Her Billionaires: Boxed Set (The Complete Collection, Books 1-4)

by Kent, Julia

  Her passage tightened as she imagined him bending down, on his knees, his tongue now lapping where the vibrator’s little antennae tweaked her, not her own hands moving the thick shaft in and out but the lovers’, four hands at once on her as one mouth descended on her eager, red nub, the other man thrusting her up against the shower’s wall, her body ready for more.

  She tensed, knowing she was so close, craving all these hands, more than enough for two men who wanted and needed her, the familiar muscled cresting of her climax so innate she barely cried out, the release perfunctory but oh, so welcome.

  And, now, the guilt. Because how could a “normal” woman really want two men at once? As she absent-mindedly rushed through the rest of the shower, quickly washing off her trusty toy, a persistent voice said, You, Laura. You.

  She really did. Some wishes were never meant to be, she sighed inwardly, drying her hair and rushing to get dressed.

  Just a fantasy that got her off.

  It didn’t help that she felt like there was a huge discrepancy between what she saw in herself, and what she saw in the pictures of Dylan, and what she saw when she did a search for him online. This guy was a catch; not just a catch, but a catch. Like, the difference between catching a good-sized bass in a great lake versus catching a giant, enormous marlin. He was outstanding. There was no other term for it.

  He looked like something that was sculpted by an artist and the more that she thought about it and the more that she mulled over it, the more that she was excited about it—the more it turned her into a quivering, uncharacteristically nervous pile of goo.

  “I don’t think I can do this, Josie,” she said that night as she prepared for the actual date. Dylan had picked out a rather nice restaurant in a part of town that was above her pay grade, and she wondered how on earth he could afford it on a firefighter’s salary. But she wasn’t going to question it because maybe, just maybe, she had finally found somebody who was going to treat her properly. The way she had always dreamed of being treated, and not treated like a booty call or a person you’d settle for when you really want something more but settle for good enough.

  “You’re more than ready and you know it, Laura. It’s about time you found some guy who...” Josie looked at the screen again. “Oh, dear, I don’t think I remember what I was about to say because I’m about to burst into flames if I look at that guy one more time.”

  “He’s mine,” said Laura, baring her teeth in a fake show of territoriality. It wasn’t that fake, though. Some part of her meant it.

  “I can look. I know I can’t touch, but I know I can look,” Josie joked.

  Laura had picked out three different sets of clothes, being as meticulous as possible today, trying so hard to cover what she felt were definitely deficits. Big, enormous deficits. Calling her a fluffy woman would be a perfectly nice euphemism, if you didn’t prefer the term fat. Not fat in a derogatory way. Just fat as a practical, pragmatic way of describing how she was. It’s not like you get to be a size eighteen by meticulously eating 700 calories a day and never, ever doing anything wrong in terms of what you put in your mouth. She couldn’t stand it when people would claim that they’re fat because of their genes, they’re fat because they have a thyroid problem, they’re fat because— because, because, because.

  She owned it. She was fat because she put too much unhealthy stuff in her mouth, and even of the healthy stuff she put in her mouth, she put in too much. And she didn’t really mind it— she liked food. She really, really liked food. Enjoyed it. Savored it. Pleasured it. Found it to be a joy in her life.

  And she paid the price with the extra pounds, the padding—what a lovely euphemism that was, too. She liked her curves; the curves made her feel normal, gentle, open, emotional— bare. You couldn’t hide from a curve; you couldn’t hide from a love handle or from a padded hip or from a booty that made enough men blush and drool. She knew it was an asset (pun intended) to some guys.

  What she hoped, what she deeply hoped, was that to a guy like Dylan, maybe, just maybe, she could beat the odds and find in him someone who really valued someone like her. So far that hadn’t been the case. Online dating had turned out to be a giant nightmare of electrons that didn’t line up exactly the way that anybody had planned. She seemed to photograph well because she got an awful lot of come-ons and she figured maybe there was something to that.

  She was blonde, with a healthy glow in her face and a pretty decent smile with two dimples that appeared when she laughed hard enough. Her shoulders carried some of her weight, but it just made her look bosomy and big chested, and if she picked the right form-fitting sweater she could come across a good twenty pounds lighter than she really was. That may have been part of the problem, though, because it was always that look that the guys gave her when she walked into the bar, the coffee shop, the plaza, the restaurant— whatever public place that they had planned to meet.

  It was that look, that fucking look.

  It was a look of surprise—and not of good surprise. It was the look of, oh, you’re not what I was looking for. Oh, you’re not what you look like in your picture. Oh, you’re a fat chick.

  Oh.

  Sometimes they had the decency to tell her the truth and to actually say those things aloud. Yeah, really—the decency. Because it was better to hear it up front, to her face, in her face even, than to sit down with that type of guy, to try to read the signals, the tilt of the face, the grin, the look in his eyes, the lack of a look in his eyes if he glanced away. All of the little tells, the way he held his hand, the way he fidgeted, the way he reached for his phone for a text that didn’t really exist. All of those sights and sounds and movements that added up to one thing.

  Rejection.

  So far, she had had a few one night stands, a few guys who were willing to fuck the fat chick. She didn’t turn them down because the offers were few and far between and because it wasn’t obvious that these were pity fucks—until it was glaringly, painfully, heartbreakingly obvious. Most recently, like she had told Josie, she was sick of it. Just sick of it. So this last ditch attempt at online dating really was the final attempt.

  Dylan seemed too good to be true. Here she stood in front of Tempo Bistro at 6 p.m. sharp wearing a pencil skirt, really nice high heels, and a mohair sweater, the same one she had worn in the dating site picture, just so she could—in her own head, in her own internal thoughts— not consider herself to have been falsely advertising. What he would see in a minute was exactly what she had shown online.

  No less.

  No more.

  Her hair was pulled back in the same funny little ponytail and her eyes were sparkling with hope that she dredged up from deep, deep inside, and plunked down in front of him, ready to try once more.

  Getting ready for this first date with Laura had turned out to be a hell of a lot more complicated than it had any right to be. First of all, it turned out he got his dates wrong. His 24-hour shift was actually that night. Tonight. So he had to change shifts with Murphy, and Murphy, who wasn’t know for granting favors easily, not only extracted another 24-hour shift out of him, but also convinced him to give up his beloved Red Sox tickets for the next game. Dylan reluctantly gave it up, hoping like hell that this date was really going to be worth it, hating the sly grin on Murphy’s face.

  Hey, he was taking a chance that maybe it really was worth it. Four different clothing changes later, he finally settled on something that he hoped resembled “business casual” in the corporate world. She worked as a business analyst for some large nameless, faceless corporation and that meant that she probably had an expectation about what a guy would look like. Dylan’s general preferred state of dress was some old concert t-shirt from the 90’s, a pair of ripped up jeans and whatever pair of shoes were comfortable enough to pass muster.

  Wearing business casual pants, a buttoned-down shirt, and—tie or no tie? He had finally settled on no tie. He felt like a fraud. If he just added some penny loafers and a loose cotton V-
neck that showed the top of his chest he would look like something out of a Macy’s ad, which actually would’ve been possible ten years ago when he dipped his toe in the world of modeling before realizing that most of the people in that business were douche bags and he couldn’t stand it.

  “Hey, who died? You look like you’re going to a funeral, man,” said Mike, walking into the room looking pretty natty himself in a similar outfit, just without the black pants. Mike was wearing khakis and some kind of boat shoes that Dylan thought had gone out of fashion back in the 80’s, when he was a kid. The guy managed to make Superman look puny. He could have been a stunt man for The Avengers, minus the confidence. For whatever reason, Mike was a man without swagger. He just was, a steady presence that made Dylan feel complete.

  “What about you, man?” he challenged. “Why are you all dressed up? You got a hot date, too?” He narrowed his eyes and peered at his roommate, wondering. Nah, no way—he didn’t. Mike hadn’t gone out in eighteen months, not since Jill died.

  Mike grinned. “I wish. Meeting at the ski resort.”

  “It’s July!”

  “I know, but we start getting ready now, believe it or not. Some people actually plan out processes and don’t always fly by the seat of their pants.” He muttered the last sentence under his breath but clearly meant for Dylan to hear every word.

  Dylan just shook his head and said, “I like being a pantser.” Big grin. “Have fun.”

  “I’d rather be doing what you’re doing,” Mike replied, then paused, seeming to think over what he’d just said.

  “Me too,” Dylan laughed, grabbing his keys. “Don’t wait up for me.”

  “I’m staying overnight at my cabin, so no worries. You have the place to yourself. I hope things work out with Laura. That,” he paused, brow furrowed, “that could really benefit everybody, huh?” Mike winked and the two hugged, Dylan forced to reach up to the only person in his life taller than himself. And broader.

  “Yeah, something like that,” Dylan said, shaking his head.

  “Are you going to tell her about the money?” Mike’s voice was more defiant than usual, as if challenging Dylan to some sort of battle he didn’t even know was on the horizon. Dylan knew, though, that the tone in Mike’s voice was as much about his own demons; neither had ever expected this kind of surprise from Jill’s death. They would both gladly give it all up to have her back. Barring that, though, the money was certainly a welcome, if perplexing, change in their lives.

  It meant nothing and it meant everything. Neither had said a word to anyone they had dated. Not a word to their friends or coworkers. Mike had quietly purchased the ski resort where he worked; it had been up for sale for a long time and was on the brink of financial collapse due, largely, to inept management and an owner who viewed it as a losing business. Mike would change that, Dylan knew. Having the money to buy the ski resort and one of the nicest cabins on the mountain had blown some life back into his partner. Too bad they didn’t have the third who would complete them, taking a dull dyad and turning it into a robust triad.

  Maybe Laura would...ah, who knew?

  “No, of course I’m not going to tell her about the money.” Dylan turned away from Mike and finished pulling on his sweater. “Can you imagine that scene? ‘Oh, hi, I’m Dylan and I am a billionaire.’” He choked on the word, his face flushing and going cold at once, the syllables so fake. So poseur. Like a little kid dressing up in Dad’s dress shoes, or a teen trying on personalities to find the right fit. Except he had no choice here. Jill had left them this fortune and it was theirs. No trying anything on for size. This was serious money and Dylan and Mike had been catapulted from working class stiffs to billionaire bachelors.

  “Billionaire.” Mike lifted his chin, as if sniffing something. “It does roll off the tongue nicely.”

  “Mike Pine, billionaire,” Dylan announced grandly, jumping on the bed and bouncing like a mad monkey. His hair flopped in his eyes and he watched Mike plant his hands on his hips, shaking his head, as if faced with a recalcitrant, hyperactive eight year old.

  “You are such a child.”

  “Yes, but I am a wealthy child!” Bounce bounce bounce— boom! Dylan jumped off the bed and bounded onto the floor next to Mike, like a superhero landing. Mike’s eyes went from amused to pained, then his shoulders slumped forward. Dylan rubbed the soft spot between his shoulder blades and they both stared at a spot on the wall that seemed to contain everything they yearned for.

  “She left us all this money, Dyl. We had no idea.” Dylan shifted uncomfortably and said nothing. Mike picked up on his change, though, and turned to him with an accusing look. “You knew?”

  Dylan dropped his hand from Mike’s back and sighed. “No. I didn’t know she was a billionaire! But I figured out pretty early on that she had money. We were in college, Mike. The dot com boom hadn’t happened, and she claimed to make money off ‘websites.’ How do you think she could afford to spot us on all those trips we took?”

  “We camped and kept it cheap, Dylan,” Mike sputtered. “She didn’t live like a crazy-rich person.” Blinking hard, Mike started to say more but turned toward the dresser where Dylan kept a picture of Jill. The three of them on Cape Cod, at First Encounter Beach, the green marsh grasses so thick that hundreds of thousands of minnows lived in the shallow waters there, almost giving the water a viscosity of live, teeming fish. The ocean had been so perfect, the water warm though thrashing for the bay that day, and the three of them peered into the sun, some random stranger stopped and asked to take a pic.

  A pic taken a month before they knew Jill had lymphoma. For the month after that trip she’d been fatigued. Not herself. Quiet. Waving away their concerns, she had trudged on, working on her “websites” and going for long runs that turned into long walks and that, finally, turned into a leisurely stroll during which she’d collapsed. Mike had been with her and carried her three city blocks to the emergency room of a hospital. The next few days were a blur Dylan couldn’t let himself resurrect.

  Not now. Not as he prepared to go out with someone new. Someone vibrant.

  Someone alive.

  “Yeah, Jill kept a lot of secrets from us, Mike.” His partner bristled; the wound was still too fresh.

  “So let’s continue her legacy, then, and keep the money a secret.”

  “For now, sure. When the time’s right, we can talk about it.”

  “Jesus.” Mike ran a shaking hand through his hair and stared out the window at the city below. “What a fucking curse.”

  “And a blessing.”

  Angry eyes met Dylan’s as Mike spun around. “Call it whatever you want.”

  “It’s both,” Dylan conceded.

  “It just is— you’re right. It’s both.”

  “You get to save the resort. You know Jill would have been happy.”

  “So then why didn’t she save it? Why, Dylan, didn’t she tell us she had all this money? I mean, damn! It’s not something you casually forget to mention. ‘Oh! That’s right! I’m part of the richest point-whatever-oh-one percent in the world. While you were complaining about your ski mountain going under, did that slip my mind? Oops!’” The sneer in Mike’s voice was utterly uncharacteristic and made Dylan recoil. Dude was pissed.

  The anger, Dylan knew, was really a form of mourning.

  “Tell it to Jill, Mike.” The words took the winds out of the larger man’s sails, his body literally shrinking before Dylan’s eyes. Jill’s ashes were on that very mountain Mike had just bought— a big reason for his purchase. Now he could have her forever, safe and sound and secure.

  But still dead.

  Mike bit his upper lip and nodded. “Yeah. I will.” Dylan was running late for his date and slipped out the door quietly. He was ready to move forward, to move on, to continue past the past. Someday—soon— he hoped Mike could join him.

  He looked at his smart phone. Shit, he was already running late. No way he was going to blow this by making her think he was s
tanding her up. A quick look in the mirror again, a little bit more cologne. A final check of his smile in the mirror and he walked out of the apartment and into what he hoped would be a part of his future.

  Mike could stew in the past.

  Laura wasn’t quite sure what to make of this as she paced a safe distance from the restaurant, trying to leave herself an out if she needed to save face and just disappear. A sink hole might have been better, but she couldn’t conjure one at will. Running away in shame, though, she was familiar with—so she skulked three storefronts from the entrance. He had said 6:00 and it was 6:07. Seven minutes normally meant nothing in terms of the wheel of life. But right now each second felt like torture and 420 tortures were adding up to to one big ball of fear. And it all rested right in her gut where desire should be right now, where happiness should be right now, where joy and, well—not quite love, but at least lust should be residing. Not this pit of despair.

  It’s only seven minutes Laura, it’s only seven minutes Laura, she said to herself. The seconds ticked on until her smart phone clicked over and now it was eight minutes. It’s only eight minutes Laura, it’s only eight minutes Laura, it’s only eight minutes. A thin bead of sweat burst under her lip, and on her cheeks, and in that valley between her breasts in a way that only the cold irrational anxiety of dating could bring out in her.

  Oh, fuck this, she said to herself. I don’t think I can do this anymore, even Mr. Hotty Hot Hot Firefighter isn’t worth this. I’m just gonna go home and have a date with Ben and Jerry, that’s my comfort zone, right there baby. Maybe the most dependable men on Earth because this, this is bullsh—

  Zzzz, the phone buzzed suddenly. She had it on vibrate and she startled and it fell out of her hands, clattering to the ground.

  “Shit,” she shouted, reaching down, scrambling after it and hoping that the screen hadn’t broken. Luckily, she had a protective case on it, and grabbed it and slid her finger across the screen to answer the call.