Tapping The Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys 1)

Kline.

He was hovering over me, his hot, naked body mere inches from mine. That body—good God, that body. Lean, tight, toned muscles. So many fucking muscles. Washboard abs and that perfect V pointing right down to his…um…yeah…Big-dicked Brooks.

Hot damn, Cassie was right.

He had the kind of cock you could make a five-second GIF out of and never get tired of watching it on loop. I was convinced, somewhere down the line, Kline’s dick had a great-great-great-great grandfather dick, and it was that exact shaft that had inspired some woman to pull down a guy’s pants and say, “Oh yes, I need to suck on that.” This was a history-making, Nobel Prize award-winning cock. The sole reason the blow job was an actual thing.

“I can’t wait to taste you,” he whispered, sliding my panties down my legs.

Yes. Hell. Yes. Taste me.

“God, you’re fucking beautiful.” He licked across my stomach.

“Your cock is beautiful,” I said.

He kneeled between my legs. “Tell me how bad you want my cock, Georgia.” Blue eyes scorched my skin as he stroked that perfect dick.

“Bad. So bad,” I begged.

“Be patient, sweetheart.” He smirked. “I can’t wait to fuck you, but right now, I need your taste on my tongue.”

Kline gripped my thighs, spreading me wide, while his head was between my legs doing everything a guy should know how to do with his tongue.

“Oh, fuck,” I moaned, gripping his hair and following the movements of his mouth with my hips.

“Come for me, Georgia,” he demanded.

And like a goddamn romance novel cliché, I came on command…on my boss’s face.

I was panting. Drained. Sated. My muscles were lax, skin peppered with a sheen of sweat. I had thoroughly worked myself over. When I opened my eyes, I realized I had just gone to a place I could never come back from.

Kline Brooks had just been inaugurated into my spank bank rotation.

And he’d given me the best orgasm I’d had in a long fucking time.

“So the Sure Romance contract went through as expected. Martin folded like a fitted sheet at the threat of…” Georgia recited as if rehearsed, her attention drifting from the lights overhead to the paperweight on my desk, out the window, and back again.

She’d been trying her damnedest not to look at me since she’d knocked on the door of my office two minutes ago.

“Wait,” I interrupted, startling her enough that her eyes found my face. “Aren’t fitted sheets hard to fold?” I kicked one corner of my mouth up in a grin, adding, “Mine sure as hell are. Is there some secret I’m missing out on?”

Bewilderment forced her eyebrows together and her plump bottom lip out.

I could see the thoughts race through her eyes one after the other, wondering what we were talking about and why we were talking about it at the same time she questioned the likelihood that I was the one who actually folded my sheets, rather than a maid, a butler, or several servants, perhaps.

Once she realized I was teasing her, the lines of her face transformed from confused to punishing.

“Sorry,” I apologized, easing from a grin into a full-blown smile. “Continue.”

“Right.” She huffed adorably. “As I was saying, Martin…”

Her words muffled into a simple rhythm of soothing sounds as my concentration transferred to my thoughts.

Two years of listening to Georgia Cummings talk about product placement and commercial budgets didn’t hold a candle to one fucking day of actually talking to her. The flustered, less professional, overtly female version one simple encounter had turned her into, that is.

She was still poised, as always, knowledgeable, and completely on top of her tasks and obligations. But her looks lingered longer—when she forgot to think about being awkward—and her humor lived at the surface, just at the tip of her quick-witted tongue, instead of buried under layers of propriety and boss-employee relations.

Put simply, I looked different to her, and, with her hair swept up off of the smooth, slim column of her neck and her eyes bright with mischief, she sure as fuck looked different to me.

“Mr. Brooks!” she called, fiery and peeved that I wasn’t listening to her with full attention.

“Kline,” I corrected, thinking about the way she’d sounded singing about her pussy and the faces I thought she’d make while I finger-fucked it, and then waited for her to agree with popped brows.

“Fine,” she consented. “Kline.”

God, I needed to hear her say that while she came.

I smiled again and fought the urge to adjust my tightening pants under my desk.

“Good.”

She didn’t seem nearly as amused. I forced my mind to the mildly professional side of its coin when she crossed her arms over her chest and tapped a toe on the tile. After years of keeping every exchange with employees above board, I’d never felt such a blatant need for betrayal by my eyes. They wanted to be bad. They wanted to be really bad. And my stupid cockblock of a brain wouldn’t let them.