Tapping Her (Billionaire Bad Boys 1.5)

I held my phone out to him, letting him see the conversation. He chuckled a few times and then took it upon himself to snatch my phone and start scrolling through my shit.

“Oh, so it’s like that, is it?” I held out my hand. “If you want to be nosy, it has to be on equal terms.”

He didn’t bat an eye at my demand, sliding his phone out of his pocket and across the table.

To be honest, I was a little surprised by his openness, but I probably shouldn’t have been. I didn’t have anything to hide or be embarrassed about. Therefore, the guy version of me probably didn’t either.

Shit. The asshat didn’t even have a passcode set up on his phone.

My fingers tapped on his pictures first, scrolling through numerous photos of sports games and hilarious candids of his friends. I stopped on one that made me smile. “Are you wearing a ‘Single and Ready to Mingle’ shirt in this pic?”

“Fuck yeah, I am. Don’t knock the shirt, it’s my favorite.”

“I’m stealing that shirt. I’ll fucking wrestle you for it if I have to.”

“You don’t need to come up with excuses to wrestle me, honey. Name the time and place and lose the crop top, and I’m there.”

I laughed. “Keep dreaming.”

“All dreams can come true, if we have the courage to pursue them.”

“Did you just quote Walt Disney in the context of getting me naked?”

“Sure did,” he said, eyes back on my phone.

I moved to his contacts next, finding a slew of female names.

“Who’s Tasara?” I asked, clicking on her name and finding a picture of an extremely attractive brunette.

His eyes met mine. “Who’s Sean?”

“My brother,” I answered honestly.

“Your brother? You know he’s black, right?”

My eyes narrowed, and I flipped him the bird. He just smirked.

“Tell me about Tasara,” I demanded. “And do you make a point of taking pictures of all of your contacts?”

“Tasara is my sister, and yes, I do. It’s one of my favorite things.”

“She is not your sister,” I said, laughing.

“Nah, but she’s a really nice girl.”

“How nice?” I asked, wanting some details. I was curious about this man and the way he handled relationships.

“She’s a fucking giver.”

I tapped another name and stumbled upon yet another picture of a different gorgeous face. “What about Rachel?”

“She’s a sweetheart. A really down-to-earth cool chick.”

Next contact. “And Samantha?”

“She’s a doll. Definitely a bit wild.”

“You don’t like wild?” I asked.

He smirked and raised his eyebrows, sitting back in his chair. “I love wild.”

Of course he did.

“What about JoAnna?”

“She’s a multiples kind of girl.”

“And Ella, is she a wild sweetheart too?”

“All of those girls are sweethearts,” he corrected. “I don’t waste my time on anything else. But Ella did have a bit of a wild streak, too. I tend to migrate toward that kind of woman,” he answered with a knowing glance.

My chest stung—like an actual stinging, burning feeling—and I found my hand rubbing it seeking relief. So many girls, but he didn’t even hesitate to put details to a name. They weren’t all faceless screws; that was apparent.

Was I having a heart attack?

This was definitely something I had never felt before. Fuck, I hated it. I knew that much. And the more I scrolled, the worse the pain got. I looked away from the screen, wanting a reprieve from the torturous feeling, or whatever the hell it was.

I guess if I keeled over while stuffing my face, I’d know the root cause was clogged arteries.

“So, these girls, how does it work? Are they actually cool with the fact that you’re not a one-chick kind of guy? Or is that something you don’t tell them?” I asked, no disdain in my voice. I was honestly just curious.

“Of course, they know the score, honey. I’ve been open and honest with every woman I’ve ever been with. I don’t feed women bullshit lies to get in their pants. Never have and never will.” He set my phone on the table. “And who said I wasn’t a monogamous kind of guy?”

I cocked an eyebrow, sliding his phone toward him. Trapping the phone to a stop, his big hand spanned nearly the entire tiny table. “No one said it. I just assumed you’re more focused on playing the field than actually looking for The One.”

A hard-to-decipher emotion crossed his face, but I knew it wasn’t happiness. There was some sort of sadness lying beneath the surface of his brown eyes.