Banking the Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #2)(17)


by Max Monroe

“No!” I snapped, just as flabbergasted as he was. “That’s the thing. I mean, I was there, but I didn’t need to be. I didn’t start anything. It just sort of happened, and then it was happening, and fuck me, it was really fucking good. But I still wasn’t in control of anything.”

“Maybe that’s why it was good,” he joked.

I scrunched up my face in mock laughter. “Not the fucking time, dude.”

“No. Oh, no,” he denied. “It’s exactly the right time. This is what you would do to me, and I can’t tell you how good it feels to be the one doing it to you.”

“Fuck you.” Both middle fingers saluted him rapid fire like rounds from a gun. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t see it. It made me feel better.

Kline just laughed.

“Ah, shit,” I grumbled when I realized my only other option was to hang up the phone. A sounding board had never been more necessary in my day-to-day life, and I didn’t have anyone else to talk to right now, so I was just going to have to take his shit and like it.

“Fine. Make your jokes.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I will.”

My eyes narrowed at his glee, but I dove right into the basics anyway. “She fell asleep on my dick.”

“O-kay,” he ventured. “Maybe I shouldn’t be hearing these details.”

I ignored his delicate sensibilities. “Right after she orgasmed. Like creamed all over my dick—”

“Jesus!”

“And then, boom. Out like a light. There I was with my dick in the sweetest pussy it’s ever entered, and I literally couldn’t fuck it. I mean, I could have, but even I draw the line somewhere, and that would have been creepy as fuck.”

“I don’t know what to do with this,” Kline admitted. If my savant of a friend didn’t have the answers, I didn’t know if anyone would.

“I don’t either. She used me as a goddamn sleep aid!”

The roll of what I now considered his constant chuckle clucked in my ear.

One thought bled into the next with no transition, and as all of the worsening details came back to me in waves, I just kept on blurting. “She’s still at my apartment!”

“What?”

“This morning, she wouldn’t leave.” I rubbed at the tense skin of my forehead. “I think maybe she’s moving in with me.”

“Good God. Slow down. She’s not moving in with you, for fuck’s sake. And if she is, this is completely out of my depth.”

Fuck. I knew she probably wasn’t moving in with me. I mean, that’d be fucked. But so was last night, so really, maybe that was right on point. I didn’t know. It was a miracle I even knew my left hand from my right anymore.

“I’m going to have to consult with Georgie.”

“Don’t spread this shit around!”

“If you think I’m not telling my wife this as a way to earn points, you’re cracked.”

“I hate you right now.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve hated you for years, and you’re still around. I’d imagine it works the same way in the other direction.”

No answers. No advice.

And no chance of getting over any of this until I got to the bottom of it.

Around noon, I decided to take a break from screwing with Thatch via text message and took a shower. As I brushed my wet locks with one hand, I ran the other across the granite counters of his bathroom and checked the pads of my fingers for evidence. Nothing. Not even a speck of dust. For a single dude, he did a relatively good job of keeping his place clean. Almost a little too clean.

Yeah, maybe I’d screw with Thatch just a teensy bit more. Because, let’s be honest, I was finding an awful lot of enjoyment out of bugging the hell out of him.

I grabbed my phone off the counter and typed out a text as I headed into his closet.

Me: Do you have a maid?

Thatch: Rita is a very nice lady who comes to my apartment twice a week.

Me: I knew there was no way a single guy kept his shit this clean. The shower clued me in.

Thatch: You’re in my shower?

Me: Not anymore, Numbnuts. Right now, I’m in your closet.

Thatch: My closet?

Me: Um. Yeah. That’s where the clothes are. I needed something to wear.

Thatch: Do NOT steal my favorite shirt.

I didn’t even have to ask to know he was referring to his “Single and Ready to Mingle” shirt.

Me: You can calm the fuck down because I found an even better one.

Thatch: Which one?

I walked over to his freshly made bed—see, I was a good houseguest—and laid the shirt in question out, then snapped a quick picture and sent it to him.

Thatch: What in the fuck did you do to my shirt?

Me: It was too big.

Obviously, I’d had no other option but to put my amateur seamstress skills to good use. His T-shirt could’ve easily been a dress, and I was talking more muumuu than stylish maxi. Lucky for me, I only had to cut off a few inches, utilize some needle and thread, and boom, Thatch’s old shirt was now an adorable crop top.

Thatch: Wait…why isn’t that shirt on you? Are you naked in my bedroom right now?

Me: No. As a matter of fact, I have on a pair of tighty whities. Which, I gotta say, that’s real cute, Thatch. I love that you actually wear these.

Thatch: I have to when I play rugby, smartass.

Me: Better support for your Supercock?

Thatch: Yes, and speaking of my Supercock (perfect nickname), he wants to FaceTime your tits. Put them on the phone, please.

Me: Meh. You should have texted me sooner. I already rubbed one out.

Thatch: In my shower???

Me: No way. I prefer to masturbate in a bed, Thatcher.

Thatch: So what you’re saying is you’ve just been lying around in my bed all day (during breaks from snooping through my place), rubbing your pussy all over my sheets?

Me: Is that a problem?

Thatch: Hell no, but my apartment has rules.

Me: Rules?

Thatch: If I’m not there to witness, then you have to record it for my viewing pleasure.

Me: Put your boner away, Thatcher.

Thatch: Pretty sure you started this, Crazy. I’m not the one hanging out at your apartment, swinging my dick around and jizzing all over your sheets.

Me: Okay. I’ll give you that.

Thatch: I’ll be done with this meeting at 1:30. Prep those gorgeous tits for FaceTime with my Supercock.