Billion Dollar Enemy

by Olivia Hayle

  “Not in the bedroom, no.”

  Her lips quirk into a smile. “Poor little developer.”

  “You got one word right, there. The last one.”

  She puts the books down and turns to me fully. Eyes blazing, she reaches up to the top button in her summer dress. Her quick fingers undo the first one.

  “So?” I say, mouth dry. “Did I pass?”

  Two more buttons come undone. The white lace of her bra peeks through, the smooth curve of her breasts visible. And her fingers don’t stop, either—soon her flat stomach is revealed. I stay rooted, afraid a sudden movement will make her stop.

  “You did,” Skye says, shrugging the dress off. It pools at her feet. “I love it when you look at me like that.”

  I drag my gaze up to hers, a Herculean effort. “Oh?”

  “Yes,” she breathes, her voice containing bravery and shyness and want in a heady mixture.

  “Then take off that bra, too.”

  She bites her lip but obliges, her eyes still on mine. It slides off her arms and then she’s standing in front of me clad in only her panties and her long hair. Delicately curved collarbones. Flared hips. Soft thighs. Freckled breasts with nipples that are already hard.

  “Fucking hell.”

  Her smile is warm. “Yeah, that’s the look.”

  “You know what I like so well already, do you?”

  “You’re easy to read.” Skye slides up the bed, her eyes locked on mine—yes, don’t look away—as I reach to unbuckle my belt. Her breath makes a hissing sound as I push my pants and boxers down. It’s difficult, being so painfully hard.

  “See?” I say, stroking myself. “All because of you.”

  Her beautiful skin flushes, and it races up her cheeks, her neck, down across her chest. It’s one of the first things I’d noticed at the hotel bar. She’d mouthed off to me, but she’d blushed while doing it.

  “Come here.” I grip her ankles and pull her roughly to the edge of the bed. She gasps when I grab a hold of her panties and tug them off, down long legs and off one ankle.

  Beautiful.

  I settle between her legs, my hands on her hipbones. “Just a booty call,” I mutter against her skin.

  “What?”

  But I don’t answer with words. I make sure she shatters instead—enjoying every minute of it. Skye’s back arches when she comes, in a way that is as natural as it’s arousing. Her gasps are real, and every last one of her hissing breaths makes me throb.

  She collapses against the bed and finds my head, her fingers threading through my hair. I rest my forehead against her inner thigh and breathe through my arousal.

  This, I could do forever. Making her come that first night together had felt like success, and after the third time, like victory. Especially when she told me she rarely came with men.

  “I want you to fuck me,” she breathes.

  I groan. “Fuck. So do I.”

  “Hard, Cole. Really, really hard.”

  Hate sex, I think, Nick’s words finding me again.

  I flip her over, my hands on her hips, pulling her ass back to me. I want her too much to think clearly, to think of anything beyond her body bent before me.

  “Yes,” she breathes, arching.

  I’ve never put on a condom faster than I do right then, with Skye’s demanding eyes on me. “Hard,” she growls.

  She doesn’t have to say it twice.

  Pushing inside her feels like heaven and both of us moan at the sensation. She’s beyond wet, and so tight, and fucking hell I could do this forever. Fuck her forever.

  Except I can’t. Each deep stroke increases the sensation, the need inside me, and I won’t last for shit this time around. It’s too good. I grip her hips—they’re the perfect handhold—only to abandon them for her round ass. Watching myself slide in and out of her. Hearing her gasp when I go deep.

  “Cole,” she mewls, hands fisting in my covers. She falls forward onto her elbows, her legs moving closer together, making her feel even tighter around me. It obliviates all thought.

  “Good girl,” I growl, fucking her harder and faster, giving her everything, my hands in her hair, and then she’s moaning and I’ve lost control and her body is so beautiful underneath me and I can still taste her on my tongue and it’s all over. I erupt with my hands gripping her hips, pinning her in place, buried deep.

  She whimpers against the coverlet. “Oh my God.”

  I brace my hands against the bed, covering her completely, and try to focus on breathing. How is every time I fuck her better than the last?

  “You OK?”

  I huff a laugh and pull out of her, tossing the condom aside. “I was going to ask you that.” I collapse onto the bed, my breath furious. She turns over onto her back beside me.

  “Yes.” Skye is in no better shape—her arms and legs spread out like a starfish, staring up at the ceiling. “Wow. That was…”

  “Fucking unreal,” I mutter.

  “Yeah, that’s about right.”

  I look over at her. Flushed skin, glazed eyes. Beautiful hair that spreads across my bed like brown silk. “Not too hard?”

  She shakes her head, vigorously enough to make me smile. “No. Perfect amount.”

  “You feel unbelievably good against me, not to mention around me. I’m always surprised I manage to last at all.”

  Skye turns to look at me, amusement and embarrassment evident in her eyes. Is she not used to compliments during sex, either? If so, it makes me seriously question the men she’s been with before.

  “Is this the part where I compliment your dick?”

  I laugh, reaching over to flick her pert nose. “Only if you want to.”

  “In that case, I’d say—” The shrill sound of a phone ringing cuts through the air. It’s a tune… it’s familiar. Skye scrambles into sitting.

  “This?” I ask. “You have the theme song to The Office as your ringtone?”

  “Yes.” She rummages through the pockets of her dress, fishing out a battered old iPhone. “Hi, Isla.”

  I put my hands behind my head and eavesdrop openly, listening to her talk. “Yes, dinner is tomorrow at seven. I can—”

  Her face shutters at whatever Isla says. Her cheeks, already flushed from sex, turn dark red. “You’re impossible.”

  Whoever is on the phone didn’t like hearing that, that’s clear. Skye turns away from me, still nude, her hair long down her back. My gorgeous bookstore clerk, smart and strong and brave. “Okay. Yes, of course I will. Do you want him to stay over at mine too?”

  A pause.

  “Yes. Fine. I’ll pick him up at six. And Isla… Don’t go too crazy this weekend, all right?”

  Skye hangs up, a frown on her beautiful lips. It doesn’t belong there. “Whoever that was,” I declare, “was an idiot.”

  She breaks into a surprised laugh. “Where did that come from?”

  “Call it a hunch.”

  “Well, I can’t outright agree to that.”

  “Your sister?”

  She nods. “I’m babysitting Timmy tomorrow. I don’t mind that part at all, but her bailing on a dinner with Mom isn’t cool. Especially not…” She trails off with a shake of her head. “I don’t want to bore you. It’s silly.”

  It doesn’t sound silly, but I don’t push. I watch instead as she clips on her bra. Bye, breasts, I think. Until next time. I pull on my own pants and watch in amusement as she searches for her underwear.

  “Where did you toss them?”

  “No clue. I was more interested in what they covered.”

  Skye blushes again. “Well, I do need them back.”

  I help her look, finally finding her panties atop my dresser. I hand them to her with a flourish. “For you, miss.”

  “Thanks.”

  We head into the living room, Skye quietly doing up her buttons. “It’s a school night,” I say, “but I’ll never kick you out after sex. Stay as long as you’d like.”

  Her smile is crooked. “So
we can braid each other’s hair?”

  “Hmm. Perhaps a pillow fight?”

  “I have an advantage in the first game, you in the second. Sounds fair.”

  “The fairest.” I slip my hands in my pockets, still without a shirt. “I’m going away for a few days, by the way.”

  “You are?” She sways closer and I reach out, running a strand of her hair between my fingers.

  “Yes, for business. I’ll be back by Tuesday.”

  “Going to conquer more of the world?” Her eyes, flecked with hazel, look just like they had in the hotel bar that first night. Teasing and confident, with no trace of dislike. The way I prefer.

  “What do you think I do for a living?” I slide my hands around her waist. “I don’t think I want to correct you on it; I sound much more powerful in your imagination.”

  She chuckles, hands wrapping around my neck. “And egomaniacal.”

  “That’s another very good word.”

  “My vocabulary turns you on, huh?”

  I tip her head back and press a series of slow, shivery kisses to her lips. “Most definitely.”

  She kisses me back—soft, warm, inviting. “Then take a thesaurus with you.”

  I fill my hands with her ass. “Not nearly as appealing as you. All hard angles, no curves.”

  “Thanks for comparing me favorably to a book.” She slides her arms down my chest, my arms, ending the kiss with a smile.

  “I know it’s the highest compliment in your book.”

  “More true than you know.”

  I lean against the wall and watch as she presses the button for the elevator. She looks respectable again—cute, in her boots and dress—but nothing can hide the just-fuckedness of her long hair, gorgeous and wild.

  “Don’t miss me too much while I’m gone,” I say.

  She steps into the elevator and gives me a crooked smile, the one I like the most. “Don’t worry, Porter. I still hate you.”

  The elevator doors close and shutter, sending her barreling down from me one floor at a time. “I know,” I say out loud, “but we’ll work on that.”

  13

  Skye

  Monday morning starts with a bang.

  Chloe accidentally slams the front door to the bookshop on her way in, an expensive handbag dangling on her arm. She pushes auburn hair back and gives Karli and me a winning smile.

  “Hey! So sorry I’m late!”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. We’ve had a fair bit of traffic coming through, so there’s no rush.” Karli grabs the financial ledgers from behind the counter. “We’ll have to go through the books in the storage room. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” Chloe’s smile goes from professional to warm when she sees me. “Skye! You’re finally here when I’m here!”

  I hug her. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Oh, likewise. It’s been far too long.” She leans back, running eyes over me assessingly in a way that reminds me why we’re friendly, but not friends. She’s always been a tad too critical. “You look good.”

  “Thanks. So do you.”

  “We’ll have to catch up after Karli and I have spoken. I want to know everything that’s new with you.”

  She follows Karli into the storage room, chatting about numbers. We’d been lucky to get an accountant on such short notice, and I’d never heard a bad word about Chloe’s professional qualifications.

  All the same, we’d need someone brilliant to sort through our expenses and newfound income to find a way to win the bet. I’d understood enough about bookkeeping to realize that looking profitable and being profitable weren’t necessarily the same thing. If we could reschedule some payments, cut down on expenses… well.

  I sit by the register while Karli is gone, using the time between customers to work on our Instagram profile.

  It’s really grown since Cole mocked it for only having twenty-seven followers. We’re up to nearly four hundred and counting, and we had the hundreds of articles I’d read on how-to-grow-your-Instagram to thank for that. Organic engagement. Outreach. Consistent posting. Hashtags.

  Oh well. If Between the Pages fails, perhaps I have a future as the world’s least experienced social media consultant?

  Two teenage girls come in around noon, giggling to one another. They straighten when they see me. “Hi there! Can I help you with anything?”

  One of them steps forward. “Hi. Yes, please. We’re looking for, like, a book made out of hearts? As a window in a shelf?”

  “No,” the other one says, “a heart made out of books.”

  Excitement rushes through me. “Yes, we have that! It’s right down here…” I lead the way to the wall in between the reading room and contemporary fiction.

  The first girl clears her throat. “Is it okay if we take pictures of it?”

  “Of course! And,” I add, because I’ve learned something from all those articles, “don’t forget to tag us if you post it online.”

  Both girls give me a smile. “We will.”

  It’s a small thing—maybe a silly thing—but it makes me stupidly happy to see the bookheart working as I’d hoped. It’s part of the mystical charm of this place. What booklover could resist?

  I return to the register and smile at the excited shrieks from the back, one of the girls instructing the other how to pose. Why hadn’t I made it earlier? It makes me want to text Cole. Take that, Porter. Profitability, here we come.

  Or, perhaps more accurately, Thanks for helping me make it. It’s working.

  I don’t send him either of them. He’s been gone for two days, which is no time at all, but it feels like an eternity. I’d gone twenty-six years without really good sex, and now that I’ve had it, I’m determined to keep having it.

  I look over at the bookshelf of political classics. Machiavelli. Sun Tzu. Clausewitz. All of them dealt with power and enemies, with manipulation and subterfuge. I doubt they’d approve of sleeping with your enemy.

  My eyes drift lower, to literary classics that are more daring. Protagonists who did crazy things—lived on the road, fought Greek gods, braved insurmountable odds.

  I chose messy, I think. I wanted life experience. This is it. It’s exhilarating and difficult in equal measure.

  And dangerous, especially as I sometimes have to remind myself of why we can’t last, of who he is—the person trying to turn Eleanor’s legacy into a shiny new hotel with plush carpeting and chandeliers. This is a mess entirely of my own making.

  After work I treat myself to a bit of self-care. I close the fourteen internet tabs on my computer titled everything from How to save a small business to Create tote bags for your company! I pour myself a bath. I light candles. I turn on gravelly jazz, the old-school kind that makes me feel like I’m in a speakeasy wearing a bedazzled dress without a care in the world. For tonight, it’s exactly what I need.

  No worrying about the future allowed.

  The water is heavenly against my skin, dissolving both my worries and my sense. Cole is my release. My escape. My chance to do something I absolutely shouldn’t. He makes me feel wanted and alive, accepted on my own terms.

  My phone is lying next to the bathtub, and before I lose my nerve, I dial his number.

  “Skye?” His voice on the other line is surprised, but undeniably pleased, too. It gives me strength.

  “Hey.”

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No, not at all,” I say, bending a knee in the tub. Some water splashes out. “Does something need to be wrong for me to call you?”

  “Of course not. Are you swimming?”

  “I’m taking a bath.”

  There’s a pause, and then his voice is back, dark and hoarse. “You’re calling me while you’re in the bathtub?”

  “Yes. I was feeling a little out of sorts, but then I realized why. I haven’t told you that I hate you yet today.”

  “Ah,” he murmurs. “You haven’t had your daily dose.”

  “Exactly.
”

  I hear a door close, and then footsteps quickening. “Where are you?”

  “Hotel,” he says. “I was in the lobby, but I’m heading to my room now.”

  “Oh.”

  There’s a faint electric beep, and then another door closing. “Tell me more about what you’re doing.”

  “In the bath?”

  “Yes.”

  I slide deeper into the hot water, until only my shoulders and head are above the surface. “I’m almost entirely submerged.”

  “Submerged, huh. That’s a good word.”

  “It is. I’m your thesaurus with curves, remember?”

  “Oh yes,” he says. “I remember.”

  “Plus I’ve taken creative writing classes.”

  “Mhm.” His voice sounds faintly strained. “Put them to good use for me and paint me a picture. Make me wish you were in my hotel bathtub.”

  My cheeks are burning, and not just from the heat of the bathwater. Are we doing this? “All right,” I say. “My bathtub isn’t big, but it’s enough for me. My hair is up in a bun, but it’s slowly coming undone. I have a few candles lit.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. The water smells like lavender. I added some oil. But no… well, there are no bubbles. None at all.”

  Fabric rustles on the other end. I imagine him undoing a tie, lying back on the bed, his phone to his ear as he listens to me.

  “Damn it, Skye. All I can think about is you naked in the bath right now.”

  “Well, that would be a pretty accurate picture.”

  “I want you to pinch your nipple.”

  My breath catches in my throat, but I obey, sliding my hand down to do as he says. It rises between my fingers. “I wish it was your hand.”

  His voice is heated. “It would be my teeth.”

  “You know, nobody has played with my breasts as much as you do.”

  “A crime,” he says, “that I very much enjoy correcting.”

  My hand drifts lower, empowered by his words. “Are you in your room now?”

  “Yes. I’m on my bed.”

  I find the spot between my legs and circle. The water is oily and the motion practiced, need already pulsing. A soft moan slips out.