Dirty Money (Roughneck Billionaires 1)

But Boone only nods slowly. “All right, I don’t have that much cash on me. I gotta get it out of my savings. Come on.”

I follow him out onto the porch, but I’m bewildered when he skips heading to his truck and instead pulls a blue tarp off of what looks like a four-wheeler. He holds a helmet out to me, indicating I should join him. “What are we doing?”

“Going to pull money out of my savings?”

“I . . . thought we were going to a bank for that?”

He snorts. “Like I trust a bank.”

“Shouldn’t you? You’re a billionaire.”

He puts the helmet over my head and then puts one on himself. “I keep most of the big money in the company and don’t have access to it. Mostly because I can’t dig enough holes to squirrel it all away. My personal money’s here on the land.”

Squirrel away? I’m suddenly envisioning Boone showing up for closing on his house with a freshly dug-up gold bar or three. “I’m not following you.”

“I got several jars of money buried in a few spots. We’ll pull cash from one of those.” And to show me that he’s serious, he tucks a spade into his back pocket.

It’s night. I’m in a suit and five-inch heels and he wants to go digging in the woods for money? This feels . . . bizarre. “We really don’t have to do this, Boone—”

“Get over here or I’m going to sit you down and lick your pussy until you say yes.” The look on his face is challenging.

Good lord, the man means it, too. I’m torn, because . . . that’s not exactly a punishment. And Boone’s as pigheaded as they come, I’m realizing. Me stalling or telling him that this isn’t a good idea? I might as well be trying to reason with the trees. I sigh and adjust the strap under my helmet. “Please tell me it’s not gold bars, at least. I’m pretty sure hotels don’t take those.”

He laughs as he sits down on the four-wheeler and waits for me to straddle the seat behind him. “I may be a crazy redneck, but I ain’t that crazy.”

Chapter Nine

Boone

Ivy knows of a fancy place downtown, so we head there in my truck. She keeps protesting that she doesn’t need a nice bed or a super expensive hotel room, but I need that for her. Ivy’s going to be my wife, and I’m not having our first time together on my shitty old bed in my shitty old trailer. She’s used to better and she deserves to be treated like the lady she is.

I glance over at her as I drive. Even though it’s late at night, she looks fresh and pretty. Her mouth’s still a little puffy from my beard-scraping kisses, but I kinda like that look on her. She keeps a hand on the front of her jacket, pinching it together with her fingers so her tits don’t show to the world. Not that I’d mind that, but Ivy’s a lady, and that ain’t a lady thing to do.

Then again, neither is going to a hotel late at night to have sex with me. Course, I don’t mind that, either. I feel a fierce surge of satisfaction just thinking about her, because she’s mine.

Finally, she’s gonna be mine. I’m gonna take her to some fancy-ass overpriced hotel room, peel the clothes off her body, get a few glasses of champagne in her, and lick every inch of her silky skin until she’s begging for my cock. Even now, I’m hard, my jeans tight in the crotch. But I can be a real patient man when I need to be. Haven’t I been patient waiting on her to come around to how good it could be with me?

Longest damn week.

But worth it, if I get her in my bed and in my life.

We check in at the hotel, and Ivy seems even more nervous, holding her jacket shut and clutching her purse tight against her arm. I get one of the top-floor suites and, when I’ve paid, escort my woman to the elevator.

“I think they think I’m an escort,” she whispers to me as we get in. “Did you see the way the clerk was looking at me?”

I didn’t, but she might not be wrong. It’s late at night and weird things happen late at night, especially in hotels. I keep my arm at her waist, feeling possessive of her. “Nah. They recognize class when they see it. Probably just wondered what you were doing with me.”

She’s silent, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t believe me. But she’s still going upstairs with me, so it must not bother her that much. ’Sides, I think my girl has a secretly dirty side. I like it.

The room turns out to be bigger than my trailer. It’s got a couch, a sea of leather chairs accompanied by tiny wrought-iron tables, a huge balcony view of the Riverwalk, and a ritzy bathroom with a spa tub and a long marble counter. There’s a bunch of ugly-ass art on the wall, which makes me think they need to fire their decorator. At least the bed’s enormous, which is all I care about. I turn to Ivy. “You like it?”

“It’s lovely.” She gives me a faint, shy smile, then sets her purse down and slips out of her high heels. As she moves around the room, I head for the phone and the room service menu.

I dial the number.

“What can I get you, sir?” the voice on the other end asks.

“I want a bottle of your most expensive champagne and a couple of lobsters.” When Ivy wrinkles her nose, I add, “What you got for dessert?” The man rattles off something in French, and I get two of it. Because fuck it. I want to impress my lady.

“It’ll be an hour,” the person on the other end promises. “This late at night our special orders take a bit longer.”

An hour’s fine. I hang up and look over at Ivy, who’s gazing out at the Riverwalk below. She’s fucking gorgeous in the moonlight, all soft curves and long legs. She also looks . . . a little nervous. Her shoulders are tense and she hugs her arms to her torso. Maybe she needs something to occupy her. I know just the thing. “Well,” I drawl. “You wanna do the honors?”

“Honors?” She turns around and looks at me.

I scratch at my beard. “You said you wanted to shave me, right?”

Her cheeks flush prettily and she smooths her bun with one hand. “Isn’t room service coming up?”

“It’s gonna be an hour. That’s enough time for you to get all naked and trim my beard, right?”

She licks her lips and they part gently, as if she’s considering it.

I nearly bust a nut in my pants at that small gesture because she’s so damn sexy. I’m a red-blooded man and I’ve wanted women in the past, but there’s something about Ivy Smithfield that makes me think I never knew lust until I set eyes on her. She’s changed the entire game for me.

“You shy?” I ask, half teasing. It makes my heart ache to look at her. So beautiful, and all mine.

“A little,” she admits. “But I’ll work through it.” Ivy takes one last look at the lights of the Riverwalk, and then she closes the balcony doors and draws the curtain over it, making our room private. Her hands go to the front of her jacket and she starts to undo the buttons. The playfulness is gone from her expression, and she looks very serious, as if she needs to concentrate to do this right.

Doesn’t she know all she has to do is smile and I’m hers? I’m easy to impress, and even easier to arouse, especially when it comes to her.

Her hands tremble as she slides her jacket off her shoulders, revealing the silky pink-and-black bra that’s been tormenting me via her low neckline. Damn, she is fucking beautiful. Her belly is gently rounded and her hips are curvier than I thought. Her breasts are high and a perfect size, and her shoulders are a work of art. She’s gorgeous . . . and she looks so nervous she’s breaking my heart.

On impulse, I start to undo my belt.

She freezes in place, her little nipples hard and pointing through the fabric. “What are you doing?”

“Gettin’ naked with you, so you don’t feel all uncomfortable.”

The little giggle that escapes her warms me. “I don’t know if I’m going to feel better with you pantsless. What about when the food gets here?”

“I’ll cover with a towel.”

She gives a small little shake of her head, still smiling, and steps out of her skirt. Now she’s in nothing but her panties and matching bra, and god almighty, it is a sight to see. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life, and her legs are a dream. I want to stare at her for hours and drink in every beauty mark, every inch of skin, every strand of hair. “Maybe you’d better leave your pants on. But you can take your shirt off. Probably a good idea since it’ll just get covered with hair.”

I can do that. I immediately tug my shirt over my head and toss it to the floor, and then wait for her to comment. I’m pretty cut, thanks to my time on a rig, and I normally work out a few times a week just to get some of the stress out. I’m not completely covered in tatts, though, and I hope she wasn’t expecting that. I have a few on my arms, and that’s it. But maybe she likes more? I hate the thought of disappointing my woman.

Her eyes go wide as I rub my naked chest. She stares at me for a good, long moment, and then her gaze flicks to my face. “I . . . oh.”

“You what?”

Ivy’s face goes beet red. “Nothing.”

Amused at her reaction, I tease her a bit more. “You disappointed?” I pretend to grab my nonexistent beer gut.

“What? No!” She presses a hand to her cheek, and then moves closer to me. “I like the way you look. I was just . . . surprised. I don’t know why. I guess maybe I expected you to look . . . less . . . ?”

“Rugged?” I supply. “Amazing? Manly?” I flex again, because how can you refer to yourself as manly and not flex that shit?

Her hands go to my chest and she traces her fingers down my pectorals. Just like that, I forget all about teasing. Her small touch fills me with raging need, and it’s all I can do to stay still as she explores my body with her hands. I can’t even breathe when she grazes her thumbs over my nipples, because I’m picturing her doing that to my cock. Hell, I’m picturing doing that to her nipples, which are tight and juicy looking through the fabric of that bra, and so close that I want to reach out and taste them for myself. But this is her moment, and so I remain still.