Tapping The Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys 1)

Stacey scoffed rather indelicately, an effect of too much alcohol too goddamn early in the benefit, and I winced, fearing the turn of events when no one returned from the restroom.

Then, out of the crowd emerged a frazzled—but stunning—Georgia. Red framed her body from breast to foot, the tight material clinging to her in all the right places. Her tan skin peeked out of a cutout just below her chest, and a matching blood red painted her lips and nails. The only thing missing red was her head, her now blonde locks cascading and curling down and around her slim shoulders and damn near robbing me of the ability to think.

Worry from her late arrival ravaged her face as she approached the two of us without pretense or fear.

“Oh my God, Kline, I am so sorry I’m—”

“It’s okay,” I cut her off, stepping pointedly around Stacey and pulling her into my arms for a hug.

“I’m just glad you’re here,” I whispered softly into her new hair. Stacey groaned audibly in begrudged response before grabbing her high-priced clutch from the bar and stomping away like a petulant child.

“Who was she?” Georgia asked, leaning back and glancing over my arm as Stacey dragged ass away.

“That was a day-spa-loving version of my cat.”

Her nose scrunched up adorably as she tried to make sense of my words.

“Would you like something to drink?” I offered, escorting her the few steps back to the bar with a hand at her back. I felt the warmth at my palm all the way in my dick, the need to touch her having been a palpable thing all day long.

She smiled, and it lit up her face and mine. “Can I say ‘God yes’ without sounding like a lush?”

One side of my mouth hooked up in a grin. My cock said she could say ‘God yes’ anytime she wanted, but thankfully, my mouth said, “Sure.”

I looked away long enough to grab the bartender’s attention and then turned back to her.

“You look beautiful.”

She started to smile but stopped herself, the skin between her eyebrows pinching slightly.

“I’m an asshole. I can’t believe I’m so late. I mean, I can believe I’m late,” she rambled. “Just not this late. This is a new low for me.”

“You’re always late?” I asked, trying to distract her from the late arrival and learn more about her instead.

“Yes. Every day of my life. Well, to everything other than meetings with you.” She winced again. “The work you, at least.”

“Don’t worry,” I promised with a grin. “Kline won’t say anything to Mr. Brooks.”

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked, tossing a napkin up on the bar for the anticipated glass.

Georgia looked to me in question.

“No.” I waved her off and lifted my glass. “I’m good. Just got one. You go ahead.”

I glanced down the line of her back as she leaned over the bar. Wide straps criss-crossed to form cut-outs in the fabric of the back as well, and smooth material hugged the curve of her hips and ass. Her body petite but curvy, I wanted to run my hands all over that fabric.

God, she looked gorgeous. It was almost unreal.

She turned to me, holding a glass of wine she had obviously ordered at some point during my ogling.

“Sorry,” I apologized through a tight throat. “I was…”

She raised an eyebrow pointedly, a knowing grin on her face. “Staring at my ass.”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “That’s exactly what I was doing.”

She laughed.

“It’s a really fine ass, though. And your hair…”

She grabbed a strand of it self-consciously, twisting it around her finger. “Oh. Yeah. I have a thing for dyeing my hair. I’m not sure why, but I tend to change it like a hobby. Red or blonde or sometimes—”

“Georgia?”

She finally took a breath. “Yeah?”

“I meant what I said. You look beautiful. Own it.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, but her face relaxed.

From there on out, she seemed herself: funny, sometimes awkward, but mostly at ease.

We worked the room, schmoozing all of the people who needed it and small-talking with the others. Unable to help myself, I kept a hand on Georgia all night.

Her hand in mine, my palm at the small of her back, a set of my flexing fingers on her perfect hip. Anything to touch her. Anything to keep her in close proximity.

Finally done with my obligations, I asked her something that’d been on my mind all night.

“Would you like to dance?”

She seemed surprised. “You dance?”

“With you, yes.”

“I swear,” she whispered with a shake of her head. “Do you secretly have one of those things on your wrist that Coca-Cola wears?”