Shopping for a Billionaire's Honeymoon

by Julia Kent

  And I don’t mean his state of undress.

  He smells like woodsmoke and citrus, sweat and musk, and his hand, which is curled next to my nose, emanates a distinct odor I know all too well. Water cannot wash it away. When we merge like this, a tangle of legs and hands, of scents and licks, I find myself lost in a dreamlike place. As I slowly caress his back with my left hand, my rings brush against his spine.

  He shivers.

  “Am I hurting you?” He begins to peel off, leaving too much space, making a butterfly flail in my chest as if abandoned by wind that decides to turn the wrong way.

  I grab his ass, enjoying the feel of his solidity in my hand. The difference between our bodies fascinates me. I’m soft and curved, he’s hard and cut.

  “No.”

  He laughs. “That’s one way to make me stay.”

  “You need a reason?”

  He nips my neck, then sucks, hard, sending a zing between my legs. I’m already throbbing, my blood pounding through me, the pace slowing as release ends, but this little bite reignites me.

  “Thank you, Mrs. McCormick.”

  “You’re thanking me?”

  “For marrying me.”

  “You don’t need to thank me for that.”

  “I know I don’t. But I am.” He moves, his cheek resting on my nipple, head on my chest now as he runs his fingers around my belly button.

  “Then I thank you back.”

  I feel his smile against my nipple, his knee moving up, his body relaxed and fluid, like a cat. The tickle of leg hair feels delicious, a sensation I shouldn’t love but do. It’s the mark of intimacy, of opposites, of acknowledging the foreign while reveling in it. The endless fascination I have with his body, heart, mind and soul feels almost criminal.

  How am I allowed to get away with marrying him?

  “Better?” His question sounds like a self-satisfied pat on the back.

  “Much.”

  “Hungry?”

  I yawn.

  “Sleepy?” he says with a laugh. Rolling over, our bodies separating fully as we reposition, we settle with Dec on his back, my ear over his chest, snuggled in.

  His stomach roars under my ear.

  “You’re hungry.”

  “Yes.”

  “Want me to ring Adele?” I ask out of politeness. I’d prefer not to be interrupted, enjoying having him to myself.

  “Who’s Adele?”

  I clear my throat. “The flight attendant.”

  “Oh. Is she new?”

  “She’s been here since I started dating you.” More than two years ago, I don’t add.

  “Oh.”

  “You need to work on this.”

  “Work on what?”

  “Knowing the names of people who spend hours on a flight, working for you and serving you.”

  “Why?”

  “Dec!”

  He laughs.”I’ll call for some food.”

  Resignation fills me. While it’s not coitus interruptus, it’s Declan interruptus. The warm glow of being his emotional and sexual center is about to fade. “Wait until we’re clothed.”

  “Why? I don’t care if she sees me naked.” His stomach growls again.

  “She might.”

  “Why should I care what she thinks?”

  “I care.”

  “That’s different.” He stands and shrugs into a white bathrobe with the Anterdec logo on it, the light dancing on his broad shoulders as his arms move. “I love it when you get possessive and jealous.” He holds up his hands like they’re claws. “Meow.”

  “You’re invoking my cat?”

  He laughs, brushing the front of his robe, tying the sash tighter. “Better?”

  I sit up on my knees and pull him by the neck of the bathrobe, our kiss hot and wet. “Yes. I am now.”

  He looks down. A part of him looks back up. It’s one of my favorite parts.

  His stomach growls yet again.

  I lean back on the bed, still naked, and pose in the most inviting way possible.

  Declan RSVPs with vigor.

  Declan

  Sex.

  Food.

  Sex.

  Food.

  I am naked, wearing a bathrobe Shannon insisted I wear, riding my corporate jet on my way to my honeymoon. A corporate jet I won’t have the right to use in a few weeks, when I finish out my term as Anterdec’s vice president of marketing. I’ve just had shower sex and bed sex and sex sex with my new wife.

  Life is good.

  But I have two competing biological imperatives.

  I look down. One eye stares back up. It meets my gaze, ready and tall, engaged and prepared.

  And big, of course. I’m not bragging. That’s a statement of fact.

  I listen to my stomach.

  It cries out for attention.

  I look at the bed.

  Criminal.

  It’s criminal what Shannon does to me. We just had sex, spooned and cocooned, breathing in each other’s air and imprinting each other with scent and time.

  And yet she makes me want more.

  Spread among the mussed bedsheets, she looks like a divine being poured her into the bed, all long, rolling hair and sultry smiles. How can a body smile at me like that? Yet it does. It sings to me, a song of joy and fire that touches the very root of me.

  I climb on the edge of the bed and yank her by the ankles, hard, making her squeal.

  You know what you do with criminals?

  You handcuff them.

  “You,” I groan as I crawl on the bed, the sash of my robe dropping down just enough to tickle her skin as it drags from her knee up to her waist.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.” Her fingers make quick work of the robe, pulling it open again, sloughing it off my back where it never belonged in the first place. The chill of cool air on my ass makes me need her warmth.

  Now.

  “Again?” She quirks one side of her mouth as if she can’t quite believe I’m ready so quickly.

  Evidence to the contrary brushes against her hip.

  “I have a merger I’d like to suggest.”

  “I thought you were more into acquisitions,” she counters.

  “Both can come together nicely.”

  “You’ve already proven that, dear husband.”

  “Oh,” I say, leaning down to take one nipple in my mouth, the sweet softness better than any other texture, any fine taste, I’ve ever experienced. The second my lips fall on her skin I need to lick, to taste, the choreography of tongue and air, of teeth and suck a performance.

  The only audience is me. The only goal is enjoyment. Every time I taste Shannon I’m greeted with the familiar and the novel, with the known and the unknown. She’s a changeling, her ragged breath as I slip my face between her legs a mere prelude to the song I want to come forth from her, a melody that changes as much as it remains the same.

  Giving pleasure is its own form of art.

  But then her hands pull me up, fingers in my hair, urging me up to kiss her. I slip in, welcomed by her open grace, her thighs pressing against my hips. Overcome by an unexpected rush of protectiveness, I look away, bending down into her, swallowing the emotion. She’s mine – in more ways that I realized.

  That cuts deep to the bone.

  I’ve claimed her for myself since that day we saw each other in the boardroom, her flushed face and nervous, determined appearance intriguing me after the artifice of the mystery shopping encounter when Hot Guy met Toilet Girl. I’ve claimed her since the first limo ride together, the first brush of hands beneath a dinner table, the first kiss in the hallway at the restaurant, fending off dinner with her ex-boyfriend and Jessica Coffin.

  I’ve claimed her when I didn’t want to, when I was too blind to realize she’d claimed my heart already.

  She’s mine.

  And now I have something to lose.

  Her lips brush against my shoulder, her waist tightening, nipples pushing against my chest, th
e full-throated sound of her rousing me, pulling me out of my thoughts, bringing me back to the simple pulse of my own blood, the flex of my legs, the roll of my shoulders as my arms hold me above her, looking down into her eyes. We move together, increasing our speed, the strokes longer and harder, the tolling bell resonating deeper with each thrust. The combination of our breath, our pulses, the senses intertwining like the tendrils of a vine, new and searching, finding a place for their shaft where there is light and warmth, creates air like no other.

  What it means to be a man does not have to be answered as she kisses me, our sweat fusing skin together, her breasts spinning tales and taking no prisoners as they move against me, the threaded pieces of our souls trying to use our bodies to make us feel.

  And when we come together I can’t stop thinking her name, smelling her neck, burying my nose in her hair, memorizing the curl of her calf against my hip, the scent of her nipple in my mouth, the taste of her moans as she calls out a hoarse love that I need to match.

  Life is a lie.

  Sex is an attempt at touching the truth.

  And this? This has no name. What Shannon and I do in these fleeting minutes, the chain of so much lovemaking looped together by strings of long stretches of idle trivia, is who I really am.

  Hers.

  Chapter 3

  Shannon

  I must have fallen asleep at some point after Round Two, because I wake up to an empty bed, a mouth that tastes like sweet paste, and—did I mention the empty bed?

  Given that we’re in a private jet with no escape unless Declan’s chosen a parachute and is pulling a DB Cooper impression, he can’t be far.

  But why would he leave the bed at all? I’m ready for Round Three.

  I look in the bathroom. Nope.

  And then I hear it. The background murmur of Declan on the phone.

  Scratch Round Three.

  Searching the room, I find no sign of his suit. My clothes are gone, but a dry cleaner’s bag hangs on a hook on the wall. Having lived with Declan for a number of years, I can guess what happened. He contacted Adele, let her know about the blue dye fiasco, and somewhere on board, a genie whipped up a set of bespoke clothing for me.

  Or Grace made sure we have backup clothes on the flight.

  Either option is possible.

  I stretch, enjoying the sore muscles in my knees and between my legs, letting my abs slowly relax as blood warms them. The high thread-count sheets make me feel sexy, sensual, and as my bare feet touch thick carpet, toes sinking in, I take stock.

  Married to a great lover? Check.

  Married to a smart man? Check.

  Married to a good-hearted soul? Check.

  Married to a guy with money to burn? Ch—

  Ah. Wait.

  Until a few days ago, yeah. And not that I ever cared about all this luxury, but it’s slowly sinking in that Declan resigned from Anterdec. No more VP of marketing salary. No more stock options. No more fringe benefits.

  I didn’t resign, though.

  So at least we have health insurance.

  I ponder that one. Do billionaires need health insurance? Declan’s net worth isn’t a secret to me. He laid it all out before he proposed. He shared his net worth, I shared my Walk of Shame student loan debt.

  He laughed at the amount I owed.

  I cried at the number of zeros on his balance sheets. Tears of joy, but still.

  Could his crazy work ethic on our honeymoon be related to losing perks? Is he worried about money?

  I bite my lower lip, sucking gently where he nipped me, as I remove the dry cleaning bag from the hanger and slip into the new outfit.

  Perfect.

  Fits like a glove.

  I look around the jet’s bedroom with a different perspective. Flying coach is the norm for me. In fact, I’ve never flown business or first class. Still haven’t—because Declan uses the corporate jet for our trips.

  Time for Declan to join my reality.

  I step into the main living room area in the cabin. Declan cuts his eyes to me, giving a half shrug, as if he just oops! happened to fall and the phone magically ended up in his hand.

  Not his fault.

  He leans in for a kiss.

  “Get off the phone,” I whisper.

  He shakes his head, eyes off to the left, carefully avoiding my gaze. “Can’t. Fair Trade coordinator for locally sourced beans.”

  “You have to do this now?” I pluck a piece of brie, cut into miniature wedges from a wheel the size of a Tinker Toy, and chew it, enjoying the tang, creamy and textured at the same time. The plate Adele set out has strawberries and little key lime pie tarts.

  “Yes. I need to pin him down before we get to Hawaii and go on the tours of the Kona coffee plantations there.”

  “That better be a euphemism for sex.” I pop a tart in my mouth and chew, cocking one eyebrow.

  His expression says it isn’t.

  “Did you pick Hawaii for our honeymoon so we could look at coffee plantations?” The lime sweetness, normally so tasty, turns acrid and bitter at my words.

  The slight hesitation is all I need to see.

  “I’m done! Tell the pilot to turn around,” I demand, well aware of my irrationality but unable to stop myself.

  I want to see panic. Shock. Horror.

  Instead, I get the finger. He’s cool as a cucumber, unflappable, and not at all worried about my reaction.

  “Adele!” I call out.

  She hurries over, eyes impossibly wide.

  “Please tell the pilot we need to change the flight plan.”

  She looks at me in alarm. “Excuse me, Mrs. McCormick?”

  “We’re not changing the flight plan,” Declan insists.

  “Yes we are!” I counter.

  “May I ask why?” Adele asks.

  “Because I just learned my husband chose Hawaii for our honeymoon so we can tour coffee plantations.”

  She gives me a blank, uncomprehending look.

  “My workaholic billionaire picked a honeymoon spot so he can work more.”

  Her eyes narrow with outrage.

  “Is this about the rumor that you’ve resigned from Anterdec?” she asks Declan, moving closer to me. Sisterhood. Hell, yeah. We’re two seconds away from a fist bump and some bra burning here.

  “I’m not going to talk about this. Hold on, Diego,” he says into the mouthpiece of his phone, covering it with his hand. He ignores Adele and looks at me. “A word?”

  I hold up one finger in response.

  “Sorry. I’m busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  I make a play for his phone, but he’s faster, gripping my wrist.

  “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—”

  “Then you’re my mother.”

  He blinks, an insolent look clouding his eyes.

  “That’s true.”

  “Tell me about it. She insists we’re supposed to give her a honeymoon oops! grandchild.” There. I said it. Now he’ll panic.

  He grins. “Let me finish this call with Diego. Once it’s over, I swear I’ll pay attention to you.” Wink.

  “Oh, so you’ll pay attention to me because my mother wants a honeymoon grandchild, but if all I want is sex, I get the finger?” My heart races every time I say grandchild.

  His smile widens but he returns to the call.

  I try to grab the phone out of his hand and fail. “I’m tired of begging.”

  “I don’t want you to beg.”

  I give him a pointed look.

  “Only when we role play,” he says under his breath.

  Adele disappears discreetly, giving me a look that is as close to a Katniss two-finger salute as can be. Too many thoughts and feelings spin through me, whirling without center, until I’m looking at Declan like he’s a stranger.

  It’s not the way he’s acting that is the problem.

  It’s my fear that he’ll act this way forever.

  “Shannon, I bought the coffee cha
in for you,” he says in an earnest tone. If he’d used his all-business voice, or his control-the-boardroom voice, I’d shut him down.

  This is his I-love-you voice.

  “I know. And we’re going to build a great company. We will.”

  He smiles, lips spreading in genuine pleasure. “We damn well will.” A flicker of emotion I don’t see in him often rises to the surface. For a man who closes off his emotions with more control than North Korea has over its Internet, he’s being very raw right now.

  “You’re afraid,” I hiss, the words coming out in a tone of wonder.

  “What?”

  “You’re afraid.” I groan, reaching for his hand. He’s frozen in place. “I didn’t see it until now.”

  “See what?” he scoffs. “Fear? No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No!” He tilts his head. “What, exactly, do you think I’m afraid of?” Laughter lifts the word afraid like a beach ball being tossed around at a concert.

  “You’re working so hard because you took a huge chance, one you’ve never taken before, and you’re realizing it has to work. Failure isn’t an option.”

  “You’re describing our marriage. Not my new business.”

  “Our new business.”

  He relents silently with a small gesture, one designed to acknowledge my words but to give no quarter.

  “Of course,” he says, his voice like a feather on the wind. “Ours.”

  “If it’s ours, then I should share the burden.”

  “Burden?”

  “You shouldn’t have to do all this work.”

  He stares at me, uncomprehending.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I can’t take on the complex, high-level negotiations you’re managing, but I can do more than sit on a plane, stomping my foot, being a whinypuss.”

  “Whinypuss?”

  “Go with it. Look, you have Grace as your assistant. We decided you’re the CEO of Grind It Fresh! That makes me chief operating officer, at a minimum.”

  He nods. I’m not sure what to say next, because I’m totally winging it. I have his full attention purely by accident and I want to keep it.

  And I don’t have to use red garters.

  “Have Grace handle whatever she can. Then split the workload with me.”

  His eyes travel away from me, zig-zagging as he thinks through my words. It isn’t often that I do this to him. Stopping his pre-determined decision is hard. A bloom of victory spreads warmth throughout my chest, aligning nerves and emotion, wholly new. I guess this is growth.