Body Worship: The Billionaire and the BBW: Body Heat Series Book 3

by Madeline Parr

  The rattle of my phone vibrating on the table jolts me awake. I’m a little out of it, but then I regain my bearings pretty quickly. And I feel like someone sucker punched me in the stomach when the events of the morning come rushing back.

  I snatch my phone from the table top.

  It’s him again.

  Are you having a crazy day at the shop, babe? Call me - I want to see you.

  Forget that. I leave his text unanswered and walk to the kitchen. It’s a disaster and I unload the dishwasher and wipe down the countertops. My face still feels raw from my crying marathon this morning, so I decide to hop in the shower. Maybe I’ll feel better once I wash away the disappointment of today.

  I strip off my clothes and toss them on the bathroom floor. I crank the shower until it’s so hot I can barely stand it, and then I step under the scorching water. It pounds at my shoulders and back and feels wonderful. I lather up my hair and then rinse it clean. I massage my body with lavender soap and I start to feel human again.

  I could stand under the molten spray forever, but my reverie is interrupted by loud banging on my front door. I know it’s not Nash; he doesn’t know where I live. It has to be Jordan, stopping by to check on me. But then there’s the small part of me that hopes it is Nash. Hopes that he came here to fight for me. And then I get mad. Mad at myself for having hope. Mad at him for putting me through this. For pretending to love me. For making me think I could have the fairytale ending I’ve always wanted.

  I wrap my robe around me and belt the waist. My long hair hangs in a wet sheet as I stomp to the door. It better not be Nash. For his sake. Because I’m ready to give him a piece of my mind.

  “Evie, it’s me. Please let me in, babe.” I look through the peephole. He looks as miserable as I feel. Practically panicked. I should feel pity, but it just makes me more angry. I yank open the door.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “You’ve got some nerve showing up here. I want you to leave.” My eyes are spitting imaginary daggers. “And don’t you dare come back.”

  I wind up to slam the door in his face, but he grabs my arm and stops me. “Please, Evie.”

  “How the hell did you find out where I live? It’s really fucking creepy.” I push on the door but he slides his foot between the door and the frame to keep it from closing. It just makes me more mad. “I pay good money for my privacy, and I don’t appreciate you showing up here out of nowhere like it’s your right.”

  “You have to help me out, Evie-” He snakes his hand inside the door and tries to wedge it open.

  “I don’t have to help you with anything.” I release my hold on the door and he slides inside. He leans against the wall and catches his breath. I close the door and turn to face him. Might as well have it out now, a clean break is always the easiest kind.

  “I don’t know what’s going on,” he says as he throws his hands up in the air. His hair is messy and his eyes look a little wild. “I stopped by the store; I figured you were slammed and that’s why you weren’t returning my texts. Jordan ran me out the second I stepped foot inside. Did you know she keeps a gun under the counter? I don’t understand-”

  “You don’t understand? Don’t worry. I do.” I rest my hands on my hips. “I understand that I’m the laughingstock of the city. That this whole time you’ve been pretending you were falling for me, you were still playing the field behind my back.”

  He furrows his brow and squints at me. “Where did you get that idea?”

  I raise my voice. “So you don’t deny it?”

  “Of course I deny it.” He walks toward me and rests his hands on my shoulders. “Because it’s not true. There’s nobody else. I’m in love with you.” He leans in and I duck away.

  “I may have believed that before. But I don’t now. You’ve just been stringing me along for a good time until you found what you were really looking for.”

  “You are what I’m really looking for. What the fuck is going on? Who’s filling your head with this shit?” He throws up his hands in frustration.

  “That’s the best part. I got it directly from the source.” I grab the order for the flowers and throw it at him. He catches it mid-air and examines it closely.

  “Where did you get this from?”

  “All the floral orders for your family have started coming through my shop.” I practically spit it out.

  He starts to laugh and I’m incensed. I’m so hurt and angry that tears start spilling down my cheeks again.

  “I’m glad you can see the humor in it. Because I’m heartbroken.” My voice breaks.

  He pulls me close and I let him. I’m limp in his arms; he wraps his giant arms around me and kisses away my tears.

  “Evie, I wrote that order but I didn’t send it to your shop. That was my mother’s handiwork, I expect. She never stops meddling.”

  “So I was never supposed to see this at all.” I’m still mad, but knowing his mother had her filthy hands all over things makes me believe maybe it is just a misunderstanding.

  “Elizabeth is a family friend,” he says. “She’s 72 years old.”

  I open my mouth to argue and he presses his index finger against my lips.

  “She’s also a psychiatrist.”

  I pull back and look at his face. All I can manage is a surprised “Oh.”

  He nods. “I’ve known her for a long time and I thought I could maybe talk to her about… things.”

  “So you were-”

  “I’m trying to get better for you. So I can be the kind of man you deserve.”

  I cry harder now, but they’re a different type of tears. Happy ones. I nestle my face against his chest and hug him back this time.

  “But the note said you were a beast,” I realize.

  “Our first session didn’t go exactly as I had planned. I’m still not ready to open up to anyone and when she pushed me I may or may not have pushed a stack of files off her desk. And then kicked the door on my way out.”

  “Oh no, babe.” I run my hand through his hair.

  “It’s ok. I’m positive that therapy isn’t the answer for me at this point. So we’re working on a few other options.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “She had a great idea. There’s a vet who teaches meditation as a way to deal with trauma. She recommended him and I got him to agree to teach a class down at the center. I’m going to take it with the other guys.”

  “That’s fantastic,” I say.

  He takes my hands in his own. “So, do you think you can forgive me? I wasn’t trying to hide it from you, I just wanted to keep it to myself for a while until I knew where things were headed.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive. I was the one jumping to conclusions and being a total idiot. I feel like such a fool.”

  “You’re anything but, my darling.”

  He tilts his head down and captures my lips with his own. His skin is soft and smooth against mine and he tastes like coffee. He parts my lips with his tongue and strokes the inside of my mouth as his arms envelope me and pull me close. I’m ready to get lost in the moment, but my eyes fly open and I push back.

  “Wait a second.” I’m nearly whispering. “Did you say you love me before?”

  He smiles, pulls me close, and lifts me off my feet. “I did. And I do. And I hope you don’t mind hearing it every day for the next fifty years or so.”

  I wouldn’t mind that one bit.

  Two Months Later

  The dress is even more amazing than I could have imagined. The theme of this year’s ball is history, and we decided a vintage approach would be best, given my killer curves. Other women are milling around in the arrival area, waiting to take to the red carpet, but I don’t focus on them. I focus on me. Because I look damn good and I know it.

  My dress looks deceptively simple, but the tailoring is a dream. It fits like a glove and showcases my tiny waist, curvy hips, and ample bust. It looks like something Bette Davis or Rita Haywo
rth would have worn to the Oscars. The black fabric sets off my pale skin like a sheet of fresh snow and the black lace cap sleeves add a hint of texture. My hair falls to my shoulders in perfect waves. Rich red lipstick completes my vintage movie star look.

  “Are you ready for this?” Nash gives my hand a squeeze and then lifts it to his mouth for a kiss.”

  “I don’t think anyone can ever be ready for this. But it’s what I want.”

  “Maybe they won’t notice,” he says with a shrug.

  I laugh and look down at my left hand. A diamond nearly the size of a golf ball glitters under the lights. “I’ve seen paperweights smaller than this diamond. I’m pretty sure they’re going to notice.”

  “So what if they notice. At least it will save us the trouble of announcing our engagement.” He slides his hand to the small of my back as we prepare to step out.

  “People are going to talk shit.”

  He shrugs. “Jealous people always do. We’ll ignore them together.”

  “You parents will be furious.”

  “We’ll ignore them together, too.”

  “It’s almost like you have a plan for everything,” I say.

  “We live happily ever after.” He leans over and kisses my brow. “That’s my only plan.”

  “Well, we better get on with it.” I hold onto his hand for dear life as we step onto the arrival carpet together. It’s terrifying at first. All I hear are the clicks of the cameras and all I can see are the flashes going off. Nash holds me close and waves to the crowd. I lift my hand and wave, too. We walk the line and I’m just surviving, losing the battle against my nerves, when I hear someone ask “Who’s the bombshell with Nash Manning?”

  I relax. I’m the bombshell with Nash. The one who’s going to marry him, wake up to him every morning, kiss him goodnight every evening, get freaky with him at least several times a week, bear his children, and grow old with him.

  And it’s going to be fucking perfect.

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  Body Heat is the hottest club nobody talks about. Not with the ironclad confidentiality agreement you sign before you step inside. It’s the close-kept secret of the rich and famous, and they want to keep it that way.

  I’m not particularly rich and not at all famous. I’m something even better: family. The club’s owner, Nova Bennett, is my big bad sister. So, while other potential members fill out extensive applications, undergo rigorous background checks and medical reviews, and hand over their little black credit cards, I was simply handed the keys to the kingdom.

  I sit at the bar, sip my bourbon, and survey the room. This isn’t the cross section of society you run into at the grocery store or the DMV. Not even close. The majority of those in attendance tonight are good looking enough to be movie stars. A few of them probably are.

  Nova’s not a madam, if you’re wondering. The club doesn’t peddle flesh. She provides a safe place for like-minded people to meet and discuss their interests. Those interests just happen to involve sex. Sometimes she helps match people if their interests are especially unique. Otherwise, she simply provides a place for the rich, famous, and discreet to meet others who are rich, famous, and discreet.

  There’s no danger of publicity or being hounded by the tabloids. Not in a club that boasts a spectacular view of the city skyline through windows treated with military-grade privacy film. Not with a security team that rivals that of a small government. And not with Champagne.

  Champagne, the restaurant on the ground level of the building, started as a front for the sex club but developed into a celebrated and profitable establishment. I was the executive chef until a recent career change. It remains one of my favorite places to eat, and I’m not alone. It’s a favorite of all sorts of politicians, cops, and other straight-laced members of the community who couldn’t imagine the debauchery going on in the penthouse even if they tried.

  I’m not nervous about being exposed because there’s no way anyone could accidentally stumble into the club. Nova owns the entire building, and its security measures are best described as drastic. The only way clients can access the club is by swiping their security fobs near a nondescript door at the back of Champagne. It opens to reveal a bank of three elevators that travel only from the ground floor to the penthouse and back. Members use a key card to trigger the elevator. When they reach the penthouse, security verifies identities and membership status before allowing them inside.

  That’s when the fun starts.

  No sex happens on club property, unless you book one of the gallery rooms ahead of time. This is a place to meet and make arrangements. I’m anxious to make a few of my own tonight.

  Five years is a long time to go without sex, even if you have a good reason. And believe me, I have a damn good reason. Saying my divorce was rough could qualify as the understatement of the century. Now that my ex is somewhere . . . secure, I guess you could say, I’m ready to get back out there. But I’d pull my fingernails out one by one before I’d enter the dating pool again.

  And that’s the problem.

  I’m lonely. I miss being with a man. I miss the chest hair, the borrowed oversized T-shirts perfect for lounging around in, and that clean warm smell of the masculine man. I miss the scratch of stubble between my thighs and the feel of a hard cock in my hand, dancing at my touch. I need a man. I just don’t want one around all the time, making demands, getting jealous, and needing his ego constantly stroked.

  I surreptitiously scan the room for potential partners. Unfortunately, I see a lot of fake tans, waxed eyebrows, and smiles bleached shockingly white. I’ve always liked my men a little rough around the edges. I prefer to be the prettier one. Still, it’s turning out to be more fun than I imagined. I thought I’d feel like a wounded antelope. The straggler at the rear of the pack who draws the attention of the pride. But I feel like the lioness. It’s fortunate; I couldn’t turn off my need for control even if I wanted to.

  I’m scanning the room when I hear him place an order at the bar. His voice is deep and gravelly. It sounds like sex on a stick, and when he orders a Bruichladdich 21 neat, I get goose bumps. Maybe have a look at him before you decide to take him home, I think. I drain my drink and swivel on my deep brown leather stool toward the bartender to catch a glimpse, but I’m interrupted by an attractive couple who materialize in front of me. She’s petite and curvy and rocking the perfect red lipstick. He’s tall and blond and has cheekbones carved from granite. They both wear friendly smiles.

  “We’re heading out for the night and we’d love someone to come home and play with us,” he says. “You look like you know how to have a good time.” He looks at his girlfriend, smiles, and takes her hand.

  She nods, wide-eyed, and adds: “He loves eating pussy and he’s a god with his tongue. I’m no slouch myself. You won’t be disappointed.” There is not a hint of nervousness or self-consciousness in their invitation, and I know for certain it’s not their first rodeo. But it is my first time saddling up this bronco.

  “I’m sure it would be amazing,” I say, “but I’m just dipping my toes in the water—not ready to jump in the deep end yet.”

  “We totally understand,” the young woman says. She places a hand on his arm.

  “We’re here pretty often if you’re ever in the mood,” he adds. They wish me a good night and drift off.

  I turn to the stool next to me to collect my handbag, ready to go in search of my raspy-voiced, Scotch-swilling mystery man.

  “Can I replenish that drink for you?” I look up. The man in front of me is tall, dark, handsome, and giving off smarminess like radiation from a mushroom cloud. He takes his time examining me from tip to tail and then
back again, like he’s assessing a prized mare. I know in an instant he’s not what I’m looking for.

  “Thanks, but I’m a one-and-done kind of woman.” He opens his mouth to respond, but I’m already striding away from the bar area. I scan the room but don’t see anyone with a lowball glass of amber liquid. Plus, for some crazy reason, I’m convinced I’ll know him when I see him. The club is busier than I expected, but the crowd seems happy and fun. Still, it’s making it difficult to zero in on my target. And the layout isn’t making things easier.

  The club is divided into several different areas: the bar, the gallery, and the lounge. The bar is an upscale watering hole for the wealthy, while the lounge is a luxurious quiet space for more intimate conversations. To get to the lounge you have to pass through the gallery. I’ve visited Nova here before when the club is closed, but I’ve never been here when the gallery is open. It’s a thing to behold.

  Think of a hallway in an aquarium. But instead of windows looking into an underwater wonderland, the wall-sized windows in the gallery open to private performance rooms where people do every naughty act they can think of to themselves and each other. There are three on each side of the hallway, and they have to be reserved ahead of time. If you’re horny and shy, there is a toggle in each room that instantly frosts the window. They are always full during business hours. Always.

  I pass the gallery on my way to the coat check, and the moans and groans from the hallway send a delicious shiver up my spine. I have no intention of leaving this early or empty handed, but I need to check for messages, and cell phones are on strict lock down inside the club. One quick detour and I’ll head for the gallery and find my mark.

  He finds me first.

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  I’m a homebody who loves spending time with my family (both human and canine). I’m happiest when curled up with a great book, but also enjoy Mexican food, men in uniform, and binge watching Netflix. I love hearing from readers!