Bad Billionaires Box Set

by Elise Faber

  Small expenditures. Controlled actions. That was how he’d made his money . . . and how he kept it.

  By being conservative with his assets and not risking more than he was willing to lose.

  So, now his wardrobe was filled with suits that were expensive, and he owned a jet, but he still didn’t waste money on the penthouse or caviar or red-soled shoes. This suite with its single bed, room service available twenty-four hours, and location near the airport was perfect for his lifestyle.

  Work hard. Eat hard. Sleep hard.

  He snorted and picked up the file.

  No wonder he got all the ladies.

  No one could resist a burger at three A.M.

  “Which is going to be the time you finish this if you keep going at the rate you’re going, Steele.”

  So he pushed away all thoughts of Heather and the marriage license . . . and the tenterhooks of his past that always crept close to the surface this time of year and got the fuck to work.

  His fingers clicked across his keyboard as he began going over the reports one more time, inputting figures himself, testing and manipulating the data. The puzzle of the Pierce deal had triggered something in his brain and he knew, knew that he wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep until it was completely unraveled.

  Papers were sorted into different piles as he worked, spreadsheets were created and reports were made, over and over with different variables at work.

  This was his strong suit. Data, reading between the lines, understanding the pieces that were left out.

  And it was nearly three hours later that he understood.

  “Holy fuck,” he whispered as he stared at the screen of his laptop. “They can’t be serious.”

  He stood, stretching his back, his neck, shaking the numbness out of his legs.

  Because this was—

  Buying into Pierce was going to be a huge mistake.

  Clay was moving before conscious thought caught up to him, grabbing his key, the files, his laptop, unlocking his door and moving a few feet down the hall to knock on Heather’s.

  He didn’t look at the time, didn’t consider that it was nearly one in the morning, that she’d had a long day and probably didn’t know what time zone she was in. He didn’t consider how exhausted she’d looked when he’d seen her three hours earlier and that he was probably waking her up.

  He didn’t consider any of that.

  And yes, deep down, he knew he was a Grade A Asshole for not doing so, but this was more important than sleep.

  This was business.

  She answered his knock in a pair of silky blue pajama pants and a cream-colored tank top with no bra.

  Yes, despite the information rattling around in his brain, he noticed.

  Grade A Asshole, remember?

  The material was thin and did more to enhance than contain. His fingers actually ached with the need to touch. His mouth watered.

  Heather snapped her fingers in his face. “Eyes up here, Steele.”

  He blinked, physically shook himself and forced his gaze up to meet hers. “I need to show you something.”

  If he hadn’t been staring at Heather’s face at that exact moment, he would have missed her eyes flick down toward his waist.

  His lips tugged up, and he snapped his fingers.

  “Not that.” A beat. “Though I could be convinced if you’re extra nice to me.”

  “Shut up, Steele,” she retorted. “I was staring at your laptop.”

  “That’s what all the girls say.” He waggled his brows.

  She huffed and turned away. “Come in or don’t. I’m tired.”

  Clay followed her, closing and locking the door, and found himself wondering when in the hell blue pajama pants had become his favorite type of lingerie.

  Because Heather’s ass was just—

  Not the point.

  He trailed her down the hall and into the bedroom, ignoring the twinge in his gut when he saw her bed was a mirror of his, down to the stacks of papers, the files, the laptop. She’d been working, too.

  Of course she had.

  She scooped up some of the files, stacking them carefully before perching on the edge of the mattress. “So, what are you doing here?”

  Clay snagged the desk chair and plunked it in front of her, not daring to sit on the bed next to her. Not when—

  Focus.

  “I was going over the Pierce files—”

  “Me, too,” she said, gesturing to the piles next to her. “I’m guessing the reason I’m graced with the presence of Clay Steele, porn-star-in-training, is because you’ve found something?”

  He pretended to wince. “You’re mean at one A.M.”

  “I’m mean all the time.”

  “Maybe,” he said, turning the laptop so she could see the screen. “But sometimes, I think you’re more bark than actual bite.”

  Her lips twitched. “You’ll ruin my image.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re still the smartest woman I’ve ever met.” He was glancing down at the spreadsheet as he said it but looked back up when her anticipated comeback didn’t materialize. “What is it?” he asked. Her face was unreadable, but there was something in her eyes . . . vulnerability? Fear?

  But Heather O’Keith wasn’t vulnerable, and she definitely wasn’t scared of anything.

  Case in point, she erased that trace of emotion between one heartbeat and the next. “Never mind,” she said, her tone brisk. “What did you find?”

  Clay hesitated but decided there was nothing gained in pushing her. “This.”

  Anyone who tried to force Heather over to their side, who tried to out-stubborn or outmaneuver her, rather than dealing with the facts, with information that was black or white, found themselves looking at her backside as she strode away into future successful endeavors.

  But all things considered, Clay supposed her backside wasn’t a bad view.

  Of course, he’d rather view her from the front.

  Which wasn’t the point, so he pulled up the spreadsheet and began showing her the information he’d found.

  “Oh,” she said, snatching up her laptop and pulling up the file she’d been working on. “And if you compare it with this . . .”

  “I know,” he said, opening the profit loss statement they’d been supplied. “It means this couldn’t possibly be accurate.”

  “They’re operating at a loss,” she murmured, “but don’t want us to know it. Why? Plenty of start-ups looking for investors aren’t profitable in the first year but are still good investments.”

  “Right.” He nodded. “I think that’s what pinged my mind first. Numbers that are too good to be true are usually too good to be true.”

  “Exactly.” Her pointer finger touched the screen, all red and sparkly.

  Clay blinked away the memory of those nails tracing down his chest, the feel of them digging into his back. They had leaned closer to one another as they’d talked, and he could smell the mint of her toothpaste, the floral scent of her shampoo.

  She tilted her head to get a better view of his screen, reached over and highlighted a square on the open spreadsheet. “This is the biggest issue. Because Pierce should be profitable, but this number showing as it is means that someone is skimming off the top.”

  Her left hand had landed between his legs and somehow she didn’t seem to notice.

  She. Didn’t. Seem. To. Notice.

  How could she not fucking notice that her hand was half an inch from his cock?

  His dick had sprung to hopeful attention and was getting harder by the second, but Heather was completely oblivious as she selected another cell on the spreadsheet and then another, filling them with alternate colors.

  “What do you think?” she asked, eyes glued on the computer.

  Clay managed a nod . . . and nothing else.

  “And then”—she leaned closer, almost sprawling herself across his lap—“because the numbers—”

  She froze.

  Probably beca
use he hadn’t been able to control himself, and he’d shifted just the tiniest bit closer to her fingers.

  He was a pig.

  But fuck if he didn’t want her hands on him.

  “I—” Her breath hitched, her eyes finally left the computer’s screen, connecting with his.

  But she didn’t move her hand.

  Slowly, carefully, he lifted his palm and rested it on her hip, waiting for her to back up, waiting for her to tell him to get the fuck away.

  Instead, she surprised him by taking the laptop and tossing it onto the mattress.

  “Well, I guess we don’t need to take that trip to Amsterdam after all.”

  “What—”

  She kissed him.

  And Clay suddenly started feeling pretty damned optimistic about life.

  Chapter Eleven

  Heather

  Heather was being an idiot—she knew that, she understood it.

  She just didn’t give a damn.

  Not this close to Clay, not with his hands on her, his mouth against hers.

  So she kissed him for all she was worth, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling herself forward so that she straddled his hips. His arms banded around her waist, bringing her flush against him and reminding her all over again that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  He was still in the button-down and slacks, and the stiff material teased the bare skin of her arms and chest.

  “Mmm,” she moaned when he broke the kiss to nibble along her jaw, down her throat. When he nipped the space just above her collarbone, her grip shifted to his hair, holding him in place.

  “You like that,” he murmured against her skin, and it wasn’t a question.

  “Yes,” she answered anyway.

  She had liked it when he’d done it before. She loved it when he did it now.

  Fingertips that were surprisingly calloused for a man with a white-collar job traced the scooped neck of her tank top. Her nipples pebbled, aching for his touch to drift lower, for his mouth and teeth and tongue to follow suit.

  Instead, his hands slid up, cupping the back of her head and stealing her mouth in a kiss that made her head spin.

  “Sweetheart,” he eventually said, pulling back, both of them gasping for air.

  For once, she didn’t rebuke the endearment.

  In this room, in this moment, it seemed perfect.

  Alarm bells blared in her head, but then Clay continued speaking, and she couldn’t focus on the internal warning. Hell, she could barely comprehend his words with his fingers massaging gentle circles against her scalp.

  “We should stop,” he said, and the statement took a long time for her desire-addled brain to process. “You don’t want this, not really.”

  “I really do,” she said with a wicked grin. “Because I really like orgasms, and I know you’re the man who can give them to me.”

  “Still—” He groaned when Heather’s hand snaked down to grip the hard length of him.

  “You don’t want me?” she asked, using her free hand to urge one of his out of her hair and down to her chest, pausing to rest it over her breast. Her nipples were hard and aching, standing out sharply against the cotton. And while the action made both of them groan, she didn’t let Clay focus his attention there, instead, she coaxed his hand lower . . . under the waistband of her pajamas and directly between her bare thighs. “Because I want you.”

  He hissed when she shifted so that his fingers caressed the hot, damp center of her. “Fuck. I want you, baby.” He let out a pained breath. “I know you can fucking feel how much, but I’m trying to be good here. You’re tired, and I’m an asshole, and you need to rest.”

  She undulated her hips, teasing herself and him as the movement made his fingers inch nearer her entrance.

  Her teeth found her lip, bit down. “I’d rest a lot better after an orgasm.”

  His head dropped back. “Fuck, Heather—”

  “Yes,” she said, pulling her hand away to strip off her shirt. “Fuck Heather.” She tossed the tank aside just in time to see his head pop up, Whack-a-Mole style, those mocha eyes darkening to espresso.

  And it was like she’d snapped the leash on his control.

  One second she was on top, teasing, urging, the next she was just along for the ride.

  He tossed her onto the mattress, decimating her organized stack of files, snagging both laptops just before they joined a stack of papers in tumbling to the floor. The papers he left, the laptops he plunked into the chair, and then there were no more distractions.

  It was just her and a very aroused Clay Steele.

  Except this time, he wasn’t drunk.

  He was sober. And very, very focused.

  On her.

  His hands found the waistband of her pajamas, yanking them down her legs and tossing them onto the floor. In between the space of a heartbeat, she found herself naked with Clay fully dressed, random papers and file folders biting into her skin.

  It was pretty much the hottest thing ever.

  To find a man who was as driven as her, as smart, as focused was fucking rare and this man—this hot, gorgeous, sexy, surprisingly sweet man—was one in a million.

  Especially when he paused to stare down at her.

  One corner of his mouth turned up. “Never thought this particular fantasy would come true.”

  She blinked, smiled. “You’ve had fantasies about me?”

  He scoffed. “Fuck yes, I’ve had.”

  “Really?”

  Both hands dropped onto the mattress next to her head, his legs coming over her to straddle her thighs. “Too many nights over the last six months, sweetheart.”

  She wove her fingers into his hair, tugging his head down so that she could whisper in his ear. “I’ve thought about you, too. Mostly as I’ve stroked myself to sleep.”

  His curse almost blistered her ears. “You can’t say things like that.”

  Heather let her head drop back to the bed. “Why not?”

  “Because.” He bent and kissed her throat, the tops of each breast. “I’m trying to make it good for you.” Another kiss, this time to each nipple.

  “Then”—she gripped his head, pulled it flush to her skin—“no more talking.”

  Clay took her words to heart.

  His mouth latched onto her nipple, sucking deeply and making her back bow off the mattress. He rolled the aching nub of her neglected breast between his fingers. They weren’t his tongue and teeth, but it was close enough for the moment.

  Especially when he switched sides and alternated tasks.

  Stars spun behind her eyelids, heat arrowed from her breasts directly south, and if she’d thought that she was wet before, now she was absolutely drenched.

  Clay released her nipple with a soft pop and kissed her rib cage, her navel, one hip then the other.

  Then in between.

  And good God did he kiss her in between.

  In one of those swift movements he seemed to be so good at, Clay was between her hips, one of her legs over each of his shoulders. He didn’t give her a second to think, to protest that she’d been teased enough and just wanted him inside her. Nope. He just dove between her thighs, used his fingers to spread her wide, and drove his tongue deep inside her.

  “Clay!”

  “Mmm,” he said against her, the vibrations driving her crazy. He hadn’t shaved, and the stubble on his chin was providing just . . . the . . . right . . . amount . . . of . . . friction.

  Whoever said that friction was a bad thing during sex had never had Clay Steele between her legs.

  His thumb stroked up, gently circling her clit, and the sensation was almost calming—wholly pleasurable, but it was like he was stroking her down from the edge, bringing her back from the precipice.

  But then he pressed firmly the same time his tongue drove deep, and any notion of calm was gone.

  He’d lulled her down only to ramp her back up again.

  And then he did it again. And again. And the b
astard would have driven her to that fucking edge for a fourth time if Heather hadn’t reached down to grip his hair, holding him in place as she ground her hips against his mouth.

  She came. Loudly.

  Fingers traced softly along her thighs, her stomach, her waist, but this time she didn’t mind the gentling touch because aftershocks of pleasure were still coursing through her limbs.

  She took a minute to let her brain reset, for feeling to return to her arms and legs.

  Then she pushed Clay onto his back. “Stay.”

  A darting trip to the bathroom for a string of condoms, but she probably hadn’t needed to rush, because he’d remained on his back.

  Albeit he was still clothed, but that was an easy problem to fix.

  She shoved a few more papers to the floor as she climbed back onto the bed and tossed the condoms within arm’s reach.

  “You could have asked if I had any,” he said.

  “I like to be prepared,” she replied, busying herself by beginning to unbutton his shirt. Unbutton. Kiss. Unbutton. Kiss. Unbutton— “Plus, don’t tell me that you’re one of those guys who always has a condom in your pocket.”

  He sucked in a breath when she finished with the last button and spread his shirt wide. “In my wallet, maybe.”

  A nip to his hip. “And do you have your wallet?” She flicked open the top button of his slacks, darted her tongue underneath.

  “No.”

  “So.” Another lick. “Case in point. Women are more prepared than men.”

  For some reason that made him laugh and lean up to strip off his shirt the rest of the way. Since that was what Heather wanted, too, she didn’t object. Instead, she enjoyed the view of all that yummy muscled goodness.

  His pecs were defined, perfect handfuls she wanted to spend some time with, his waist was trim—no desk job pudge in sight—and while he wasn’t sporting a six pack, his abs were flat and defined enough that her mouth watered with the urge to lick.

  In fact, she wanted to lick it all.

  Trouble was, she didn’t know where to start.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  Her lips twisted. “That you’re a dessert bar loaded with my favorites, and I don’t know where to begin.”