Bad Billionaires Box Set

by Elise Faber

  One brow rose. “Mind-blowing?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “I thought you were well on your way to redeeming you and your hammer skills. Then you backed off.”

  I waited to see if he’d deny it.

  He didn’t.

  Instead, his expression went thoughtful. He nodded. “I did back off. I think . . . I think that things have been so intense between us that I gave distance when I should have closed it. You’re not like any other woman I’ve ever met, Abby. You’ve got me so twisted up that I don’t know how to move forward.”

  “I—”

  “It’s not a bad thing. Just unfamiliar ground to navigate.” He cupped my cheek. “Like how you were with Hunter today—that killed me. You were so perfect, so sweet. Then I think about you with our baby, and I just get lost in this fantasy.” A sigh. “And then I remember we went from step A to step Z skipping everything in between and I keep thinking I owe it to you to give you B through Y. It’s almost paralyzing.”

  “I don’t need B through Y,” I said. “I just want to be with you. I want to know everything about you. I want to watch bad movies and crochet with you and not put any expectations on anything.”

  “I’m not used to having no expectations.”

  I couldn’t have expectations, not when every person in my life aside from Seraphina and Bec had completely obliterated the ones I’d had for them. I couldn’t expect perfection and happy endings, not when what I was developing with Jordan already meant so much.

  If I started dreaming of the other end of the rainbow, of picket fences and family holidays, I thought I might be thoroughly decimated when we were through.

  “I know,” I said. “But can we try? Can we keep moving forward without all the pressure of worrying whether or not we’re doing it right?”

  He nodded.

  “Thank you.” I rose on tiptoe to touch my lips to his.

  Jordan’s expression altered, turning a little hotter, slightly playful. “So no planning, right?”

  “Right. We just live in the moment and—oof!”

  He jerked me to his chest. “Shh. For now, we’re going to live.”

  And then he lowered his head to mine.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Abigail in his arms was the best thing in the world. She was soft and warm and smelled like roses, and when she moaned against his lips, pressing harder against his chest, Jordan’s arousal went from hanging on by a thread to roaring out of control.

  He put his hands on her shoulders, tugging her back.

  “But—”

  One move and she was in his arms. He carried her to the bed, ripped back the comforter, then set her on the sheets.

  Pink cheeks, swollen lips, mussed hair. She would have said it was crazy, that her locks were out of control, but he thought the way they were spread out across her pillow was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

  “Hi,” he whispered, coming down beside her on the mattress.

  Her mouth quirked up. “Hi.”

  “You’re so beautiful.” A roll of her eyes—another dismissal that was so typically Abby. He gripped her chin, forced her to look at him. “I gave you no expectations, so you need to give me this. You are the most beautiful woman inside”—he pressed his palm to her heart, felt the rapid thump-thump of her pulse—“and out.”

  “Jordan.” She sighed, covering his hand with her own. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Accept it.”

  A snort.

  “Now shh.” He kissed her before she could protest further, slipping his tongue into her mouth and coaxing hers to join in. The heat, the spark he felt at just the press of their mouths was insane. His entire body felt on the edge of implosion, just from one kiss.

  Her hands threaded through his hair, gripping tightly, and the slight bit of discomfort propelled him headlong over the edge.

  He found the waistband of her pajama pants, shoved them down, then tore his mouth free from hers to pull off her shirt.

  In less than ten seconds, she was naked except for a tiny pair of blue cotton panties. There had never been anything sexier. Pale skin flushed pink, breasts stiff-peaked and waiting for his mouth, the slightest hint of her arousal soaking through her cotton underwear.

  His mouth watered.

  Slowly, wanting to savor the moment, to make it better for her than their first encounter, Jordan traced his hands up her waist.

  Gooseflesh erupted on her skin, and she hissed out a breath. “That tickles.”

  “Mmm,” he said, bending so that his mouth could follow the same path. Her waist, her stomach, and then up . . . up until he reached her breasts. He rubbed his nose against the underside of one, before leaning back slightly to blow on her nipple. “I read they can be extra sensitive. Is this okay?”

  “Uh-huh.” She arched back, pressing her breast closer. “I want—”

  He licked the hardened nub, relished her moan. “What do you want, sweetheart?”

  “I—” Hands came up to his head again and tugged him back down. “They’re—” Another swipe of his tongue. “Not . . . ah . . . sensitive. I want—” She pulled his head toward her breast and groaned when he held steady, staring into those gorgeous, lust-filled hazel eyes. “You. Jordan. I need your mouth.”

  He’d wanted the words, needed them, but they nearly shattered what remained of his tattered control. She was so beautiful, so good, and he wanted to make this perfect.

  That meant more to him than his own pleasure.

  It meant more to him than anything else did in that moment. More than the company, the robot project, the beach.

  The only thing that mattered was pleasuring Abby.

  He closed his mouth around her nipple and gave her everything he had, every skill he’d honed, every tactic he knew. Jordan paid more attention to her responses than any other woman from his past, noting every moan, every hitch of breath. He exploited the information, using it to discover what set her on fire.

  From her breasts, he moved up to her mouth, feasted on her throat, and then kissed his way down her body.

  There was a soft curve just below her belly button and his heart squeezed, his desire banking for a moment as he glanced up and met Abby’s eyes. He saw in them what he felt in his heart. Hope, fear, and love.

  He felt love for Abigail.

  Carefully, he pressed his lips to the little bump. He was in love with Abby.

  Holy shit, he was in love.

  Shaking fingers touched his cheek. “Jordan?”

  “I know, sweetheart,” he said. “I know.”

  It was like one of those moments in movies, where the main characters stare at each other and a montage of their past interactions start playing. Except this was real life and the moments were a blur, the huge feelings he felt for this women so much more.

  “I need you.” One shift of her hips and the time for emotions were over.

  He slid lower, spread her legs, and began feasting.

  Fuck, she tasted amazing. Sweet with just a hint of tart, it was the best meal of his life.

  “Oh, God,” Abby moaned, hips writhing. “That’s”—he slid one finger home—“oh, fuck. Jordan.”

  Another finger and he moaned at the tight fit, remembering what she’d feel like, imagining himself sliding home. His slacks were uncomfortably tight and he was slowly dying from the need to be inside her.

  “I—” She gasped. “That’s—” Her head rolled from side to side on the pillow, her hips bucked against his mouth. “Oh . . . fuuuck.”

  She pulsed against his finger, squeezing him tightly as her orgasm pulled her over the edge.

  Her chest rose and fell, breasts jiggling, a sheen of sweat coating her skin. Her pussy was pink and glistening, and he had to force his eyes to the ceiling and count backward from one hundred to not blow his load.

  “Jordan?” she asked after a minute.

  “Yeah?” He was still counting.

  “Why aren’t you inside me?”


  His head jerked. “What?”

  She sat up, hands finding the buttons on his shirt and sliding one free. Then the next and the next and the next. He shoved it off when they were all loose. The buttons on the cuffs caught on his wrists and he yanked them through, not giving a damn when he heard the fabric rip.

  Because Abby’s hands hadn’t stopped.

  They’d continued to unbutton his slacks and then had progressed to zipper sliding.

  Hot palms on his chest, his stomach, beneath his boxer briefs and—

  “Oh fuck,” he groaned when she gripped him tightly.

  “There you are,” she whispered, but she wasn’t talking to him. No, the words were for his hammer—fuck, he was the one making hammer references now—and the way she licked her lips nearly made him come right then and there.

  Which made alarm bells blare in his head.

  “Next time,” he said, extracting himself from her hands and bending to kiss her. He thrust his tongue past her lips and slipped his fingers back between her thighs. She jumped then moaned when he gentled the strokes, knowing that she was still sensitive.

  Abby was so responsive that he wanted to spend the night making her come over and over again.

  He wanted to claim her, body and soul. To mark her from the inside out. To tattoo her heart with his name.

  To tie her to him for an eternity.

  But most of all, in that moment, he couldn’t wait another second to be in her.

  He kicked out of his slacks and knelt between her thighs.

  I love you, he thought, and thrust home.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I really loved this man’s hammer, I thought, gasping as Jordan slid inside me with one firm stroke. It was too much yet not enough. Well, not the hammer part—that was great—but the rest of it.

  What we were sharing wasn’t just physical. It was more.

  And that scared me.

  I wanted to keep it physical, but I couldn’t.

  Every time we were together, whether it was sexual or not—and more often it had been not—I felt another thread connect us.

  Or, rather, I felt another string attach me to him.

  And I worried about what might happen when he inevitably severed the ties.

  Because it would have to come from him. I was too addicted to his particular brand of perfect to distance myself now. I’d jumped in with both feet and prayed that he wouldn’t find me lacking—

  Which was seriously fucked up, I realized.

  My worth shouldn’t come from another person. But it had somehow become interlaced with his . . . what? Acceptance? Thoughtfulness? Approval?

  Oh, my God. I was so fucked up. How was I going to raise this baby without screwing them up? How—?

  “Abigail.”

  Jordan was on top of me, inside me, and I was having a panic attack. “It’s not you,” I said. “It’s—oh, God”—my hands came up, covered my face—“oh, God. I’m ruining this. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  I was hiccupping now, sobs escaping my chest, tears leaking, and I didn’t completely understand why except that when he’d slid inside me it had felt so perfect and I knew perfect couldn’t last. I just knew I’d do something to fuck it up.

  And now I was. I was screwing it all up.

  “Sweetheart.” He tugged at my hands, but I shook my head. I was embarrassed enough, he didn’t need to see my snot-covered, splotchy face.

  Because I wasn’t crying pretty.

  This wasn’t one perfect tear sliding down my cheek, like a romance novel. These weren’t tears symbolizing the fruition of a relationship and hope for the future.

  These were frightened sobs from a woman who felt too much.

  This was me being unable to take that final leap and just put it all on the line.

  This was—

  “I love you.”

  I froze, sobs sticking in my chest. My arms went lax and Jordan gently peeled them from my face. He leaned close, close enough that I could see the specks of gray-green lining the deep blue of his irises.

  Beautiful.

  “Abigail Roberts,” he said, one palm cupping my cheek. “I. Love. You.”

  It scared me, those words. But it scared me more to do this without them.

  Because . . .

  “I love you too.”

  He shuddered, reminding me that he was still hard, still deep inside.

  “I like hearing you say that,” he murmured, resting his forehead on mine.

  Serenity swept through me in that moment, erasing the fear, eradicating those persistent doubts.

  There were just the two of us in this bed. The rest of the world could wait.

  Calmness reigned . . . but just for a minute.

  “Okay?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Sorry I freaked out.”

  “If you’re feeling what I’m feeling then I say we’re due a freak out every once in a while.”

  “When are you going to freak out?” I asked, pushing back a strand of hair.

  “Probably not when I’m inside your heat and dying to move.” He gave me a pained look. “You feel incredible.”

  “I know.” I smiled, before tugging his mouth down to mine. “Now move.”

  He didn’t need to be told twice.

  The phone call came a week before Christmas, while Jordan sat next to me in Dr. Stephens’ exam room. She measured the baby’s growth and it was crazy to see the difference that just a month had made.

  Fourteen weeks since that bad night stand.

  Fourteen times seven—it was too early in the morning to do the math—days since my life had taken a sharp left.

  Jordan had all but moved into my house, even going so far as to sneakily claim a drawer and buy an extra tube of my deodorant to leave on my bathroom counter. And though we worked long hours and we spent a lot of time with Hunter, we were managing to carve out time for just the two of us.

  Time that I relished.

  Time that I loved—even if it was just streaming a bad TV show and eating takeout, even if it was just working opposite one another on my kitchen island, laptops dueling.

  Even if it was crocheting together and making fun of the garish and mismatched colors he’d chosen for the scarf/blanket/lumpy-square-handkerchief.

  I didn’t want to share him with the world.

  But I wasn’t the only one who needed him.

  So when Jordan’s cell rang and he turned it to silent instead of answering it, I touched his hand. “That’s Hunter’s ringtone.”

  “It’s—”

  I shook my head. “Answer it. What if he’s—?”

  Sick. Hurt. In the hospital. Lonely and all by himself.

  He studied me for a second before pulling out his cell and excusing himself to the corner of the room.

  “His nephew,” I told Dr. Stephens. “He’s in need of a heart transplant.”

  Her eyes dimmed. “How old?”

  “Seven,” I said softly. “Mom bailed. Dad passed away.”

  “Damn,” she said, peeling off her gloves and patting my knee. I slid up, tucked the drape back over myself. “It’s always so much worse when it’s kids.”

  I nodded. “I agree completely. He’s the best kid, too. Smart and precocious—”

  “He got it,” Jordan said, his face blank. “I—he got it.”

  “Got what?” Dr. Stephens asked.

  “A heart.” Jordan’s voice was stunned. “Hunter is on the way here with Cecilia. They have a heart for him.”

  “Oh, my God.” I started to stand, remembered I was bottomless and froze.

  Dr. Stephens squeezed my hand. “You’re all set here. I hope everything goes okay. Call me if you need anything.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She left, closing the door behind her.

  “Jordan,” I said. “He’ll be okay. It’s—”

  “I want to get custody of him,” he said. “Once this is all said and done. I don’t want him alone. I want him with m
e.” His eyes met mine. “With us.”

  My breath caught. “I—I—”

  I breathed in then out, very slowly. I wanted that too. So much. I already loved Hunter like my own.

  “We’ll get him through this,” I said, knowing that he had a fight ahead of him. “Then we’ll figure out what Hunter wants.” I wouldn’t take him from Cecilia, the one other solid in his life. If—no, when—Hunter was healthy and strong, we’d figure it out.

  And it would involve Jordan and me.

  I couldn’t let that little boy grow up without us.

  We met Cecilia and Hunter in the waiting room of the transplant center.

  “Did you grab the papers?” Jordan asked.

  “I did.” Cecilia handed a folder over and Jordan flipped through it, sighing when he reached a page.

  “Good,” he said, pulling two legal documents out, glancing quickly at both, then sticking them back inside. “Everything is here.”

  “Want me to hold that?” I asked, leaning up to whisper in his ear. “Hunter looks like he could use a little Uncle Jordan time.”

  We both glanced over at the little boy, whose typically pale skin was even paler than normal. Jordan handed me the folder then bent to pick up Hunter. “All ready, buddy?”

  Hunter’s bottom lip trembled. “Uh-uh.”

  One big palm wrapped around the back of Hunter’s neck and pulled him against Jordan’s chest. He bent his head, speaking softly into Hunter’s ear. I couldn’t hear the words he whispered, but I saw the effect: a gradual relaxing, a growing confidence, and finally two little arms being thrown around his uncle’s neck.

  Cecilia sniffed and I wiped a finger under each eye.

  “Sometimes I wish that Jordan was Hunter’s dad,” the younger woman said.

  “I think he wishes that too,” I told her.

  “Do you think—?” she broke off. “Never mind. We need to think about the surgery right now.”

  “Would you mind if he—if we . . . someday?”

  It was barely a coherent sentence, but Cecilia understood me anyway.

  Her lips pressed tightly together. “I would love it if Hunter found his own family.” She stared at me, fury in her eyes. “She signed away her rights, you know?” A nod in the direction of the folder.