Dirty Money (Roughneck Billionaires 1)

“Sure,” he drawls, heading to the kitchen. “You want Coors Light, Natty Light, Corona, or the hard shit?”

“Um, water?”

He looks at me, blank. “Water?”

“Like a bottle of water?”

Boone rubs his jaw. “Uh . . .”

“It’s okay. Whatever you’ve got is fine.”

“Well . . . I got Coors Light, Natty Light, Corona, and Jim Beam.”

Oh boy. I’m not a drinker, and I’m definitely not a fan of beer. “Coors Light. Thank you.”

He nods absently. “I didn’t think this through. Shoulda ordered you some fancy shit. Asking you over was kinda impromptu, though. I couldn’t wait to see you again.” He gives me a sheepish look that’s adorable.

I’m melting. He couldn’t wait to see me? Maybe I’m not the only one that’s addicted.

Boone pops the tab on the beer, then holds it out to me. “You want me to order you a pizza and have them bring some drinks while we’re at it?”

“No, it’s all right.” I take the beer and give it the world’s smallest sip. “Thank you.”

He gets a beer for himself, pops the tab, and takes a few swigs. We’re quiet. It’s strange, because normally Boone is eating up the entire room with his personality. But right now? He seems unsettled.

I glance around the trailer. It’s an older model, like mine. “How long have you lived here?”

He finishes his beer and grunts a response. “A while. It was my dad’s before he passed.”

“Passed?” I ask politely, though I know this is a rocky road to go down. Parents are always a tricky discussion. Trust me, I know.

“Yup. Roughnecking. Freak accident. The chainhand fucked up and my dad’s leg got wrapped up in chain instead of it going around the pipe. Yanked Dad up a good ten feet before his leg got severed, and then he just kinda bled out on the rig.” He crumples the can in his hand and tosses it into the sink. “Company paid us a good chunk to make it go away, and since we were young, stupid kids, we took it. Bought my little brothers trailers of their own so we didn’t all have to squeeze in here anymore.”

“I’m so sorry, Boone. How old were you?”

He rubs his beard. “Twenty. I was out on a rig myself at the time. Clay, too. Hard to go back to work after that, but we didn’t have a lot of options.”

“Out in West Texas?” I ask delicately, holding my beer. Time to steer the conversation toward safer, less unhappy grounds. The last thing I want to do is bring up memories of his dead father before asking him to kiss me.

“That’s where most of the rigs are, yeah.”

“Should you be looking to purchase a house out there, perhaps?” I’ve been keeping my housing searches confined to the San Antonio and South Texas general vicinity, but I wonder if he wouldn’t rather live closer to his work. “That’s quite a commute.”

“’Bout five hours one way,” he agrees, then shrugs. “And there ain’t much out there ’cept rigs, so I don’t mind living here. I don’t have to be on site every day. I just go in and check on things to make sure they’re running smoothly, or to dowse for a new well.” He studies me for a long moment. “’Sides, there are things I like here.”

My heart flutters in my chest. The look he’s giving me makes me feel like he’s mentally stripping all of my clothing off and tossing it aside. “The Riverwalk?” I tease. “The Alamo? Are you a history buff, Boone?”

“You know I don’t give a damn about any of that shit,” he tells me. He plucks the beer from my hands—not that I was drinking it—and sets it down, then steps in closer to me. When I don’t move, he reaches out and rubs the backs of his knuckles along my jaw.

“You should,” I whisper, electricity racing through my body at his touch. “Give a damn about that shit, that is. The Alamo’s supposed to be fascinating.”

“Then maybe we’ll go sometime. Quit stallin’. You know what I’m interested in.” His thumb grazes my lower lip.

I lick the tip of his thumb when it skims my mouth in a flirty, impulsive little motion. “The housing market?” I ask, pretending to be coy.

“Something in the housing market, yeah.” His hand slides to the side of my neck and he caresses it, sending shivers through my skin. “You wearing panties?”

A little gasp escapes me at his blunt topic change. Count on Boone to stop mincing words and get directly to the heart of things. I feel a flush creeping up my body and I’m aroused and excited at the same time. “I don’t know,” I lie. I picked out my panties just for him. “You going to check for me?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Somehow I think you’d be a little uncomfortable if I just shoved my hand under your skirt.”

I laugh. Now he’s getting thoughtful on me? “That’s never stopped you before.”

“Yeah, but now I’m about to get laid.”

Wild giggles escape me. Just when I think this man is backing down from his heated pursuit, he surprises me again. I love his boldness. It makes me want to be bolder as well. I put a hand on his chest, and can practically feel the heat radiating from his skin. I wonder if he’s hairless or covered in a thick carpet of chest hair? He’s certainly shaggy enough in the face. “So you think you’re about to get laid, do you?”

“Well, if I’m not, I’m reading all the signals wrong,” he drawls, leaning in close. It’s as if he’s going to kiss me, but he keeps talking, instead, his lips lickably close.

“Signals?” I pretend innocence. “Have I been sending you signals?”

“A few.”

“Such as?” I lick my lips because I want him to notice that small action and close the gap between us. I’m hungry for his mouth on mine.

“Such as the fuck-me pumps you’re wearing,” he murmurs, so close that his breath skitters over my face. “And the fact that when I lean in, I can see all the way down the front of your suit, right to that lacy bra. You dress like that for all your clients?”

“If I did, I’d sell a lot more real estate,” I tell him, and then whisper, “Can you see that my nipples are hard?”

He groans and licks his own lips, and I’m hit with a surge of unholy lust. I want this man, bad. I nearly come out of my skin when he leans in closer. Our lips are less than an inch apart, but he still doesn’t kiss me. “Ivy,” he murmurs. “I think I’m going to stick my hand under your skirt anyhow to check on those panties. You won’t panic since I’m warning you, right?”

“Warning me . . . or declaring me as your property?” That sexy, husky voice doesn’t even sound like mine, yet it’s coming out of my throat. I’ve never thought of myself as a vixen before. I’m definitely more of a Betty than a Veronica, and a Mary Ann than a Ginger. But in his eyes? I feel like the most exotic, erotic woman in the world.

“Same thing.” His hand moves from my neck to my shoulder, and then he slowly traces one of the lapels on the front of my suit.

I remain utterly still, my body tense with anticipation. I can feel myself breathing hard; I want him to touch me. I think I want it more than anything.

His hand trails to my skirt, and then he looks at me. Our eyes lock and his expression is that intense, possessive one I’ve seen before, and makes me shudder.

Then, he goes under my skirt and cups me between my thighs.

I suck in a breath, because that one simple motion is more intense than anything I’ve ever felt.

Boone’s eyes go wide and he rubs his fingers over my mound. “You shave?”

“I did a little housekeeping,” I say hoarsely.

He moves one finger deliberately against my cleft, outlining it through the silk of my panties. “You think of me while you do it?”

I whimper, because he knows I did. How can I not? This man has totally claimed me. “Of course.”

“You are the sexiest damn thing I have ever seen,” he tells me, and then his mouth is on mine.

It’s an impolite kiss. Some kisses are gentle and hesitant, almost as if they’re asking permission. That’s not how Boone Price kisses, though. His kiss is deliciously savage, his tongue plundering my mouth. It’s like he wants to claim me with every flick of his tongue against mine, every caress of his lips. He kisses the hell out of me even as his finger drags back and forth over my panties. I cling to him, my arms going around his neck. I want to straddle his hand and rock against it, but his mouth and his tongue are leaving me just as dazed as his fingers.

It’s complete and utter sensory overload.

And I want more of it.

He rubs his mouth over mine again, and his beard drags against my skin. His beard. That reminds me . . .

But then he rubs me through the panties again, hard, and I moan into his mouth. My knees go weak and I sag against him, boneless under this onslaught.

“Gonna make you come a dozen times,” he rasps, kissing my jaw and then moving to my ear. His beard drags against my sensitive skin and I shudder as he licks my earlobe, the dichotomy of sensations just adding to the feeling of being overwhelmed by him. “And I’m gonna lick up all your juices as I do.”

“A dozen?” I breathe. “That seems . . . like overkill.”

“I’m a man that likes to do things right.” He sucks on my earlobe, and another wave of pleasure rushes through me.

I have no doubt he’ll do things right. Despite his uncouth appearance, he’s been melting me from the moment we met. I can’t resist him or his demands . . . and I don’t want to.

“Can’t believe you shaved this for me,” he murmurs, nipping my ear. His fingers stroke over my bare pussy, and it feels like the panties I’m wearing are nonexistent. “Love how naughty you are under all those prim clothes.”

I do feel naughty. He makes me feel that way. I’m swept up in the excitement of his world and I want to show him that I’m not just someone he’s pushing into bed. I want to show him that I’m going there eagerly. “I brought something over,” I tell him, stroking my hand over his beard when he lifts his head.