Bad Billionaires Box Set

by Elise Faber

  He laughed, and she joined in. “So sugar is your weakness?”

  One of her brows lifted. “I wouldn’t dare state such a thing.” A beat as her mouth curved. “But bring me cinnamon rolls, and I would lick your feet.”

  “I’d rather you lick me somewhere else.”

  Heat shot down Heather’s spine, making her insides clench in anticipation. She would rather lick him somewhere else, too. Many somewhere elses. But—

  “How do you get away with it?”

  He froze. “With what?”

  “With using those sort of lines and somehow not sounding like the worst sort of creeper?” She smacked his chest. “That was a terrible line, and my vagina was still like: Woohoo! Let me join the party, ‘kay?”

  Clay stilled, his lips pressing together in a straight line before he lost it.

  Absolutely lost it as laughter burst out of him.

  But she was laughing, too, somehow laughing in bed with a man who she’d always thought was gorgeous but icy cold.

  How?

  Heather didn’t know. She also wasn’t going to examine anything too closely.

  This was one of those chances that came too few and far between, demanding that she grasp life by the horns and live it into submission.

  “You’re amazing,” he said once they’d quieted.

  She undid his zipper. “And I’m going to lick you like you’re my favorite lollipop.”

  Clay’s breath came out in a whoosh, and his eyes darkened to espresso again, but he didn’t tell her that he was the one in charge, didn’t flip her over and do licking of his own—and frankly, while she really wanted to get her mouth on the man, she wouldn’t have tried too hard to stop him if he’d gone that route.

  But instead of snagging the reins back, he merely crossed his arms behind his head and smiled.

  “Do your worst, Heather O’Keith.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Clay

  Clay was a fucking moron.

  He was going to blow his load like an eighteen-year-old boy.

  When he’d told Heather to do her worst, he hadn’t been thinking. Well, he had been thinking, but the thoughts going through his mind were that he was going to be on the receiving end of a blow job from the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  So no, he hadn’t been thinking . . . or at least not straight.

  Because Heather had taken him at his word and was doing her damnedest to drive him insane.

  If he’d thought it was a good idea earlier to tease her to the edge of her orgasm, this was her payback.

  With interest.

  But dammit, he knew the teasing had made it better for her. It had been for her own good. It had—

  Pot. Meet kettle.

  “Fuck,” he groaned when her tongue traced the underside of his cock. He wanted in her mouth. Or better yet he wanted to flip her over and—

  “Uh-uh,” she said, her mouth hovering just above the tip of him. “Behave.”

  He hadn’t even realized that he’d moved.

  “Lay down,” she said, that mouth so close, yet so far.

  “Heather,” he said, dropping back onto the mattress. He was almost begging and didn’t give a damn. She’d licked his fucking cock like a lollipop, as promised, but she hadn’t put her mouth on him and he was running out of patience. “Please, baby, give me your mouth. Or better yet, let me inside you.” A flick of her tongue had every muscle in his body tensing. “Fuck, baby. I promise I’ll make you feel good.”

  “Okay.”

  His eyes flicked down to hers. “Okay?”

  “Blow job later.” A shrug. “Fucking now.”

  Thank God.

  He tore off a packet from the strand of condoms, ripped it open, and rolled it on. Then he lifted Heather up, positioned himself, and plunged deep.

  She screamed.

  Shit. Shit. His hands tightened on her waist, ready to lift her free. Had he hurt her?

  But then she was moaning and rocking on top of him and he relaxed. She’d screamed earlier when she’d come. Maybe that was just her thing.

  Still, he had to be certain.

  He stayed her hips and nearly lost his breath at the look she shot him. Her teeth were pressed hard into her bottom lip, her eyes hazy, her cheeks tinged pink. She groaned, the one almost begging now. “Please, Clay.”

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No.” A shift of her hips slid him deeper, and they both hissed out a breath. “Now, please, let me move.”

  He released her waist.

  Instantly, she began riding him, taking him way too high, way too fast. He leaned up, sucking a nipple into his mouth at the same time as he slipped a hand between her legs and pressed down hard on her clit.

  Another scream as the liquid heat of her gripped him tightly. He exploded right alongside her, thrusting deep, holding her tightly to him until they both collapsed back onto the bed.

  Hearts thudding, breathing rapid, they stared into each other’s eyes.

  Clay didn’t regret the moment. Fuck, how could he?

  But lying there with Heather, hugging her close . . . well, that created a whole other set of consequences he wasn’t prepared for.

  She shifted in the circle of his arms, wincing before pulling a file folder from beneath her ass. She huffed out a laugh. “Why am I always finding papers here when you’re around?”

  He chuckled, and her face went serious.

  Probably because his laugh hadn’t sounded remotely natural.

  “You okay, big guy?” she asked, glancing down at him. “You know you don’t have to stay, right? That this isn’t anything more than two people scratching a mutual itch.”

  Her words pissed him off. They were absolutely infuriating—

  For reasons he wasn’t going to examine too closely.

  Still, he didn’t tell Heather that. Instead, he reached behind his back and dumped a stack of papers to the floor. Then he pulled back the blankets and tugged her until she was settled against the sheets.

  A quick trip to the bathroom took care of the condom.

  When he came out, Heather was looking through a file that had somehow survived their horizontal mattress antics.

  Clay snagged it from her hands and tossed it to the floor.

  “What—”

  “I’m not leaving,” he said, hauling her into his arms.

  “It’s—”

  He kissed her, long and deep and slow.

  Then Clay scratched their proverbial itches one more time for good measure.

  Clay woke up naked, in a strange bed again, but this time instead of being alone and hung over, he held a beautiful woman in his arms.

  He liked this version of events, as compared to those in Vegas, so much better. Sighing, he closed his eyes and settled back into the pillows. He really needed to grab another hour or two of sleep.

  They’d stayed up for hours, enjoying each other as they took deliberate care to work their way through that string of condoms. But now, Clay needed to make up for some of the sleep he’d lost, especially considering the potential confrontation with Pierce later that evening.

  But sleep wasn’t on the agenda.

  Because the moment his lids closed, there was a quiet knock at the door.

  He flicked his gaze to the clock, saw it was just after six. Too early for housekeeping.

  Another knock, this one a little louder than the previous. Heather sighed, shifting in her sleep, rolling onto her back as a frown pulled her brows together. Clay carefully extracted himself from her body and the tangle of blankets to answer the door.

  He’d set exactly one foot into the hallway when he heard the click of the lock disengaging, the metal against metal scrape of the knob moving, turning, and felt the shift in air pressure as the door opened.

  The crash as it collided with the dead bolt he’d engaged hours before.

  He whipped around, yanking Heather to her feet in a motion that had her instantly awake, a startled yelp emerging
from her lips.

  “Run,” he ordered, mind spinning, the memories vivid and all too intense.

  She needed to get out of there. He needed to get her safe.

  “Clay?” she asked, hand coming to rest on his chest. “What is it?”

  The door crashed again, the dead bolt bringing it to a shuddering halt, but he knew it couldn’t hold forever. He knew it wouldn’t.

  Both of their heads turned to the hallway, to the door he could see was open a scant inch or two. A sliver of light illuminated the space as pale fingers worked their way up to the latch.

  “Go! Get out of here,” he snapped.

  “It’s probably just—” She took a step toward the door, but Clay gripped her wrist, tugging her back.

  The dead bolt wavered and memories exploded in his brain. In a second, he was transported back to another time, another door. He hauled Heather behind him and squared off against the intruder.

  He’d been too weak to save them before.

  Too small. Too pathetic.

  But he wasn’t weak now.

  And he was going to tear them limb from limb.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Heather

  Heather knew something was very, very wrong.

  You don’t say, genius? her inner asshole sneered, but she didn’t have time to worry about her internal monologue, not when every muscle in Clay’s body was taut with tension, not when he’d thrust her behind him like the worst sort of threat was about to barrel down the hallway.

  This wasn’t about her.

  Not really.

  This was something else entirely.

  Clay took a step forward, jerking her thoughts to crystal clear focus. She grabbed his elbow, would have been shaken off if not for the fact that she’d shoved herself in front of him at the same moment.

  The movement gave her a fraction of a second to confirm that, yes, the intruder was her assistant, Rachel, before she found herself shoved back behind Clay again.

  Rachel froze in the now open doorway, a to-go cup of coffee in her hand.

  “Uhh, Heather?” she asked.

  Clay’s shoulders relaxed for a heartbeat before an entirely different kind of tension solidified his spine.

  Embarrassment.

  Fuck.

  Heather cleared her throat. “Can you go down to the lobby and get another cup of coffee? We were just . . . discussing the Pierce deal and could use some caffeine.”

  To her credit, Rachel didn’t smirk at the obvious lie.

  Instead, she nodded and turned for the hall. “I’ll text you when it’s ready,” she said, closing the door behind her.

  And cue silence.

  Heather coughed. “My assistant.”

  Clay kept his back to her, his words frosted over. “So I surmised.” A hesitation then, “How did she get in?”

  Turning, Heather searched the room for her clothes. She bent and picked up her pants, stepping into them.

  “Here.”

  She froze then took the tank top he held out. “Rachel’s dad was a locksmith. The first thing she did when I hired her was to tell me how easy hotel locks were to bypass if someone knew what they were doing. See that?”—she pointed to a tiny wedge on the nightstand—“I’m supposed to use that, too.”

  Clay found his pants, pulled them on. “I see.”

  “It’s pretty cool,” Heather said, rambling on about the idiot gadget because it was obvious that something was very, very wrong with Clay. “It’s got an alarm you can set and if you put it in right, the door can’t open enough for anyone to get at the dead bolt. It’s great, especially with all of the traveling I do.”

  His chin dropped to his chest. “You’re prepared.”

  She nodded. “I am.”

  “Good.”

  More silence.

  Then, “I’ve got to go.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked, taking a hesitant step in his direction. He was wound almost frightfully tight, as if one wrong word would shatter the crumbling façade he was struggling to hold on to.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Just lots to do today. Thanks . . . for the—”

  “Let’s leave it at that,” she interjected before he said something that would bruise the tender feelings that were developing for this man, despite her best intentions in keeping him at arm’s length.

  He nodded, grabbing his shirt from the floor and shrugging into it as he hightailed it down the hall and out the door.

  She let him leave without an argument.

  Because sometimes a person needed some time to figure out what the fuck was going on in their head without pressure and questions and inquisitions.

  This was clearly one of those times for Clay.

  Had he been assaulted in a hotel room?

  She’d noticed he’d been extra careful with the locks earlier. Making sure she’d locked up when he’d left her the night before, flipping the bolt closed and double-checking it was secure when he’d come to show her the files.

  Heather had assumed he was just aware and cautious. Neither of which was a bad thing, not when they were wealthy and important people—now don’t I sound fancy? she thought with an inner eye roll—but seriously, sometimes it paid to be a little suspicious.

  Except Clay had been more than a little suspicious.

  He’d been ready to kill whoever had come through that door. She had no doubt about that.

  But why?

  Sighing and knowing that the answers she wanted wouldn’t be forthcoming, she turned for the bathroom, wanting to shower and officially start her day.

  Unfortunately, that start was going to be a lot different than she’d hoped.

  Namely, with Clay inside her, using the moves she’d enjoyed from the hours before to give her multiple orgasms.

  Rolling her eyes at herself, she took a step and nearly ended up on her ass as a file full of papers slid on the carpet, taking her for a ride . . . and not the one she wanted, dammit. She cursed, scrabbling at the wall as she tried to catch herself.

  It worked. Sort of.

  One nail broke, and she landed hard on both knees, but it was a slow sort of tumble rather than breaking her fall with her face.

  She wrinkled her nose, staring down at her now ragged pointer fingernail. That color had been one of her favorites, and now she’d have to find a spare hour to have them redone.

  Le sigh. Her life was so difficult. Multiple orgasms marred by broken nails.

  Her phone buzzed, and Heather picked her way through the files to where it rested on the nightstand. Though she wasn’t sure why she bothered to avoid the mess of wrinkled papers. They were in absolute irreparable disarray. Hers, Clay’s, a mix of each. They’d never get them just right again.

  Their laptops were perched haphazardly on the chair, so she straightened them. When they were both safely stowed, she grabbed her cell.

  A text from Rachel was waiting on the lock screen, just as she’d expected.

  She opened it, hit the little circle at the top and called her assistant. As it rang, she began scooping up the papers and jamming them into a single, but wrinkly and generally untidy pile.

  “Hey,” Rachel answered without preamble. “Is it safe to come up?”

  “Yup,” Heather said and dropped the stack onto the bed. “He’s run as though the hounds of hell were after him.”

  “I’d say you were being dramatic if not for the look in his eyes.” A pause. “So, sleeping with the mystery man next door? That’s a new one for you.”

  Heather sighed and walked into the bathroom to turn on the shower. “More like sleeping with the enemy.”

  “En—excuse me—enemy?” Rachel said, and Heather heard the din of street noise decrease. “Sorry, it’s nuts out there.”

  “Big shopping days before Christmas,” Heather said, stripping off her pajamas. “Sorry to send you on a useless errand, but I’m going to pass on the coffee . . . and on the trip to Amsterdam.”

  “What?”

  Heath
er explained about the numbers not adding up and her—and Clay’s—suspicions.

  “Holy shit, I can’t believe they tried that.”

  A shrug, though Rachel couldn’t see it. “They’re desperate. But I’m not.”

  “True.”

  The conversation lulled for a moment before Rachel said, “Hey, so before I go change our travel plans . . . oh, never mind. It’s not my business.”

  Heather picked up her toothbrush. “Nonsense, what is it?”

  “I shouldn’t. You’re my boss.”

  “Well, I’d hoped that we were working our way toward friends.” Heather’s lips twitched. “And that means you can ask me questions that you wouldn’t normally ask your employer.”

  “This feels like a trap.”

  Heather huffed. “It isn’t.”

  “Well, then, obviously you’re way too nice.”

  “Don’t ruin my dragon lady image by uttering those words aloud. Now spill.”

  Rachel laughed. “Okay, fine. You mentioned something earlier about sleeping with the enemy?”

  “Well, yes, there is that,” she said, swiping a line of mint toothpaste onto her toothbrush. “The man who was all naked and yummy—”

  “And built.”

  Heather grinned. “And built. That man was no other than Clay Steele.”

  “Holy fucking shit, that was Clay Steele?”

  “In the flesh.”

  Rachel cackled. “Literally.”

  “Oh my God,” Heather said, unable to hold back her laughter. “Now I’m for sure keeping you around. You’ll be a perfect addition to our quintet of horny old ladies.”

  “I resent the term old.” A pause. “But sign me up for the horny quintet, anyway. It sounds like fun.”

  Heather grinned. “That’ll make us a group of six, so I guess we’ll be a . . . sextant?”

  “Why do I think that’s perfect?” Rachel asked.

  “Because it is.”

  Heather hung up as they both erupted into laughter.

  “Sextant,” she murmured and shook her head.

  Yes, that was the perfect term for her and her friends.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Clay