Billionaire Beast (Billionaires - Book #12)

by Claire Adams

  “Why don’t we just start with getting to know each other a little better and then, if one of our careers starts to flag, we can make that sex tape,” he says.

  I lie down on the bed and climb under the covers.

  “Did Dutch say how he wanted the scene to start?” I ask.

  The broad strokes are in the script, but Dutch has all the details worked out in his head. Yeah, it would have been nice if he’d filled me in on what he wanted me to do, but I guess telling Damian amounts to the same thing.

  “Why are you so ready to joke about making a sex tape when you’re so terrified of a couple of nude pictures getting out?” he asks.

  I’m hoping he’s not serious and we can just move on, but the look on his face tells me that it’s a real question.

  “One’s a choice, the other one’s not,” I tell him.

  “But you’d rather make this guy a millionaire than put him in jail and deal with the headlines?” he asks.

  “Can we not talk about that now?” I ask.

  He hit on something, though he doesn’t know it.

  There is a reason why I wouldn’t want those particular photos to come out, and it’s not entirely due to the fact that I’m naked in them. It’s not so much the absence of something that should be there as it is the presence of some things I’d rather not think about.

  “Yeah,” he says, “sorry. I guess I’m a little nervous.”

  Well, that’s going to be a well of self-confidence for a while to come.

  “So Dutch wanted us to start by making out,” I say. “Did he have any insights or was that just a general thought?”

  “I think the making out was the general thought,” he says. “The rest, well, he put me in charge of the rest.”

  “I thought you said it was kiss, missionary, cowgirl, done,” I say.

  “I was just thinking out loud,” he says.

  To answer the question whether celebrities say the same corny shit to each other that the rest of the world does before, during, and after sex, yes, yes they do.

  “Come here,” I tell him, and he climbs onto the bed.

  “This is pretty fast,” Damian says. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I think we’ve gotten to know each other enough for me to tell you that I’d really just like to stop answering questions and start familiarizing myself with what your cock feels like inside of me,” I tell him.

  That gets his attention.

  He’s moving over me, kissing me, and he’s saying, “You are just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

  “I guess I am,” I tell him, and he kisses me again.

  We’re both under the covers now, and he’s positioning himself between my legs and I can hardly breathe from the anticipation.

  In a moment, the world goes silent and he slides himself inside. I let out a long, pleasant sigh and I smile as I look up at him.

  He works himself into me a bit more and unconsciously, I’m pulling all the covers on the bed toward me.

  I put my hand at the back of his neck and pull him toward me, and I’m just marveling that the difference between a night of acting rehearsal where we pretend like we’re having sex and actually having him inside of me seems to be an unspecified number of blueberry vodka shots. Apparently, that loosens me right up.

  “How do you feel?” I ask him while I play with the hair on the back of his head and he presses himself again and again into me.

  “Pretty good,” he says, and he takes a look down at our bodies writhing together. “Really good, actually.”

  I chortle a little. “Well, I’m glad you’re having a good time,” I tell him. “Maybe afterward we can have coffee cake and various other desserts over brandy and a cigar.”

  All right, I’m a little drunk.

  He laughs and we kiss, but I’m tired of being on the bottom so I wrap my legs and arms around him as tight as I can and roll as best I can with him inside me.

  It’s not the most graceful maneuver, but he gets the idea well enough.

  Looking down at him now, stretching my arms back to rest with my hands on his thighs, I don’t feel drunk. I feel like I’m dreaming.

  I work my hips over him, leaning back so his tip nudges my G-spot in regular rhythm, and I’m breathing it in; the scent of us.

  With the dominant position now, I close my eyes, riding him as that feeling begins to stir.

  “Keep doing that,” I tell Damian. “Don’t stop.”

  He doesn’t. I don’t, either.

  Sensuality grips me, and I lean forward, moving my hands from his legs to his chest and I flip my hips, grinding into him as my legs begin to shake.

  “Oh…fuck…” I mutter, only a moment before I lose the capacity for coherent speech.

  My legs are going and I’m riding him harder and harder and I just keep coming harder and harder until it feels like it’s never going to end, and for the smallest moment, I get a little scared, and that’s when the foundation shatters.

  I roll over to the side of Damian and ask if he could just give me a minute.

  He says yes, and I can see the concern in his eyes. It’s not helping.

  This is stupid, oh God, this is so fucking stupid. It’s stupid, but I’m lying on my back with my forearms crossed over my face to hide the fact that I’m crying.

  “Can I get you anything?” Damian asks.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him, but quickly realize the mistake I’m about to make and change my mind. “Actually, could you possibly grab me a glass of water? I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I think I’m just a little lightheaded, that’s all.”

  I think I’m a little lightheaded? What the hell does that mean? Who has to think about it? It’s one of the more easily recognized health issues.

  “Sure thing,” Damian says, and I try not to laugh as he jogs, still completely erect, across and out of the room.

  I close my eyes and try to dry them with my hands.

  What the hell is going on with me? Yeah, the sex is incredible, but it’s not like I have this huge emotional attachment to the guy.

  Maybe it’s not even about him. Maybe they’re tears of joy at the relief I can still feel joy after everything Ben’s been doing.

  Whatever it is, it really needs to stop in a hurry because the tap in the other room just turned off and Damian is on his way back.

  I dry my eyes as best I can and I sit up a little, leaning back against the headboard.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

  “I think I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “I probably just got a little overexcited, that’s all.”

  “Yeah,” he says, “you seemed to really be enjoying yourself there. I was glad to be a part of it.”

  “You’re a smug bastard, do you know that?” I ask.

  “I am well aware,” he says, and hands me my water.

  I take a drink and glance down, away from his eyes.

  “Looks like you’re down to half mast, huh?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says. “In here, there was plenty to keep me going, but the kitchen turned that right around.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who’s afraid of being naked in the kitchen,” I sigh.

  “I don’t think it’s a fear so much as it is a rational instinct,” he answers.

  “So, from what I’ve observed, there seem to be two main camps among people like you,” I start.

  “People like me?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I tell him, “freaks. Anyway, so are you in the camp that says that being naked in the kitchen is unhygienic, or are you one of those guys that says they don’t want to get any kind of grease or food particles on your body?”

  “’Grease or food particles?’” he asks.

  I was attempting to sound like an expert, though I lack the credentials, and I think he’s onto me.

  “Or whatever,” I answer.

  “I’m in the camp that doesn’t want their junk anywhere near knives, forks, chopping blocks, meat tender
izers, bigger knives, or salad tongs. They say most accidents happen in the home; well, that’s one accident I’m doing everything in my power to prevent,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say, “I was right about you.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “You’re a freak,” I answer, and take another sip of my water.

  The stress of the day coupled with the exertion of the last half hour and topped with a good portion of that vodka bottle all seem to land on me at once, and as I take one last sip of water and set it on the nightstand, I close my eyes.

  “I’m just going to rest for a minute if that’s okay with you,” I tell him.

  “That’s fine,” he says. “Do you want me to go?”

  “No,” I tell him. “I want you right here with your arms around me.”

  This is the problem with knowing my limits when I drink: I always remember too much.

  Damian put his arms around me about eight hours ago and they’re still there, encircling me. For an instant, it feels great. It feels like something I’ve been waiting for, and I’m just a moderate hangover away from feeling complete when the gravity of what happened last night finally takes hold.

  The sex complicates things enough, but the passing out after crying after coming bit? That’s not really the way I wanted last night to go.

  When he says, “Good morning,” I nearly jump out of my skin. Maybe I would have, if Damian’s arms weren’t still around me.

  “Good morning,” I answer back.

  Then there’s nothing.

  I mean, absolutely nothing.

  We have nothing to say to each other after last night.

  Yeah, alcohol was a brilliant idea, Emma; really A-list thinking there.

  “So…” he says.

  “Yeah…” I respond.

  “Do you want me to sneak out of here or should I go out there and start fixing up some breakfast?” he asks.

  I wonder: if I told him that I’d like him to fix some breakfast and then leave, would he do it?

  “Whatever would make you the most comfortable,” I tell him.

  I think I may have unwittingly put us within striking distance of having the relationship talk and it’s way too fucking early, both in the morning and in the relationship for that to happen right now. He may have opened the door by asking me how I wanted him to leave, but I pulled us the rest of the way through it by letting him know the ball is in his court on that one.

  Being noncommittal has managed to lead directly to a question of increasing commitment.

  No matter how he responds to my statement, it’s going to tell me something about his desired level of commitment, and then I’m going to feel like I’ve got to reciprocate, and then he’s going to ask me how we got from the manner in which he leaves my apartment to me telling him my views on the modern relationship, optional allowances, and accessories of said relationship and where I fit on the spectrum between “I want to have your children” and “You can fuck me, but don’t look me in the eyes and no kissing on the lips.”

  Right now the answer is that I don’t have an answer. It’s still way too early to tell where this is going to go, and I haven’t even begun to shuffle through the various and often contradictory emotions I’m feeling right now.

  “Why don’t I pop into the bathroom and then we can figure it out from there,” he says.

  Well, that’s just great. He doesn’t want to tip his hand before he has an idea where I’m at.

  Clever, Mr. Jones, very clever.

  Then again, though, it could be possible that he’s got to pee and I’m reading way too much into everything.

  But would I be reading this much into everything if I didn’t see some kind of future between the two of us? That’s the real question, I think.

  I mean, what happens when he comes out of that bathroom?

  He’s going to come out of there and I’m not going to have any idea what to tell him.

  I could always offer him coffee.

  Coffee’s a nice way to say, “Hey, we just had a night of passion together. That doesn’t mean we have to talk about it.”

  Of course, coffee can also imply sex.

  If I ask him to join me for some coffee, is he going to think that I’m trying to get a little good morning sausage from him?

  Would it be so bad if that’s what I did?

  No, things are already complicated enough.

  The best bet here is for me to just wait until he’s out of the bathroom and then go into the bathroom myself, putting the ball back in his court.

  Of course, where is it said that the person in the bathroom can’t be the one to do the thinking?

  I guess I’m the one that started this whole thing this morning, but that doesn’t mean that I’m the only one that can deal with it.

  Chapter Ten

  Metaphor and Simile

  Damian

  It’s been a week now since Penelope first stopped by. It’s also been about a week since Emma and I first got together, but that’s not really important right now.

  What’s important is that I’m standing outside the hospital where Penelope told me to meet her and I’m having some serious second thoughts about going inside.

  She was supposed to meet me out here, right here. She told me to wait for her by the smoking area on the north side of the building.

  When it comes to smoking, Penelope is a world class athlete.

  Forget the smoke rings and the French inhaling. That’s child’s play.

  I could swear—nobody believes this story, but I could swear that Penelope once managed to blow a perfectly symmetrical figure eight that just kept growing in size until a slight breeze finally distorted the lines out of recognition.

  She just looked at me afterward, too, with a rather self-satisfied look.

  Now, she hasn’t shown up to meet me and I think I’m just going to go.

  Ed has a lot of hate for me for what happened to Jamie, that’s nothing new. And as great as it would be to somehow work through that and actually get to know each other without all the vitriol, I’m not daft enough to believe that’s actually going to happen.

  I’m going to go up there and either the visit turns into an argument, or he ends up keeling over at the very sight of me.

  I really don’t see this working out.

  “I’m so glad you came,” Penelope’s voice comes from behind me, and I turn around.

  “Hey,” I tell her. “I was just looking for you.”

  “It looked like you were just getting ready to leave,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “Sorry about that. I’m here. Let’s do this.”

  “There are a few things I should tell you,” she says, “you know, about Ed’s condition.”

  This should be a comfortable experience.

  I’ve always felt weird about hearing about other people’s health issues from a third party.

  “He’s on a lot of medication right now to try to keep his heart going until they can find a transplant,” she says, “but he’s still pretty aware of what’s going on around him. They took the tube out of his throat, so he’s just on an oxygen mask right now. He’s lost some weight since he’s been here, because he can’t bring himself to eat, but his color is starting to look better…”

  She keeps going, but as she does, I start to notice a sick feeling creeping into my stomach and I’m not sure I can listen to any more of it. It’s not the description of Ed’s health and the apparatuses that are keeping him alive that bothers me so much as it is thinking back to that black bag of carved, limb-shaped tofu in its raspberry sauce.

  Rita called me again today, though this time she didn’t see it necessary at all to say anything to me. She just kept breathing into the phone.

  I assume the call was placed so I’d know she was out there, alive and unharmed—a superhero in her own right: Stalker Girl, the only superhero who might just end up killing you in your sleep with a pair of tweezers and a claw hammer.
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  “How long do I have?” I ask.

  Penelope, who had been in the middle of a sentence talking about how I shouldn’t worry that they keep a crash cart in Ed’s room at all times because with the chance that his heart just goes, the doctors don’t feel comfortable having Ed more than 10 feet away from a defibrillator, looks up at me and says, “I know you’re not thrilled to be here, but the fact of the matter is that you are here, and I think the two of you can still make peace in the time he has left.”

  “I don’t want you to get your hopes up, Penelope,” I tell her. “I’ll do my best, but he has a lot of enmity toward me.”

  Hey, I finally got to use that word in a sentence.

  Bully.

  “Just having you here is enough,” she says. “I’m just glad you came.”

  Penelope takes me by the hand, and she leads me through the lobby to the elevator down the hall, and we go until she stops and turns to face me.

  “Just go easy,” she says. “Can you do that for me? I know he can be a hard man to love, but he’s not a bad man. Just go easy.”

  I’m not the one I’m worried about, but if it’ll put her mind at ease… “All right,” I tell her. “Are you going in with me, or should I go in alone or what?” I ask.

  “Oh, I really think I should be in there with you, don’t you think?” she asks.

  I shrug.

  It’s going to be hellish either way.

  We enter the room, and Ed’s is the first bed in the room.

  “Edward,” Penelope says, “you’ve got a visitor.”

  He’s lying there, pale and visibly weak in his bed, but when he hears his wife’s voice, he still opens his eyes. When he sees her, his eyes brighten, almost as if the sight of her is giving him new life.

  Then he looks over and finds me standing here.

  His expression changes pretty quickly.

  Ed lifts his oxygen mask, and in a thin, raspy voice, he asks, “What the hell is he doing here?”

  “I thought it would be good if the two of you talked for a while,” Penelope says. “It would be good for the two of you to bury the hatchet. I know Jamie never liked that the two of you butted heads and I see no reason why it should go on any longer.”