The Billionaire's Favourite Mistake(26)

"It's been the one thing I've never truly had." Her voice was soft. "My  mother died when I was eight, and the only memories I have of her are .  . . not pleasant. She was in a very bad place for as long as I can  remember, but she still loved me and made sure I had a caring nanny.  Then, when she died, I went to live with my father, and, well." She  paused. "You can see how loving and attentive he is. But like I said, I  did have nannies. And the staff at my father's home has always been  wonderful to me. They're my family more than my father has been. My  father's parents were dead before I was born, and he had no brothers or  sisters. There's just only been him."

He didn't miss that wistful note in her voice, though. The tone that  said as much as she accepted the past, she still hoped for it to someday  change. And he hated that and wanted to fix it for her. He wanted to  give her the big family she craved. He'd never had one himself, but he'd  also never felt the loss like she had. Asher had grown up in a series  of rigid foster homes and state care and the moment he was old enough,  he'd escaped their control and set off on his own. "What about your  mother's side of the family? Did you ever visit them? How come they  never took you in?"

"My father wouldn't let them when I was younger," Greer admitted. "I  think it was a vanity thing more than anything else. When I turned  eighteen, though, before I went to college-before we met-I went to India  and visited my mother's family in Agra."

"You did?" He'd never known. "How was it?"

"It was wonderful." The wistfulness in her voice nearly broke his  heart. "India was like nowhere I'd ever been before and I loved it. The  people there looked like me, not like Barbies. Everything was so vibrant  and alive."

"But . . . you didn't stay?"

"I didn't." She sighed. "To them, I was still too American. Too  different. I didn't know the culture, or the language. And my mother's  family was extremely traditional and my mother . . . well. I mentioned  she did porn, yes?"

"You have."

"It sort of polluted things before I ever set foot there. India was  beautiful, but I still didn't fit in. I didn't fit in there or with my  father's world, and I eventually realized that if I wanted a home, I'd  have to make my own for myself." She paused, and then her voice grew  lighter. "Happens to everyone, I imagine."

He knew what she meant. Having been bounced from foster home to state  care facility as a teenager, he'd had no one he could call his own,  until Donna. Maybe that was one reason why he'd latched on to her so  hard. He'd wanted a family of his own, too. "You could always go back,  you know."

"I could," she agreed. "I could take lessons in the language and learn  the culture, but it still wouldn't be a perfect fit. I love India. It's  beautiful, and it makes me realize who I could have been. But I'm not  that girl, so I came back."         

     



 

He hated to hear her say that. "I think you're beautiful."

She chuckled. "Oh, come on, Asher. We both know you're just sucking up  to me because you want to extend the deadline for our bargain."

He wasn't. To him, she was beautiful. Not in an exotic way, but in a  comforting way. She was brown-skinned and dark-eyed because it was who  she was, just like her stubborn adherence to flat shoes despite her  diminutive height. She was who she was, and she owned it, and he loved  that. To him, that subtle confidence was a thousand times sexier than  all the overly made-up Bunnis and Tiffis in the world. "I don't need to  extend our deadline."

"No?" Her tone of voice was difficult to interpret. "Are you giving up, then?"

"Not at all." His hand went to his cock and he stroked it absently, his  mind picturing her curled up in her bed again, toying with her long  hair. "I've got you right now, don't I?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, tell me what you're wearing."

There was a little pause on the other end. "Phone sex?" She sounded scandalized.

She . . . also wasn't hanging up, was she? That meant she was intrigued. "Yeah. Maybe I need brushing up on it, too."

"If it's anything like the rest of your technique? Probably."

Oh, so tart. He loved it. He loved the mock-outrage in her voice and  the fact that she wasn't abandoning him at the thought. "So . . . tell  me what you're wearing."

"Clothing." She laughed. "You've got to do better than that."

Did he? "All right, then. I'll get more specific. What kind of panties are you wearing?"

Greer hesitated for a moment. "Nothing exciting, I'm sorry to say. Beige granny panties."

"Fuck, that's hot."

"It is?" A giggle escaped her, and that small laugh made his cock jerk  in response. Just listening to her laugh was pure masturbation material.  He loved it. Hell, he loved everything about her.

And it was time she realized how much. "You wearing beige panties is  sexy to me because it tells me that you don't give a shit what anyone  else thinks. I love that about you."

Instead of sounding pleased at the compliment, she gave an unhappy  little sigh. "Yeah, the few times I tried to change to get someone  else's attention, it's never worked out in my favor."

"You mean me, don't you?"

"Maybe."

"I think it worked out just fine. Look at all the attention you're  getting from me." His hand moved up his shaft, and he squeezed just  under the crown of his cock. He pictured her hand on his skin, her  fingers exploring him. A tremor of pleasure shot through his body and he  had to bite back a groan.

Her breath caught. "Are you touching yourself right now, Asher?"

"I am. That bother you?"

"Why?" Her voice was breathless.

"Because you're sexy as hell and I get hard every time I think about  you. Why wouldn't I touch myself when I talk to you? When I hear that  sexy little laugh you do?"

She got quiet.

"Tell me what you're thinking." Don't hang up. Don't hang up.

A long pause, then her voice returned, but quieter than before. "I'll  tell you what I'm thinking if you'll tell me exactly what you're doing."

Ah, fuck. She wanted to visualize it, did she? He'd give her everything  she wanted and then some. "What do you want to know, baby?"

Greer hesitated, then said, "Where's your hand at, Ash?"

"It's on my cock." Asher gave it a quick stroke, working the length  expertly. "I kept picturing you curled up in bed and my dick got hard,  so I decided to stroke it while I talked to you." He heard her suck in a  little breath. "Just being around you gets me hard," he told her,  continuing on. "Thinking about you does it for me. Hearing your voice?  Even more. I had to wait to answer your text because I was in the  elevator and I knew if I started thinking about you, I'd get hard."         

     



 

He could have sworn he'd heard her lips part. "Oh."

"So I came into my apartment and headed straight for the bed so I could  think about you while touching my cock. Imagining you touching it."  Fuck, he almost came just saying the words aloud. Precum dotted the head  of his cock and he pictured her leaning in and tasting it, tasting him.

She was awful quiet.

"Am I shocking you?" he asked.

"Yes," she breathed, and her voice was so sultry. Damn.

"But . . . you're not hanging up."

"I'm not," she agreed faintly. And then her breath caught a little.

Ah, fuck. "You touching yourself for me, Greer?"

He heard her inhale. "I . . . maybe."

Asher groaned. "You need to describe it to me. Where's your hand? On  your breast or in your panties?" His own was working his cock, a lot  faster now that he knew she was into this, too.

"Panties."

Fuck. Perfection. "Are you wet? Is your pussy all slick at the thought of me touching myself when I think of you?"

She whimpered, and the sound nearly made him come undone.

Was she too shy to talk dirty back to him? All right, he'd take the  lead. "I'm picturing you in one of those little sweaters that you like,  and some pants. No, wait, a skirt. And you've got it pushed up around  your waist with your legs spread so you can play with your pussy while I  talk to you. Am I right?"

She made a soft sound that might have been agreement.

Close enough. He'd keep going. "I'm picturing you all slick with honey.  So slick that when your fingers touch your skin, they just glide over  it like a whisper." His own cock was as hard as granite, his balls tight  against his shaft, desperate to spill in his hands. He wanted to coax  more of a response out of her before he lost his load, though. "If I was  touching you right now, I bet I'd find you soaked. Your pussy and your  thighs would just be creamy with your honey, wouldn't they?"