Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance)

by S. Ann Cole

  Stupid of me to think he’d pity me.

  He releases me, steps back. He opens his mouth and starts to say something, but it’s Gloriel’s muffled voice that I hear. “Charlotte? Is everything okay? Nate, you can’t fire Charlotte. If you do I will never forgive you!” She bangs on the door now, rattles the lock. “Charlotte, come on down, honey. I need your help.”

  Noah arches an amused brow at me, moves back to the top of his mat, and slides right back into his pose.

  Although his eyes are closed and he can’t see me, I jab a finger through the air. “This isn’t over, you…you…boy in stupid black tights.”

  It’s not until I’m at the door and turning the lock that I hear him mumble, “I’m counting on it.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “MRS. GLORIEL VAN Der Wells, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  This is from none other than Qwesie James. Kiera giggles and Noah reaches for seconds.

  I, on the other hand, mouth off, “So, the fact that you used ‘Mrs’ along with her married name while proposing marriage doesn’t seem weird to you?”

  “It’s called showing respect for the deceased,” he returns, belching at the tail end of his response.

  “Oh, Q, you sure do know how to make a woman blush,” Gloriel says with sarcasm.

  We’re all slouching at the dinner table—Gloriel, Noah, Qwesie, Kiera and me—with empty dishes, full stomachs, and wine-glazed eyes.

  Dinner was good. Exceptionally good. Gloriel never fails when it comes to food. Hence Qwesie’s marriage proposal.

  Most of my day was spent plopped on a bar stool in the kitchen, watching Gloriel cook up a storm. She refused to let me help, so I just sat there and kept her company. I didn’t mind. The day was hers to boss me around. But I think her main goal was to keep me away from Noah. One, because I talk back too much. And two, because she’s against us hooking up. If I mouth-off and push him too far, I might get fired. And if we hook up, things might go sour, and I might quit/get fired.

  Albeit unspoken, loud and clear, these are her fears.

  Nevertheless, her hogging me all day wasn’t needed because Noah didn’t come down from his room until dinnertime. Qwesie arrived an hour earlier with Kiera, but he simply greeted us, picked up the decanter of scotch and two whiskey glasses, and went straight up to Noah’s room, as if instructed to do so in advance.

  Maybe Noah knew that’s what Gloriel wanted. Or maybe she told him to. Or, maybe, he did it on purpose to prolong my sexual frustration. Suffice it to say, I’ve been on edge all day on account my denied orgasm.

  Not a nice feeling. I can only imagine what blue balls feels like for a man.

  I attempted to touch myself in the shower, but found I couldn’t, my body obeying a ridiculous command issued by a god of a man who smelled like heaven itself.

  He said it’s his. And I can have it only when he says. Defiant as I am, something about that makes me want to wait. Makes me excited, anticipating the moment when he says I can have it. So I took a cold shower instead, attenuating the intensity.

  This lasted until Noah came downstairs for dinner in slacks and a button down, damp hair finger-combed from his face. Green eyes doing an instant search for me the second he entered the dining room, finding me, staying on me as he pulled out his chair and sat down.

  Those eyes narrowed, and I knew what he was searching for: Clues that I disregarded him and took what wasn’t mine. His orgasm.

  The hot threat of his narrowed eyes brought the edge back in full force, and of its own volition, my body squirmed, my thighs squeezed together.

  As if that’s exactly the reaction he was searching for, a ghost of a smile graced his lips, and he transferred his gaze to his mother, thanked her for preparing dinner.

  From there on out, I’ve been nothing but a ball of frustration all throughout, and I took it out on Qwesie whenever he opened his pie-hole. Let’s face it; nothing sensible comes out of this guy’s mouth.

  “Thank you so much for inviting me over for dinner, Gloriel,” Kiera says, while texting on her phone. “But I have to leave you guys now, if you don’t mind.”

  I raise my eyebrows at her. She’s been checking her phone all night. In fact, she ate with one hand, all the while holding her phone in the other, as though expecting a text or a call from someone. By the enthused light in her eyes and the rapid tapping of her fingers across her phone screen, it seems her hope isn’t wasted.

  I stare her down until she finally raises her head, a grin stretching her lips. When she notices me studying her, she quickly averts her gaze.

  She stands. Lifts her handbag from where it’s been hanging on the wing of the fancy dinner chair and bids everyone a good evening as she click-clacks away.

  Of course, I’m me, little miss inquisitive, so I’m up and following her before she’s out of sight, catching up with her outside the elevator in the foyer.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  She ostensibly checks her nails to avoid eye contact. “Oh, just to catch up with a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “What’s with the third degree?” she asks her nails, still avoiding my eyes. “Go back to your billionaire. You two were basically having eye-sex all through dinner. Just bone already. Jeez.”

  “Stop deflecting, Kiki. What are you hiding?”

  Kiera is super candid normally. The whole no eye-contact thing is not her style. Plus, her tone sounds more annoyed than supportive as she mentions me and Noah, as though she’s suddenly…against us?

  A thought settles, and panic explodes in my chest. Taking a step back from her, I whisper in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine, “No. Kiki, no. Tell you aren’t going to see him. Tell me you’re not—”

  Her eyes snap to mine, her tone sharp. “So you suddenly want him now? You can’t have them both, Lotty. Make up your damn mind.”

  “You’d betray me like that?” I ask her, taking yet another step back. “You’d give me up? After all this time, why now?”

  “Wait, what?” Bewilderment colors her features. The elevator opens but she doesn’t go in. “What are you talking about?”

  “Andrew,” I hiss, his name like a grenade on my tongue. “You’re going to meet Andrew.”

  A brief second of understanding passes over her face, and then hurt settles in, her face hardening. “After everything. After everything, you really believe I’d—” She stops, shakes her head, and blinks up at the ceiling. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, friend.” She stomps into the elevator, furiously punches the down button, and then she’s gone.

  I stare at the closed elevator doors. If it’s not Andrew, then who or what is she hiding from me?

  “Oh, Charlotte,” I hear from behind me.

  I turn to see Gloriel by the seven-foot tall decorative plant. She’s been spying on us. This freaking woman. “She’s hiding something.”

  “Maybe she is,” Gloriel agrees. “But whatever it is, I can’t believe it’s anything that will bring harm to you. Come on. Help me with the dishes.”

  Noah and Qwesie retreated to the balcony off the living area sometime during my confrontation with Kiera. Do men really have that much to talk about?

  Gloriel does the dishes while I package the leftovers, and all the while, she’s giving me a lecture on the importance of friendships and trust. She’s more motherly than my own mother had been. Not that Mom treated me horribly prior to Dad’s demise. Mom did everything a mother was supposed to do, if not in a clinical sort of way. But she also gave me free reign to do whatever I wanted. Back then, I could get away with murder—if murder was what I was about, of course. Fortunately, for her, I was all about Amex cards, glamour, sex, and terrorizing, seducing and blackmailing older men.

  Gloriel, on the other hand? She sees and comments on everything.

  Throughout her lecture, I spy on Qwesie’s and Noah’s silhouettes out on the balcony, laughing and drinking from whiskey glasses.

  Once
we’re through, I thank Gloriel and retreat to my bedroom under the pretext of a headache.

  U plan on telling me what U know about my ex?

  That’s the text message I sent to Muscles fifteen minutes later after I’ve changed into sleepwear and am lying bored in bed. I tried calling him numerous times today, desperate to know what he knows about Andrew, but he’s been sending me to voicemail, not surprisingly. He knows I’m not calling for escort anywhere, because Noah is home today. He knows he’s not risking anything by ignoring my calls.

  Some eight minutes later when I’ve moved on to skimming through mind-numbing essays as research for a paper that’s due in a three days, a reply comes in.

  Busy.

  I roll my eyes. As if I’m going to honor that. Doesn’t he know me by now?

  Me: That’s y I sent a text. No one’s ever too busy to send a text. So, send me a text.

  Muscles: A text.

  Me: Yo, if u don’t cooperate, I’ll kiss u the next time I see u. And we both know how much u haaaaate that.

  Muscles: I gave you this phone to use in case of emergency. Stop texting me. I’m busy.

  Me: U saw me calling u today?

  Muscles: Yes.

  Me: Why didn’t u answer?

  Muscles: I was busy then too.

  Me: Liar.

  My other phone—Noah’s phone—buzzes on the nightstand. Feeling full and lazy, I halfheartedly reach across and pluck it up. On the screen sits a text message from none other than Noah himself.

  Noah: Hey.

  Me: Hey.

  (((Ping)))

  Muscles: What do you want, Lots?

  Me: Lots? Is that my new nickname? Oooh, me likey.

  <<>>

  Noah: Better not be touching yourself.

  Me: Y r u texting me? We’re in the same house.

  Noah: Saying farewell to Mom now. Q’s staying over.

  (((Ping)))

  Muscles: Stop. Just stop. This is how you operate? Going around flirting with & kissing people? What’s it, some kind of game to you?

  Me: No, u stop. I kissed U first. U told me not to. Now u r acting like a jealous teenager. U shouldn’t be. Snooze, u lose.

  <<>>

  Noah: I’m not sleepy. Wanna watch something with me?

  Me: What TVD? hahaha.

  Noah: Nah. Been over that since the 4th episode. Damon’s constant eyebrow waggling annoys me to shit. Q recommended Graceland. Says it’s good. We can check it out together.

  Me: Oooh, I’ve heard about that one! Def wanna check it out.

  Noah: Pulling up On Demand now. Come on.

  Closing out of the boring PDF documents, I set my laptop on the nightstand.

  Muscles hasn’t replied to my last text. Just imagine, I messaged him to find out what he knows about Andrew and only end up pissing him off further. Only I can do that.

  Grabbing a pillow from the bed, I leave both phones and head out.

  As I approach the living area, I stop short, eyebrows kissing my hairline. Q is stretched out in the big couch, on his back, his shirt unbuttoned and baring his hard abs, his belt buckle undone and his fingers pulling down the zipper, and wide grin on his face.

  Noah—and this is the part that stops me—is fully dressed but curved over Q, one hand hidden beneath the too-pretty-to-be-male man stretched out beneath him, and the other hand braced against the couch handle, a menacing scowl on his face—a face too close to Qwesie’s for comfort.

  “Uhhh,” I begin, “am I interrupting something?”

  “Quite so, luv,” comes Qwesie’s voice, smooth and seductive as he reaches a hand up and curls it around the back of Noah’s neck, forcing Noah’s face closer. “But, you’re orally welcome to join u—”

  Noah jerks, and it seems like he’s struggling to remove his hand from under Qwesie. Unsuccessful, he then uses his other hand that had been braced on the arm of the couch to smack Qwesie on the side of his head. “Q, get the hell off my hand, or so help me.”

  Laughing, Qwesie removes his hand from Noah’s neck and sits up, freeing Noah’s other hand, which comes up with the television remote. “All-bloody-right. No need to show off in front of your new chit. Don’t act like we don’t fondle each other’s bell-ends all the time.”

  Noah straightens up, and then looks at me. “You’ll learn soon to ignore this fool. He’s a child in a man’s body.”

  With a nod, I begin moving again. “So…he was trying to seduce you?”

  “Nope.” He turns and points the remote at the television. “That show was just for you. He likes to entertain.”

  Pillow hugged to my chest, I shoot Qwesie an annoyed glance. “Don’t you have a fairytale bartender to go stalk or something?”

  Pushing to his feet, Qwesie stretches his arms over his head. “Negative. Wife-to-be is off on God’s day. So you sorry sods are stuck with me. On a Graceland marathon.”

  Like hell! “Noooo,” I drag out, “we are watching Graceland. You are gonna find a bedroom, jack-off under the sheets, say your prayers, and go to sleep.”

  Qwesie glances at Noah, expecting him to have his back on this, but Noah folds his lips, and keeps them folded.

  “You’re no fun,” Qwesie grumbles with a mock glare. He then, right where he stands, shrugs out of his shirt, drops his pants, kicks out of them, and then saunters out of the room.

  “Is he always such man-child?” I ask Noah, kicking Qwesie’s discarded clothes aside before collapsing backward onto the couch.

  “Only about ninety-three percent of the time.”

  “And the other seven percent of the time?”

  “He’s a serious businessman.”

  “Why is he staying over anyway?” My voice lowers as I ask this. “He’s a billionaire. Doesn’t he have his own playboy mansion or something?”

  As Noah selects the pilot for Graceland, he falls to the couch beside me. He hesitates, as if deciding whether he should answer. He casts a brief glance in the direction Qwesie went.

  “Don’t…” He sighs, and his voice is hushed when he tries again, “Don’t say stuff like that in front of him, alright? Or at least don’t be so mean about it. As his confidant, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Q’s monophobic. Before you moved in, he would stay over two to three nights a week.”

  “Uh, oh, I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Guilt showers me like inconvenient rain.

  He waves me off. “Just get used to him being around often. He’s been staying away because you’re here, but I guess he’s comfortable with you now, so…” As if wanting to be done with this conversation, he gestures the remote at the television. “Press play?”

  “Turn out the lights first,” I order, kicking off my bed-slippers and curling up on the couch, fluffing my pillow, getting comfortable.

  “My housemaid says to me,” Noah grumbles as he reluctantly gets up and goes to turn out the light. “Anything else, Miss Cooley?” The question is asked sardonically and is obviously rhetorical, because he’s sitting right back down as he asks it.

  I chew my lip, as if thinking about it. “Yes, actually. I have a question.”

  He makes an expression that says “go on.”

  I go on. “Earlier, you said my orgasm belongs to you.”

  Heat floods his eyes. He nods once to confirm this.

  “So, does that mean yours belong to me? Considering I’m the one who got you hard?”

  His gaze falls to my lips. “How are you so sure you’re the one who got me hard?”

  Incredulous, I blink at him. “Because you were rubbing up on me. Kissing me.”

  “Yeah. But I could’ve been thinking about Amber Heard for all you know.”

  Pushing up on my elbow, I glower at him. “You called my name. Lotty. And even if you had been thinking of Amber Heard, what are the chances that you chose to think of someone who could practically pass as my twin?”

  White teeth sink into his bottom lip as he studies me, then, as if unable to deny me further, he
turns to the television, presses play, and murmurs, “Yes.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes to what?”

  “Yes to what you asked.”

  With a satisfactory smile, I lie back down, getting comfortable again. “Yes.” His orgasm belongs to me. And the anticipation just got even more intense.

  We watch the pilot in silence. Riveting silence, I might add. Halfway through, I’m hooked. Less for the plot, and more for one of the main characters who is deeeelish!

  “Whoo boy,” I all but breathe out as the credits roll. “That Briggs guy is fine. Next episode, please!”

  Noah slides me a side-glance. “Maybe we should watch something else.”

  “What? Why?” Then I notice his sullen expression, and smile. “Aw, is my Abercrombie jealous?”

  Setting the remote aside, he reaches out and wraps his fingers around my ankles, yanking my legs out and apart so they’re scissoring him. He leans over, one hand between my waist and the cushion, the other braced on the arm of the couch, face hovering over mine. He searches my face, a contemplative glint to his concentrated gaze, a longing warmth to his breath.

  “What if…” he begins before trailing off. His eyes flick briefly to the television, where the credits still roll. Eyes coming back on me, he starts again, “What if I give you what you want. What if I give you anything you want. Would I be enough for you?”

  I’m blasted off kilter with this question. Definitely not what I was expecting. And truthfully, I don’t know how to even answer it.

  He doesn’t give me a chance to think, though, as he continues on, “You told me the other night that you no longer wanted just sex from me. That you want me. It’s what I wanted to hear. You don’t how much. But at the same time, you flirt with anyone who’s even mildly attractive and…” he trails off again, flexing his arm between my waist and the cushion. “You asked me this morning if I was being hesitant because of Mom. The answer is no. I’m hesitant because, well, I’ve been burned before and…Christ, I’m almost thirty-one, and I can’t even articulate myself properly.”