Bad Billionaires Box Set

by Elise Faber

  “Spoils go to the victor.” A grin. “Or maybe, you snooze you lose?” Clay winked and slid the other basket toward her. “All yours.”

  Since her mouth was burning—sauce burn, not Clay burn, thank you very much, she thought with a snort—she fished out a carrot stick and nibbled on one end. “Sorry that I zoned out on you there.”

  “No sweat.” He shrugged before taking a sip of his beer. “Ah. That’s good.” His eyes met hers. “I’m assuming you helped them pick it out.”

  Her cheeks felt hot, but she returned his shrug with one of her own. “I might have made a few suggestions.”

  “Of course, you did.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He grinned, running one hand down the inside of her arm, making her shiver as heat arrowed directly south.

  Note to self, the arm is apparently an erogenous zone.

  “This place has Heather O’Keith written all over it.”

  Her brows pulled together, wanting to find an insult in the statement but unable to do so, not when the words were earnest and his eyes kind.

  “What does that mean?” she asked softly.

  “That the reason it’s jam-packed is because this place is well-run with good food and in a great location. It’s smart. Successful”—he touched her cheek again—“Like you.” He hesitated then said, “I’m sorry your family isn’t what you hoped.”

  Her breath caught.

  This man absolutely undid her.

  Heather let the sentiment settle deep inside her, holding it tight. Then she made a joke, because . . . shit was getting too real.

  “Messy”—she swiped a dot of sauce from the corner of his mouth and licked it off the tip of her finger—“Yummy. Like you.”

  He chuckled, giving her a goofy look that made her like him so much more. “I try.” Then he changed topics, and she felt another piece of her heart fall for him. “So, word on the street is that Tony is trying to buy out Sellco. Now that’s going to be a—”

  “Total disaster,” they finished together.

  They talked business and Netflix shows and movies they’d seen, then favorite restaurants and places to travel.

  She confessed her love of expensive pajamas.

  He confided that he hated wearing a suit.

  They talked about everything and nothing.

  And it was the best night of her life.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Clay

  Hours later, he walked Heather to her car. It was just after two and he tried to remember the last time he’d been up this late—escapades with Heather, aside—without a laptop in front of him as he actively crunched data.

  College maybe?

  But even then he’d been serious, focused on building Steele Technologies into a powerhouse.

  His father’s company had limped on after the murders, doing fine, the board making safe but boring decisions. Clay wasn’t disappointed by that. In fact, he was grateful. Without them he wouldn’t have been able to go to college, wouldn’t have had money to fall back on when a few of his early business choices didn’t pan out.

  The board was the reason why he didn’t end up in foster care—his father’s partner becoming his guardian because Clay didn’t have any other living relatives.

  Rich had been a single man in his fifties, so Clay had been shipped off to boarding school, had stayed there in the summers and over the holidays.

  But it was better that way.

  He’d needed to get away from the sympathy, the pitying looks.

  Rich had always told him he was only holding over Steele Technologies until Clay was ready, and that had motivated him like nothing else could. He’d used the time to grow stronger, more confident, and he’d worked his ass off studying business, the marketplace, statistics, everything and anything that might one day be helpful.

  That was what having something to prove would do to a person.

  And he’d had a hell of a lot to prove.

  Rich had retired the day after Clay graduated with his master’s degree. He’d been a great listener when Clay needed to hash something out, a neutral third party when the board didn’t like one of Clay’s suggestions.

  He’d been there and was probably the reason that Clay was semi-well-adjusted.

  But Rich had died, too.

  A year ago, just after the company went public.

  And Clay had been alone again.

  The lights on Heather’s car flashed as she unlocked it, and as he stared down at the sporty little number, the past faded as a grin spread across his face.

  So, his girl had a need for speed, too.

  “What?” she asked, and he ignored the blip in his mind at the possessive word. Part of him had already decided that this woman was worth whatever risk she might bring.

  “Mine’s blue.”

  Her lips curved. “Oh. I couldn’t decide”—she brushed a hand over the silver surface—“I loved the blue but couldn’t justify the extra money for the paint job, not when she was already so expensive, and I hardly ever drive as it is.”

  “Don’t like it?” he asked, moving forward to cage her between the open door and the body of the car.

  “No. Hate it. And traffic. And other drivers.” She lifted one shoulder. “But I do occasionally give my driver a day off.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Her brows furrowed. “My driver?”

  “No, your car.” He took a step closer, loving that Heather’s breathing hitched. “You called her a she.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never actually come up with one. She’s so pretty that I guess I just always refer to her as a . . . well, a girl.”

  Clay slipped his arms around his girl, shifting her so her back rested against the body of the car, then he leaned closer, his chest brushing hers any time one of them took a breath.

  And they were both breathing pretty fast.

  “So,” he prompted, stepping even nearer, closing every bit of distance between them so she was sandwiched between him and the car.

  “So, what?” One of her legs came up to wrap around his hip.

  He bit back a groan. “So, what are you going to name her?” His mouth dropped near her ear, and he pressed a kiss just behind it, loving that Heather’s hands slid behind his head to hold him there.

  “Mmm,” she moaned as he kissed her neck. “I’m—” She hissed when he nipped her throat. “Behave, or I won’t tell you.”

  She tugged at his head, drawing him away from her skin and up to her mouth. Their lips nearly touching, her breath warm and hot and with just the hint of mint from the gum she’d chewed earlier.

  “I’ll behave,” he said.

  A scoff. “Unlikely,” she replied. “Especially when your hands are doing that.”

  Clay hadn’t realized he’d moved, gripping her other thigh to coax it around his waist, sliding his palms up and down the softness there. If only those sexy-as-hell jeans weren’t in his way.

  He smiled. “I like that.”

  Her tongue darted out, swept across his lips. “Me, too. Which is why I’m not stopping you.”

  “You’re also stalling because you can’t come up with a good name.”

  “Nope,” she said, a smug grin on her lips. “I came up with one the moment you mentioned it.”

  “Yeah?” A nod in response that made her lips brush against his, her hips flex just enough to be the most intimate sort of tease. “Well, then tell me already.”

  Her hips shifted again, and this time he couldn’t hold back his groan.

  “Kind of liking this not telling you thing.”

  “Heather,” he warned, running out of patience that had nothing to do with her car’s damn name and everything to do with the fact that he wanted her naked and under him.

  “Oh, poor baby,” she said, but her words were breathless and a sexy little moan escaped her lips when he slid a hand up under her shirt.

  Skin. Fuck he loved her skin.

  “Nam
e,” he demanded, not that he gave a shit about the stupid name any longer. He just wasn’t above using any tactic he could to stay where he was, Heather wrapped around him, his cock pressed tightly against her pussy.

  She ground against him, and he lost any semblance of control. He bent and—

  “Beyoncé.”

  He froze. “What?”

  Her expression was playful. “Yup. She’s powerful and strong and full of curves. So, Beyoncé fits.”

  Somehow it did.

  “You’re a menace,” he said, not wanting to but releasing her legs slowly back down to the ground anyway. If he didn’t take advantage of this moment of clarity, he’d be striping her in the back seat and probably getting them both arrested.

  Now that would be a news story that would make his board happy.

  Cue sarcasm.

  “I should let you get home,” he said, thinking it was late and that she had to be as exhausted as he was after the week they’d had.

  “Follow me back to my house?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes like the damsel in distress she wasn’t. “I think I need an escort.”

  Her hand drifted toward the waistband of his pants.

  “You just want to sleep with me.”

  A smug smile. “Yeah, so?”

  He kissed it off her lips, not releasing her mouth until they were both breathing hard. “Good point,” he said with a smirk, coaxing her into the driver’s seat, his fingers brushing over that tempting-as-hell column of buttons as he buckled her seat belt. It was just an excuse to touch her. Because she was his and he needed to touch her and—

  “Give me your address in case we get separated.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Heather

  “Oh God,” she murmured as Clay walked away after promising to bring his car around.

  Her heart pounded in her chest, still reeling from his last kiss.

  Her fingers came up, brushing against her lips. In the rearview mirror, her eyes were wide, her mouth reddened and slightly puffy, but she couldn’t find a fuck to give.

  The man could kiss.

  And he was coming home with her.

  Which was a thought that she needed out of her mind if she was going to safely make it back to her house.

  “Whew,” she said and turned on the car, cranking the air conditioning until the interior felt like the Arctic. “Better,” she said as the freezing air blasted her in the face. She might not be able to feel her nose, but at least her brain was clear.

  Lights came up behind her, and she saw a bright blue Maserati, the same model as hers, pull to a stop.

  Her phone buzzed with a text.

  Your escort is here.

  Blowing him a kiss in the rearview mirror and hoping he could see it, Heather put the car into drive and pulled out in front of him.

  It was about ten miles to her house, but most of it was freeway time, and it wouldn’t take long for them to get there. Her body didn’t like any delay, but her mind thought it was probably better, at least in one way. Ten minutes wasn’t long enough for her to reconsider, but it was enough time that she could safely tuck away all of those tender feelings that were growing for Clay.

  She needed to remind herself that while they were obviously attracted to each other, he hadn’t made mention of wanting anything more.

  In fact, he’d only discussed wanting that annulment, as quickly as possible.

  So, expectations. She needed to temper hers.

  A hot fling with a brilliant, sexy man? She could do worse.

  Remembering that the fling had a shelf life was going to be the tricky part.

  The freeway miles slipped away easily, despite the fact she kept to the speed limit, not wanting to chance a ticket. Clay stayed right on her heels, his lights a constant presence as she took the exit and headed up into the hills.

  A few turns—right, left, left, and right—and they were outside her gate. She hit the clicker and pulled forward so he could follow her through.

  They parked and turned off their respective, ridiculous sports cars almost in unison, stepping out onto the driveway just as the gate closed.

  “Trapped.” She smirked and rubbed her hands together, evil-genius style.

  Clay stepped close, cupped her cheek. “I think you need an escort inside.”

  “Oh, yes. I definitely need one of those.” Heather nodded eagerly, tugging his hand and pulling him toward the front door then inputting the code to unlock it. “I’m not sure I can find my bedroom.”

  “Well, with the amount of time you spend traveling”—he swept her up into his arms—“I’m not surprised.”

  “Wait,” she said. “Did we lock that?”

  Clay obediently turned to show her that he had in fact locked the door behind them. “Yup.”

  “And the security system is on function two?” she asked, wanting to reassure him that it was safe, but his expression clouded at the question, and she worried that she might have gone too far.

  He nodded, jaw tense. “It is.” But then he relaxed, “No assistants will be barging in on us, right?”

  Relief made her laughter slightly shrill. He thought this was about Berlin, not his childhood. Thank God. She knew she shouldn’t have pried into his past, should have let him reveal what he wanted in the timeframe he chose, but she’d been nosy. So, the guilt she was feeling had been well-earned.

  “No,” she assured him. “I gave her a few days off. She’s been working too hard.”

  Clay brushed his lips across hers. “Have we already had the pot-meet-kettle discussion?”

  “Mmm.” She nipped at his jaw. “Remind me?”

  “How about you tell me where your bedroom is instead?”

  Down to business. That worked for her. “Up the stairs, turn right. It’s the door at the end of the hall.”

  He carried her easily, despite the fact she wasn’t a small woman. She wasn’t fat exactly, but she was taller than average and had curves. She was sturdy. Solid. But apparently not heavy enough to strain Clay’s arms.

  For which she was extremely happy.

  Being held like this—close, secure, gentle—wasn’t a bad place to be.

  And the man smelled so fucking good.

  “Mmm.” She rubbed her nose along his throat, inhaled deeply. “I just want to rub myself all over you.”

  His arms tucked her closer as he finished with the stairs and went right.

  “I’d rather you wait for the rubbing until we’re both naked.”

  “I can deal with that,” she replied, thrusting both her hands into his hair and kissing him. He tasted faintly of beer laced with the slight burn from the wing sauce and . . . like Clay. All male and spice and heat.

  So much heat that she was surprised she didn’t actually burst into flames.

  Softness pillowed behind her spine as he set her onto the bed, but it was the barest sensation because a heartbeat later Clay was on top of her, the long, lean strength of him pinning her in place.

  “Hey,” he murmured.

  Heather forced her eyes open. Her bedside lamp ran on a timer, so her room wasn’t dark. The soft light made him more beautiful than ever, highlighting the sharp lines of his nose, his jaw, making his mouth more kissable. “Hey,” she whispered.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said, stroking a finger down her nose.

  Her lips curved. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

  “I”—he shook his head—“never mind.” He bent to kiss her.

  “No.” Her hand came up, pressed against his chest, stalling the movement. His heart thundered under her palm “What were you going to say?”

  “I—” He wrapped her hand in his, slid it up to his mouth. “I know that we didn’t start off in the most conventional way, but I’ve been thinking.”

  Her throat went tight, her response squeezed out. “About what?”

  “That we could take a little time. See where things went.”

  Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
>
  She snatched her hand back, shoved hard against his chest, and scrambled out of bed.

  “Oof.” Heather landed in a heap on the carpet.

  He started to slide from the bed. “Shit, sweetheart, are you okay?”

  No. No, she wasn’t fine. She was freaking the fuck out.

  “You need to go,” she said, pushing to her feet and running into the bathroom. She slammed and locked the door behind her then flicked on the light. Her pale face stared back at her in the mirror while she just focused on breathing.

  It didn’t work. She couldn’t breathe.

  See where things went.

  Take a little time—

  For her to grow more attached, for her to get more invested.

  For her to end up more broken in the end.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  There were footsteps across the carpet, a soft knock on the door.

  “Heather?”

  She didn’t respond, wouldn’t respond. Eventually, he’d forget she was in there altogether and just leave. Really, he would.

  Yes, she understood she was completely delusional.

  “D-did I hurt you?”

  “No.”

  The word left her mouth without conscious thought. She couldn’t have Clay thinking he’d hurt her. Not when—

  Not when he was such a good guy.

  “Okay,” he said tentatively. “So, this is . . . what exactly?”

  A patented Heather O’Keith freak out. Except she didn’t freak out. Not ever. Hell, on the rare occasion that she even felt a little panicked, she dealt with it, boxed that shit up tight, and locked it the fuck away.

  This—Clay—wouldn’t stay compartmentalized.

  Guys had wanted relationships before.

  She’d been in relationships before.

  So why was she hyperventilating in the bathroom now?

  “You . . . have . . . to . . . go,” she panted, sliding to the floor, her back ending up against the vanity.

  “Heath—”

  “Go!” she screamed.

  Silence from the other side of the door. Then a sigh.

  Then footsteps . . . heading away.

  Heather plunked her head back onto the cabinet front and clenched her jaw when tears threatened to fall.