds,  Charlie," he told the bartender before turning his attention to us. "Oh,  hey, Thatch," he greeted, and it was anything but friendly. "You  brought a friend. How fucking precious."

Thatch ignored him, stood, and turned to me. "Wanna shoot some pool?"

His blatant avoidance had me tilting my head in confusion.

"Uh, sure, okay," I agreed and took his outstretched hand. I let him  lead me over to the back corner where three pool tables stood in a row  before I started asking questions.

"What was that about?"

He handed me a pool stick and grabbed the rack. "That was me avoiding trouble."

"Was this the same kind of trouble that I had to bail you out of?"

"Exactly that kind of trouble," he muttered.

His body language was all off-stiff neck, clenched jaw, and his normally  playful brown eyes were practically black with irritation. I hated  seeing him like that, strung so tight that I feared he might snap in  half. Thatch needed a distraction, and he needed it quick.