Scoring the Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys 3)

Were those perfect forearm veins really necessary?

They’d already gotten me once this weekend, and now again. Give me a chance here, Universe.

Between his penetrating yet oddly seductive hazel eyes and his mind-blowing body, I wasn’t sure which part of him I enjoyed ogling the most.

My brain practically slapped me.

His ass, Winnie, it chided. Definitely his ass.

I couldn’t deny his ass was downright bitable, and it wasn’t like I had a fetish for sinking my teeth into men’s glutes. But for Wes? I could easily make an exception—and maybe end up spiraling into the life of one of those people on My Strange Addiction.

“I guess I should turn around?” His question pulled my eyes back to his face. “I know how much you love staring at my ass,” he added cockily with a knowing—and anger-inducing—wink.

Fucking shit. What, was it written on my forehead? Jesus, Winnie. Pull it together.

I rolled my eyes and kept all of my hysteria where it belonged—inside where it could eat at me slowly until I lost my mind one marble at a time. “I do not love staring at your ass.”

Obviously, I did. I totally did. But I wasn’t going to let him know that shit. When I thought about his ass, it’d be on my own, with a finger to my clit and teeth marks across the entire… Shit.

I know. Believe me, I know.

I sound like the horniest chick on the planet, but should I mention that it had been over a year since I’d had sex?

Yeah. One year. It’s depressing.

Cassie would’ve probably used the term “thirsty” to describe my current lack of sex. And God, I was thirsty. Thirsty for the tall drink of water that was Wes Lancaster. Hell, I wouldn’t have even used a straw. I’d have guzzled that fucker.

Guzzle? Really? Could I be any cruder?

Note to self: stop spending time with Cassie.

He leaned toward me, and his lips barely brushed my ear. “Tell me, Win. Are you cold, or are you turned on right now?”

“Excuse me?” I asked as I pulled away abruptly, confused and shocked and wondering what that had to do with drinking him up.

His gaze made the slow circuit from my lips to my neck to my chest until it paused, right there, directly on the cotton material covering my bra-less breasts.

Jerk. I didn’t even have to look to know what he was insinuating. Just because fantasies weren’t real didn’t mean hormones knew the difference. But for fuck’s sake, he could have ignored it. It was common decency.

“Cold,” I answered, refusing to give him an inch or show him any inkling of embarrassment by hiding my now very obvious nipples behind my arms.

His eyes met mine again, and I held his stare.

“Are you sure, sweetheart?” He lowered his voice. “Because I think you’re turned on. I think you’re just as turned on as I am right now.”

My mind whispered asshole, asshole, asshole, even though my body all but screamed, touch me, kiss me, fuck me. My eyes were busy fighting the urge to look down.

“You want me to be turned on,” I corrected harshly. “There’s a difference between reality and fantasy, sweetheart.”

“You want me. That’s the reality,” he responded without shame. His voice was all cocky confidence and self-assurance, and his eyes, well, they blazed. He looked like he’d taken a bite out of the sun.

I thought Miami was hot, but his fucking rays were making me go crazy. With want. With need. With an embarrassing amount of desperation.

We had been walking this line of give-and-take and push-pull for far too long. I felt like I had reached the precipice, and I couldn’t stand fighting this—whatever the hell it was—any longer. I just wanted him to put his hands on me. I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to tear my clothes off and mark my body with his lips, his tongue, his cock. I was undeniably attracted to him to the point of being primal. Instinctual. And it had reached the point of irresistible.

“You want me, too,” I murmured.

Our eyes danced their familiar game and refused to let go.

His whispered, Come on. Give in. Do what you want, Win.

Mine responded, Just one night. What could go wrong?

Within seconds, the soda and chips in my hands had hit the floor, and we were kissing, my hands in his hair, him pulling me closer. Our mouths were entangled in a tug-of-war, each of us trying to overpower the other. I bit into his bottom lip as his strong hands gripped my ass and lifted me up, wrapping my legs around his waist.

He pushed my back into the vending machine, grinding himself against me, proving irrefutably that I wasn’t the only one turned on right now. My hard nipples brushed against his chest, and the heat of his body scorched through both layers of measly cotton that separated us.

He groaned. “You drive me fucking crazy.”

“Yes,” I agreed on a moan. I did, and he did the same right back. I had a feeling it was something neither one of us had been able to stop.

His mouth moved down to my neck, sucking and licking the sensitive skin until my legs gripped his waist tighter. Fuck, I wanted to feel him. Skin on skin. I wanted him inside me.

And then, he was kissing me again. Or maybe I was kissing him again. All I knew was that we were kissing; fuck, were we kissing. We were a thunderstorm of pent-up emotion, and our lips and tongues and teeth were lightning bolts shocking each other into the passionate depths neither of us could refute.

“Room key,” his persistent lips whispered against my equally determined mouth.

Room key? Holy hell. What is happening?

How did we even get here? And more importantly, who started this?

Does it really matter?

No. It didn’t fucking matter. Because there was no way in hell I was stopping this. It felt too good. He felt too good. I wanted this. Him.

Which was why, with one last conscious choice, I willingly slipped the room key into his hand and whispered, “Hurry.”

“Hurry,” she’d said.

And fuck if I’d have guessed, but it turned out I was really good at following orders when it truly mattered. I hurried and then some, the round swells of her ass in my hands acting like the boost start in Mario Kart.

Imaginary sparks shooting out behind me in a swath of brilliance, I was in motion in a flash, pulling her back off the glass of the vending machine easily and carrying her down the hall while she sucked at my neck. Little biting kisses and deep, healthy pulls, she mixed it up constantly, keeping me under the spell of her drug and nearly rolling my eyes into the back of my head.

Eager to have my mouth on her too, I moved at a brisk pace, glancing around only briefly to see if we were the only ones in the hall. There’d have to be some kind of apocalyptic fallout to keep me from sinking myself between Winnie Winslow’s legs tonight, and even then, I’d probably still do it—I’d just make sure I was also armed with a gun.

Realization and a small drop of embarrassment burned down my spine as I arrived at her room, the fact that I hadn’t needed to be directed blindingly apparent, but as quickly as it rolled in, it left. We’d both been dancing around this for months, and as much as I told myself it wasn’t going to happen, my body spent most of its time preparing for the exact opposite. I may not have been expecting this when I’d dragged myself out to the vending machine to buy a bevy of snacks I wasn’t actually hungry for, but it was really no wonder I’d managed to take detailed note of her room number and location.

Pressing the key to the lock with a complete lack of grace, I cleared the way to get us out of the very public hall and into her very private room where I could do all the things I’d spent several hours too long dreaming about.

I pushed the heavy door open with the soft weight of her body and then swung her out of the way to let it close. The sound of it slamming shut might as well have been the ring of a gunshot from a starter’s pistol. We both bolted enthusiastically off the line.

She grabbed at my shoulders and let her head fall back, and I didn’t waste the opportunity. Her skin smelled like the perfect mix of peaches and sunshine, and goddamn, I ate at her like a man starved. Every inch of skin, each sweet sigh and moan, I swallowed it all and kept it for myself, selfish and demanding and always greedy for more.

My tongue swirled a line up the column of her throat, and then my teeth closed around it in a nibble as she flexed her hips forward in a gentle urge to move toward the bed. She didn’t need to prompt me twice.

Two quick steps took me the distance before I laid her down, the soft heat of her body under mine making me feel lightheaded.

Too busy to worry about Winnie Winslow. That was what I’d thought.

Yeah, I am definitely too busy with Winnie Winslow to worry now, my mind manipulated easily, turning down the volume on any and every voice with complaint or objection and cranking up the Marvin Gaye.

Imaginary candles sparked and flamed, and rose petals fluttered through the black of my closed eyes. An innocent trip to the vending machine for M&Ms had turned into NC-17 entertainment at its finest, and I was making my way from half-cocked to fully loaded in a hurry.

And now I’m thinking about video evidence of tonight playing in my apartment late at night two weeks from now. Holy fuck. Focus. Winnie Winslow would literally carve a biohazard symbol or profanity directly into the skin of your balls as a warning to all future women, I coached myself.