Charmed by the Billionaire

by Jessica Lemmon

  I exhale through my nose. “I can understand how Cris’s…circumstance makes you concerned, but we very carefully crossed that bridge.”

  “And she enjoyed the crossing?” Viv’s chin dips, her eyes widening meaningfully.

  “Immensely,” I say, but that’s all she’s squeezing out of me. “I’m doing my damnedest to teach her everything I know.”

  “Well, let’s hope not everything. I’d rather not see her serial date men the way you serial date women.”

  This again? Jee-zus.

  “There’s nothing wrong with serial dating as long as it’s mutual,” I defend, feeling prickly. But it’s not my own reputation I’m thinking about. It’s the idea of Cris with another guy. Dating. Kissing. Her stripping for him and letting him sink deep inside her while she’s making those panting noises I’ve grown so fond of. I grind my back teeth to dust to keep from admitting the jealousy kicking up around me like sand in a dust storm.

  “Are you planning on serial dating again?“

  I make a sound between an offended grunt and a disgusted laugh. “Not right now.”

  “But eventually.”

  “Look, even if—when—Cris and I wrap this up, it’s not like I’m not going to be in her life.” As I explain, my chest constricts. I have been trying not to think of the future, but it’s hard when Vivian keeps bringing it up.

  After Cris and I finish our sexual quest, then what? I assume she’ll keep working for me. She’d better. But what happens when she inevitably lands a boyfriend? Some guy who’s decent to her, albeit far less smooth and charming than me. Am I going to have to listen to her talk about him during our runs? Will she still go running with me after moving on?

  An ache forms between my eyebrows, and I realize I’m frowning hard enough to pull a muscle.

  Like she reads my mind, Vivian presses, “How are you going to feel when she starts seeing someone else? Or when she falls in love? Or when she gets engaged?” She wiggles her left hand at me. The diamonds sparkle in the flood of moonlight painting the house lunar blue.

  I stand, frustrated and more than ready for a cigar with my dad and brothers, if only to escape Vivian’s interrogation.

  “Benji.” She stands too, nowhere near giving up.

  “Fuck, Viv, I don’t know!” I try not to shout too loudly. Her fiancé’s the protective sort. He’d have no problem pummeling me for merely raising my voice at her. “I guess I’ll be happy for her,” I lie through my teeth. I force a smile to sell what I’m about to say, ignoring Vivian’s suspicious glare. “And when she invites me to be part of the wedding party, I’ll say yes.” I touch her shoulder. “I know you’re gunning for maid of honor, so I’ll settle for walking her down the aisle.”

  My heart clenches at the picture I’ve painted. The visual of a faceless groom at the end of the aisle looms like a bad omen. In my vision, my steps falter, my hand over Cris’s squeezing to warn her, but she’s too in love with her future husband to pay attention to me.

  Damn, that’s dark.

  “And you would be totally okay with that?”

  “Of course! She’s my best friend. I want her to be happy forever.”

  “What about you?” she asks so sincerely, I’m thrown. What about me? No one ever asks about me. I take efforts to prevent anyone from worrying about me. And since old habits die hard, this one in particular resurrects itself like Lazarus.

  “I’m already happy. I couldn’t be happier. Look around.” I gesture at the utopia that is our parents’ property. “I was raised here. Happy Central. You’ve seen my house. You’ve seen my car. You haven’t seen my bank account, but you’ve seen Nate’s. I don’t want for anything, Viv. Are you honestly worried about me, or are you dancing around something else you’re hesitant to admit?”

  Like Cris deserves better. Or that she deserves more from me. Or I should let her go, so she can find that bad-omen husband and let things unfold the way they’re supposed to.

  I lick my lower lip, fold my arms over my chest, and brace for hearing any or all of that.

  Vivian is uncharacteristically silent. She fiddles with her ring, as if debating saying what’s on her mind. Miraculously, she doesn’t say more on the topic of Cris or me. She employs the tactic I’ve used often and to great success. She gives me a dazzling smile and backtracks.

  “I didn’t mean to pry. I wanted to make sure you were good.” She cups my arm and rubs a few times. “I’m glad to hear you have it all figured out.”

  I tell myself I’m satisfied she stopped prying, but when she turns and walks away, I’m irked that she gave in so easily.

  Also, is it me or did that bit about her being glad I had it all figured out sound a tad sarcastic?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Benji

  “Slower,” I hiss between my teeth as I try to endure another stroke.

  I make it. Barely.

  Cris is perched on top of me, gliding back and forth, her inner thighs clamping my legs, her hands on my chest, her plush bottom resting on my thighs. Her blunt fingernails dig in, the bite welcome. And Christ, is she tight. So fucking tight.

  “Like this?” A devil’s smile clashes with her sweet voice, but hell if I mind. She rotates her hips, lifting up and slamming down to take every inch of my cock. Her perfect breasts jiggle with each smooth slide. I tease her nipples, lifting my hips to meet her each time she’s seated. I’m pleased to see she’s losing her concentration. Before I have to employ the thumb-to-clit move, she finds her release. She’s clenching around me and moaning my name, her hips moving in jerky starts and stops.

  I help by holding her in place while her orgasm racks her. Another few intimate strokes and then I lose track of time, space—everything. My eyes slam closed and I clench my jaw. Lightning streaks up my spine. I spill into her tight channel, my fingers gripping her hips with enough force to leave bruises. I’m fairly certain I finished on a shout. I’m not a shouter, but fuck, that was good.

  And so I say, “Fuck. That was good,” when she collapses in a boneless heap on top of me.

  Her cushiony breasts press against my chest. She sighs and the soft exhalation tickles my collarbone. When she kisses my neck, her hair tickles my chin. Blindly, since I haven’t found the strength to open my eyes yet, I wrap my arms around her and silently beg her not to move. She doesn’t. My heart pounds, communicating to hers without my permission—tapping out its own Morse code—for what, I have no idea.

  She hums, places another kiss on my neck, and pushes off me. I swear I’m trying to let her, but my hands clamp her middle. I lift my hips, still trapped in her warmth and not wanting to leave. She laughs, wiggles back and forth, and eventually wins the fight. I blame my orgasm for zapping my remaining strength.

  She returns from the bathroom, her petite yet curvy body gliding across my bedroom. I decide I’ve never seen a more beautiful sight.

  “From now on, will you work naked? I’ll close all the blinds,” I vow.

  “No.” She lies next to me on her back, her head turned, her eyes on mine. “That breaks my rule.”

  She’s broken a few of mine and I didn’t think I had any. Granted, “don’t fuck your best friend” should be a given, you know?

  “You already broke that rule.” I tap the turgid tip of one of her nipples. “It’s nearing two o’clock on a Tuesday. That is very much a workday.”

  “How was I supposed to react?” She clucks her tongue like she’s mad at herself for capitulating. She hates when I’m right. She lifts an arm and drops it, explaining with two words. “The roses.”

  I grin. She went for a walk after lunch. While she was gone I filled her car with pink roses from Mom’s garden. I mean, it was packed. I idled the engine and turned on the A/C so they wouldn’t wilt, then waited outside for her to come back. The awestruck, flattered look of disbelief on her face when she stepped onto the driveway and encountered a car full of flowers was priceless. I immediately snapped another picture for my mental scrapbook.


  Click.

  Vivian put the idea in my head a few nights ago when she asked if I was considering putting together a bouquet. While having a cigar, I decided that since I vowed to teach Cris how to be treated well, I was going to make damn sure I treated her like gold.

  “Did you like them?” I’m shamelessly fishing for compliments. I know she did. When she opened her car, she pulled an armload of the bouquets against her chest and looked over to where I was standing in the garage. Wetness shimmered in her eyes, and sweat glistened on her forehead as she regarded me over hundreds of pink petals.

  Click.

  Instead of worshiping me, she let out an exasperated breath and then asked, “Where am I supposed to find vases for this many roses?” I told her she could use the bathtub. She rolled her eyes but instructed me to grab an armload of roses and meet her inside. From there I was thanked with many kisses. I returned the gesture by plucking her clothing off piece by piece.

  “Mom called Manuel the other day,” she says, sounding contemplative. I find it odd she didn’t tell me this morning. Her mother calling is big news—that woman never calls. Out of everything Cris shares with me on any given day, I would think a call from Lina would be the headline.

  “She’s pregnant.”

  The blaring horn of a freight train sounds inside my head, sending my heart into a full gallop. I blink rapidly at the spinning ceiling fan, my own head spinning. My hammering heart returns to normal as my brain sluggishly processes her words. Apparently, the mere mention of the word “pregnant” has the power to send me into a panic. However, the “pregnant” person in this scenario is not the gorgeous, naked blonde I am sleeping with, but instead her mother. Still alarming, but nowhere near deserving of my Code Red reaction.

  “You’re kidding.” I clear my throat when my voice sounds strangled.

  “I’m not kidding.” She sounds exhausted. I can imagine why. The news carries with it a hell of a lot of weight—way more than the sum total of pounds and ounces of a newborn baby boy or girl.

  We are talking about the woman who was too irresponsible to raise her own kids, so she heaped that responsibility onto the oldest of them. If Cris was a different person and reported her mom, the state would have seen to it that Lina (or other available family members) performed her parental duties. But Cris didn’t want to upset her brothers. She refused to risk them being taken and relocated. I remember my family being ripped away, what it was like to start over. The brothers I’m insanely grateful to have in my life were strangers to me back then. It was terrifying. How’d she know exactly the right thing to do for Manuel, Dennis, and Timothy when she was so young herself? I don’t know, but she did. God, she’s incredible.

  “Manuel was almost robotic when he told me the news,” she says. “I wish he had a better relationship with Mom. He had more time with her than Dennis and Timothy, which is alarming because it still wasn’t much.”

  “Lift up,” I instruct, unwilling to have this conversation without holding her. She snuggles in, and I wrap an arm around her shoulders. “Listen—”

  Downstairs a desk phone rings. Her body stiffens against mine, her abs tightening like she is about to rise and run to answer it.

  I squeeze her against me. “We’re having an important meeting. Ignore it.”

  “Is that what this is?” She side-eyes me, but settles, her head on my shoulder and her arm draped over my middle. Idly, she strokes my chest. I ignore the flare of heat there, my normal reaction to her touching my body.

  “Your brothers consider you a queen, Cris. They know you didn’t have to do what you did. And if they haven’t figured that out yet, you can rest knowing you loved them harder than anyone else in their lives. They know that, even if it’s deep down.”

  It’s what the Owens did for me. I didn’t know what to make of my childhood. The grief overtook me at times. But when I was lost in the storm, I had Archer and William and Lainey and Nate. My ports. I struggled with grief for a while, but then it had no choice but to leave. There was too much in my life to be grateful for—so I hung on to that instead.

  “I could have done more,” she says. “I should have called Mom more and updated her on her sons, on their lives. Maybe if I would have tried harder, I could have pressured Timothy’s and Manuel’s fathers into taking them on the weekends or something.”

  “You were eighteen. And in no way responsible for the actions of divorced adults. That was on them.”

  “I was an adult.”

  “You were an adult in the eyes of the state, but you weren’t prepared to raise three tweens.”

  She sighs. I’m right and she knows it.

  “I don’t wish Mom and I were closer,” she whispers like she’s ashamed to admit it. Her voice drops almost too low to hear when she further admits, “I… I don’t like her.”

  I kiss her forehead. “Understandable.”

  “After losing your parents, who you loved more than anything, how are you this understanding when I say I don’t like my mom?”

  I pull in a deep breath. I don’t talk about my birth parents often. Ever, really. Cris knows what happened to them as she and I have known each other for years. Every so often, she asks about Mom’s paintings or lingers in the garage where I keep my woodworking tools to watch me build another frame. She’s noticed the photos sitting around the house, most notably the one where I’m wearing Dad’s white coat and oversize glasses. It’s my favorite, even though I had no interest in becoming a doctor like him.

  “She hurt you,” I say. “She left you behind to raise your brothers, of which you did a spectacular job.”

  Cris told me Manuel checked off a few items on her honey-do list and mowed the lawn while he was there. If I knew she had more repairs or tasks other than the wobbly chair in the kitchen, I’d have done them for her. I suppose it turned out for the best. Manuel, a stubborn kid who has grown into a completely awesome guy, stepped in. I’m glad he has her back.

  “She left you in charge of bus schedules and cooking dinner and helping with homework. You were both Mom and Dad to those boys and they won’t forget it, honey.” I hug her close when I share, “We don’t forget the people who loved us when we felt unloved.”

  I feel her gaze on me, questioning, heavy, so I shift back to talking about her brothers. “Lina let you shoulder the worry of keeping those kids safe, of making sure they weren’t pulled out of your care and rehomed. She gifted you with nothing but cares and worries while she lived any damn way she pleased, not giving a rat’s ass about the family she should have been there for.”

  Cris sniffs. I’m not sure if she’s crying. I hope not.

  “You did a great job is what I’m trying to say.” I hug her shoulders again.

  “It’s unfair your parents were taken away when mine walked away.” Her voice is thick. Every instinct in me screams to lighten the conversation, but I don’t want to brush it off since she started it. If she needs me to listen, I’m here for her.

  “Did you ever meet your dad?” I bristle as I ask, realizing I’ve never asked before. Talking about family is a sensitive, intimate topic. And discussing it after a particularly sensitive, intimate act tempts me to flee the room in search of solace far, far away. But this is Cris, and like everything else she and I talk about, somehow this hallowed ground isn’t so sacred.

  “He left when my mom was pregnant with me. He never came back. He rode a motorcycle and had blond hair. That’s all I really know.”

  “Explains your wild streak,” I tease, unable to help myself. I’d do anything to erase the melancholy from her voice.

  “Was it hard acclimating to the Owen household?” I’m not sure she’s asked me that before. It seems we’re both drifting out to sea and ignoring the buoys warning us we’ve gone too far.

  “Yeah. I mean, I was ten. I wasn’t sure where I fit in with the world, let alone with a family I didn’t know. When I was adopted, there was just Archer and William and Lainey. I was an interloper. Then came Nate a
year later, and I remember feeling this massive sense of relief. I was no longer the only kid who didn’t fit. And he really didn’t fit.”

  She laughs softly as her fingers dance over my skin.

  “He was a big, rough kid. He scared the shit out of me at first. I stuck close to Archer for a few years and then Nate ended up being my best friend. My other best friend,” I correct, placing a kiss on the top of her head. “We fought and played the way brothers do and eventually, an unbreakable bond formed.”

  “You three are inseparable. It’s sort of awesome.” Her voice is as soft as her touch. Her fingertips trail over my chest hair and tiptoe down my torso, tickling a path to my belly button before repeating the pattern. It feels good to be touched this way—to be touched by her.

  “Sometimes I find myself wishing my parents were alive,” I admit. “Then I feel like a traitor, because if they were I’d never know Nate, Arch, William, or Lainey. Or you. That is some fucked-up thinking. Knowing if I could turn back time and prevent the accident, I’d lose all of you. I think that might be worse than losing them. Now there’s something to feel bad admitting.”

  “No, it’s not.” It’s her turn to give me a comforting squeeze. “My life would suck without you in it. And the Owens.” She shakes her head against my chest. “I don’t want to think about it.”

  “You don’t have to, Firecracker. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Two things happen then. First, Vivian’s question from a few nights ago pops into my head. The one about how I’d feel if Cris were to marry someone else. Devastated. That’s how I’d feel. I’d be a miserable, sorry sack and virtually inconsolable. Even now, the idea of her leaving me carves an ache deep in my chest.

  Second, the phone rings again, bursting our bubble. Reality barrels in on our fantasy world. There’s work to be done. A job we do together. We pull on our clothes in our respective corners of my bedroom and barely make eye contact while doing it. She answers the phone, first putting on her “work voice.” I smile sadly as I realize I know she has a “work voice” to put on.