The Billionaire's Virgin

My finger hovers over the delete button. Surely some of these $40-50k offers will be from less irritating know-it-alls.

But $500,000. That could pay for as much time in the top-of-the-line facility as Gram needs. Not to mention the year and a half of nursing school I’ve already been through and the remaining two to boot. I could study full-time, maybe even finish in three years and start working earlier than I’d planned. Without juggling shifts at the diner, I could easily manage that.

I chew on my lower lip. I am on here to sell myself to the highest bidder, after all. And Mr. PiercingPine certainly is that. Who cares if he’s the biggest asshole on the planet, if he’ll pay me that kind of money for one simple night?

The least I could do is see if he’s serious. Try to scope him out, see if he’s a nutjob. He’s probably just some broke kid from the Midwest fucking around on this site anyway, trying to see if he can get some girl to give him her bank information if he promises to send her money. Well. I might be a virgin, but I’m not exactly some naive little schoolgirl.

“Fine, P,” I murmur as I pull up Skype and set up a new username: BonnieSeeksClyde. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The account created, I add PiercingPine32 to my contact list. I’m about to close the laptop again and head off to the train when my computer pings.

He added me back.

Was he just sitting around waiting for me? I raise an eyebrow. The broke kid in the Midwest theory is looking more and more believable.

My fingers hover over my keyboard, frozen as I try to think of an opening line, when his chat window pops up.

Took you long enough, my dear.

Long enough? I snort, then check the Sugar Babies site again. He only put in that bid an hour ago. He’s lucky I checked it before I jetted off to Gram’s, or he would have been waiting even longer.

Then again, maybe he would have just bid on some other hot virgin by then. If it’s as big a trend as Erin seemed to think, there must be a ton of girls cashing in on this right now.

So I swallow my pride and my instinctively irritated response. Right. Sugar Baby. Virgin. Sweet, innocent young thing looking for a man to corrupt me. Get into character, Bonnie.

It’s embarrassingly easy. After all, I kind of am looking to be corrupted right now. At least, if you call losing your V-card corruption. Which seems like a very Catholic schoolgirl thing of me to think.

“Progressive feminism, Bon,” I mumble. Nothing wrong with wanting to get my pussy wrecked by a hot guy with a huge dick.

Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. P. Or do you have a name? Mr. Pine?

My name is Pierce, Bonnie. I should return the favor, after all, one real name for another.

“Oh, like Piercing instead of Pierce is such a great disguise,” I mutter under my breath. In the chat, I type, How do you know that’s my real name?

Am I wrong? he counters.

I purse my lips. No. I’m just curious why it was so obvious.

Let’s just say, your name wasn’t a type of animal, flower, or fruit. It stood out.

Oh. I frown at my screen. Sorry, I haven’t done this before.

Don’t be sorry. I like that about you.

What, the things I haven’t done?

I expect him to tease me, but all I get back is a one-word answer.

Yes.

Well then. Guess we know what his fetish is. Then again, that probably should’ve been obvious when he offered me half a million freaking dollars. I rub my temple with one finger. Okay. Time to figure out if this guy is for real.

So how does this work, exactly? I’m in the middle of typing, but another message from him interrupts me.

Enough small talk, Bonnie. I need to see you.

“Whoa, kidnapper much?” I raise an eyebrow. But, almost as though he’s reading my mind, he qualifies that statement immediately.

Virtually speaking, of course.

Without another word, my screen lights up. I jump so hard the laptop nearly flies off my thighs.

He’s calling me. Video chat. Not just audio.

My eyes dart around the living room. No way. Erin could come home at any time—I haven’t got her schedule memorized, since it’s pretty random during the week. I grab my laptop and bolt into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me.

But, of course, it looks like a time bomb went off in here. Between my late shifts at the diner, my classes, and being up in NoCal so often, I don’t have much time to take care of the place. My bed is heaped with semi-dirty laundry, jeans and sweaters I can totally get away with wearing one or five more times before I need to haul them to the laundromat. My desk is piled with notebooks and print-outs and highlighters scatter the floor.