by Max Monroe
Banking the Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys, #2)
Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2016, Max Monroe
ISBN: 9780997540628
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editing by Indie Solutions by Murphy Rae
Formatting by Champagne Formats
Cover Design by Perfect Pear Creative
Proofreading by Silently Correcting Your Grammar
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Intro
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Big Fat Fucking Epilogue
Contact Information
Acknowledgements
To Cassie and Thatch: You guys are assholes.
Disclaimer: We’re assholes too. Love you.
I’m Thatcher Kelly.
Harvard graduate.
Financial Consultant for Brooks Media and its subsidiaries and several other Fortune 500 companies.
What? It sounds familiar? Fuck that.
I can’t help it if Kline went first and stole all of my shit.
Net worth: $1.2 billion. Yeah, perfect Kline is worth more than me. But I have my hands on a lot more things. Important things.
Okay, maybe not important. But they’re…pussies. I have my hands on pussies.
Relax, I’m kidding. Well, mostly.
A man of many talents, I have more interests and jobs than you would expect.
Adrenaline Junkie. Jumps and falls, dives or climbs—orgasms. If it makes the bottom fall out of your stomach and end up in your throat with a wave of pleasure for your whole body to surf afterward, I’m in.
I’m built like a tree, but I’d rather do anything than just stand there.
Get out, get wild, fucking live life.
It’s also probably not a surprise I’m known for going through a laundry list of women. Quite frankly, I won’t fucking apologize for it. They’ve all meant something to me, regardless of the amount of time they’ve been in my life, long or short, and they’ve all taught me something about life or myself that I won’t give back.
But I’ve also longed for the kind of monogamy my friend Kline has for most of my life. A person who does their best to know you in and out and looks out for you when you can’t look out for yourself. The kind of person who wants to live life to its very fullest—but wants to do it with you.
Bottom line, I’m eclectic. A confusing mix of inappropriate jokes and heartfelt sentiment, you can dig and dig, and you’ll still be miles from the bottom of me.
At least, that had always been the case until Cassie Phillips.
She’s crazy and needy and borderline inappropriate at all times.
But she’s got the softest untamed heart when you’re someone she cares about, and fuck if that hasn’t become my singularly most important goal—mean something to the woman who already means all the things to me.
Because for the guy who wants wild and commitment in the same fucking breath, you better believe it’s going to be one bumpy ride.
Fasten that seat belt tight, ladies and gentleman.
This is us.
As the sun started to descend below the optical edge of the ocean and the Key West sky turned pink and orange with the last rays of the day, I snapped a few final photos before pulling my camera away from my face. Twelve crazy-hot male models frolicked in the sand, their muscles wet from the water and their tight bodies clad in nothing but next summer’s swim line for an up-and-coming New York designer by the name of Fredrick La Hue.
Yeah, it was a really tough life I was living.
“All right, boys, I think we can call it a night,” I announced as I got to my feet and dusted the sand from my knees. “Great work today, everyone. If you’re thirsty, which I know most of you lushes are, meet me at Sloppy Joe’s. Drinks are on me.”
The models and staff cheered, and I grinned.
“Consider this motherfucking shoot finished!” I exclaimed to a chorus of resounding hoots and Here, heres as I headed toward the tent and hooked my camera up to my laptop.
Hundreds of photos loaded on to the screen, and their tiny thumbnails begged to be clicked. Doing as their teeny beckoning bid, I clicked to select all and opened them up in my editor. I could hardly contain my excitement as I caught sight of some of the raw shots I had managed to capture. It had been a long day, toiling from sunup until sundown, but after I worked my editing magic, I knew Fredrick would get a big ol’ fashion boner over the plethora of sexy photos he’d have to pick from.
I grabbed a bottle of water from the makeshift snack table and, upon my return, found my assistant, Olivia, scrolling through the photos on my laptop. She glanced up from the screen and grinned. “These are fantastic, Cass.”
“Thanks. I think Frederick is going to be really happy with them. He loves a good bareskinned man huddle. But who doesn’t?”
Olivia smirked and continued clicking from one photo to the next.
She had been my assistant for a few years now, and I’d grown fond of our working relationship. Not only was she a good friend but I’d felt compelled to take her under my wing and teach her everything I knew about photography. She had the raw interest, and with my help on the technicalities and work ethic, I hoped that one day I’d eventually help her make the big jump from assistant to photographer.
Joshua, one of my favorite makeup artists and a pathological flirt, peeked over Olivia’s shoulder and then nudged her out of the way with his hip. It didn’t take his nosy ass long to start scrolling through my personal collection. “Wait…what is this? I don’t remember this shoot.”
An entire album of Kline, Thatch, and Wes’s rugby team filled the screen and glinted like horny glitter off the apex of Joshua’s eye. I smiled at the memory of taking those photos a few weeks before Kline and Georgia’s weddin
g. We had stopped by the boys’ practice before grabbing dinner, and needless to say, hot men playing rugby made me thankful I’d had my camera with me that day.
Joshua pointed to a picture of Thatcher. The Jolly Green Giant’s tall frame was unmistakable, perfectly defined lines and toned muscles taking up so much space in the shot they almost jumped right off the screen, and the only thing covering that fuck-hot body was a pair of black knit shorts. Hair wet with sweat, he was just standing there, hands on his hips, grinning like a cocky son of a bitch.
“Seriously,” Joshua insisted. “What is that?”
“That’s a Thatch.”
“A thatch? Is that one of those new cool words like fleek or rachet?”
I shook my head and laughed. “Thatch is his name, Thatcher Kelly,” I explained before muttering under my breath, “Or an action. God, yeah.” I stared at his photo. “I’d thatch that for sure.”
He sighed. “Is he single?”
The question felt strange for a fraction of a second, and then the fleeting uncertainty was gone. I grinned. “Oh, yes, he’s very single.”
I mean, he was single. So technically, I wasn’t lying. I was just leaving out the little detail of him not being into cock.
Joshua stared at the photo for a disturbing amount of time before asking, “Can I have his number?”
I didn’t think twice about it. This was Thatch we were talking about, and I would gladly take any opportunity to fuck with him. “Give me your phone.”
He handed it over, and I happily added Thatchsquatch’s number to his contacts. I chose not to think about why I had it memorized.
“Dayum, I need this man in my life,” Joshua said, staring down at the picture on my computer screen before glancing at the number in his phone.
I tilted my head to the side. “I thought you were dating someone.”
Joshua grimaced. “I was, but apparently, I’m too clingy.”
“Well, fuck that guy. He sounds like an asshole.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. “An asshole I was in love with. Hell, I’m still in love with him. I wish my heart would get the memo and forget he ever existed.”
I shook my head in sympathy. But empathy? That was undeniably missing. “Man, oh man, love sure is a bossy bitch, isn’t she?”
Joshua chuckled. “Wise words from the girl who never settles down.”
I smirked. “Maybe I’m a bigger bitch than love.”
He glanced down at his phone again, and then his eyes lit up. “Fuck it, I’m about to yolo and call this sexy motherfucker.”
Before I had the chance to stop him—which probably wouldn’t have mattered because, yeah, I wasn’t going to miss this—he was tapping Thatch’s number on the screen and putting his phone on speaker.
Three rings later and the deep voice my pussy would gladly flock toward filled the room. “Thatch.”
“Is this Thatcher Kelly?” Joshua asked with a smirk, his eyes meeting mine.
I probably should’ve felt bad about throwing Josh to the proverbial wolves, but man, it was hard not to get a sick amount of enjoyment out of what was about to go down.
“You got him,” Thatch responded, business and bossy and hot as fuck. My pussy made a bid to crawl out of my pants.
Oh, shit. Do not get excited, you flirty little bitch, I told her. This phone call is about laughing, not boning.
“Hi, Thatcher,” my makeup artist turned sexual siren purred into the phone. “My name is Joshua, and we have a mutual friend.”
“And who might that mutual friend be?” Thatch asked, open but wary. I knew he was a fairly private person despite his boisterous personality.
“Cassie Phillips.”
Thatch chuckled, deep and throaty, and my nipples pebbled. “Yeah, I know Cassie.” Apparently, based on their general non-reaction, I was the only one feeling like he meant know in the biblical sense. And I was the only one who knew he didn’t know me like that.
“She happened to show me some pictures she had taken of you, and I gotta—”
“Cassie has a picture of me on her camera?”
“Oh, yeah, baby, she sure does. You’re shirtless, and I can’t deny I’m interested.”
“You’re interested?” Thatch’s voice was laced with confusion.
“Yes. I’m very interested. And Cass happened to mention you were single. And well, I’m single. I think we’d hit it off. So, I was wondering if you’d like to grab a drink sometime?”
“And Cassie told you this was something I’d be interested in?”
Joshua’s gaze shot to mine, but he kept his composure on the phone. “Not in so many words, but, yeah.”
A soft chuckle filled the receiver. “Well, Joshua, it’s a pleasure to talk with you, truly, but I’ve got a bit of a problem with this scenario.”
“Oh.” His voice was dejected. “And what would that be?”
“I’m kind of in love with a set of talking tits. And the owner of said mystic wonders is pretty fucking head over heels for my cock.”
“I’m not in love with your cock, T-bag,” I responded, and Josh’s and Olivia’s eyes aimed right at me.
Joshua stared at me for a few seconds and then flipped me off.
“You are a bigger bitch than love,” he told me with an amused grin, handing me his phone and whispering into my ear, “You totally want to get Thatched, you little floozy. And don’t think I’ll forget about this anytime soon. You owe me, Phillips. You owe me big.”
I laughed and shook my head. “Nah, I just like fucking with him. And how big are we talking here?”
“A new boyfriend with a ten-inch snake coiled inside his pants.”
“Ten inches?” My eyes went wide. “You can take that much?”
“Oh, yeah. My deep throat game is strong.” Joshua winked. “And you’re a liar, by the way. You want that big, bad man between your thighs,” he added in a whisper before heading toward the other tent to clean up.
I switched the phone off speaker mode, and Thatcher’s deep voice filled my ear. “You know you don’t have to create these elaborate pranks just to hear my voice, honey. The subscription messages and now this. Seems like a lot of extraneous effort when you can call me any fucking time.”
“Bye, Thatcher,” I said in dismissal, feigning annoyance even though I was anything but annoyed. Thanks to the photo and Thatch’s throaty fucking chuckle, I was too busy picturing him driving his big train through my tunnel.
“Be good, Cassie.”
“I’m always good.”
He laughed. “I’m having a hard time believing that. Tell Joshua I appreciated the call and the offer. And if I wasn’t into pussy, I would’ve taken him out for a nice dinner, some drinks, and then back to my place so I could fuck his brains out.”
“You paint such a pretty picture. Are you sure you don’t want to give him a shot? Who knows? Maybe you’ll love the D?”
“You think?” he asked, audibly playing along even though we both knew when Thatcher Kelly pounded something, it was pussy.
“I let you kiss me, so stranger things have happened.”
His voice dropped a few octaves. “You wearing a bra right now?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“You wearing a bra or not wearing a bra always has everything to do with everything. It’s literally never off topic.”
I shook my head but glanced down at my T-shirt. “This shouldn’t surprise you, but no, I’m not.”
If there was one thing Thatcher Kelly loved, it was my boobs. For all I knew, he had a fan club dedicated to the mounds on my chest.
“Yeah, I’m hard at that visual. It’s safe to say I’m straight as an arrow.”
“Put your boner away, Thatcher.”
“Come help me,” he dared.
“That’s a lovely offer, but I’m not in New York. “
“Where are you?”
“Key West.”
“And when are you coming home?”
“Not for
another couple of days,” I answered honestly.
“You should call me when you’re back in town.”
“Oh, I should? And why would I do that?”
“Because you can’t stop thinking about me.”
I stared out toward the darkening blue sea. I couldn’t deny he was slightly correct on that front. Almost two months ago, we had spent an ungodly amount of time together while watching Kline and Georgia’s cat, while they banged like bunnies in Bora Bora on their honeymoon.
The cat watching had turned to cat searching when Walter had gone missing for a few days, and somehow during that debacle, Thatcher Kelly had started to grow on me. I’d even found myself occasionally calling him or sending him random text messages just to see what he was up to.
It was all very unlike me, and I was starting to wonder if I just needed to fuck him out of my system.
“I don’t know about that,” I answered with a skeptical tone. “I mean, I just saw the new Superman movie, and I’ve been using up a lot of brainpower on Henry Cavill fantasies.”
“I’m down for role-playing, honey. I’ll even put a cape on my cock if that’s what you’re into.”
Well, that was a hot visual.
“But how would I blow you?”
“You wouldn’t. I’d be too busy with my mouth on your pussy. We’ll save the blow job for our second date.”
God, he was the king of one-upping. It probably should’ve annoyed me, but it didn’t. I got far too much enjoyment out of bantering back and forth with him.
“Have you been Googling pickup lines again?” I teased.
“With great penis comes great responsibility, honey.”
I laughed at that. “God, that’s awful.”
“Fuck me if I’m wrong, but I know you want me to kiss you again.”
Yeah, so he had kissed me. Once. I was pretty sure it was used to shut me up, but it didn’t leave a bad taste in my mouth. Though, it’d pissed me off when he acted like that kiss was a game. I wasn’t normally sensitive to that shit, but I’d been fully invested in the moment until he’d taken me out of it. The bastard.
“I’m hanging up now.”