Tapping Her (Billionaire Bad Boys 1.5)

Okay, so I wasn’t that annoyed. But I was doing my best to keep up appearances.

“I’m going inside to make some lunch.” I grabbed a towel off one of the lounge chairs on the deck. “You can stay out here and risk your life, but I’m not going to be a part of it,” I huffed over my shoulder as I strode toward the interior of our bungalow. Well, I should say, sashayed, because yeah, my ass was a superpower when it came to my husband.

“Bring that sexy ass back here.”

“Not a chance!”

“But I love you, Benny! You and your ass. I really love your ass.”

“Trying to off me is an odd way of showing it!”

“Baby, don’t be mad,” he called from behind me in that tone he knew usually worked like a charm. It was annoyingly sweet yet husky in a way that only Kline could pull off.

Not gonna work this time, buddy.

I flipped him off over my shoulder, and his chuckles followed me inside.

“Save me some food!”

I turned around and peeked out the deck doors. His back was to me as he stretched his arms for a swim. The muscles in his arms, legs, hell, everywhere, were as defined as ever. God bless his aptitude for keeping his body in tip-top shape.

He wasn’t the kind of guy who “worked out” at the gym. He liked to do things to keep his physique, whether it was rugby or running or fucking his wife into a goddamn coma. His energy was endless, and he’d already spent hours on our honeymoon swimming laps in the pool while I slept myself back to fighting form in the sun. If my ass was my superpower in our relationship, my husband’s stamina was its match.

Well, that and his cock. Because, yeah…Big-dicked Brooks.

“If I make you lunch, I need at least an hour of you eating dessert in return,” I demanded while continuing to take in the sight of his ogle-worthy body.

He turned toward my voice, and his mouth curled up at the corners. “Promise?”

I shrugged. “I guess we’ll have to see how persuasive that mouth of yours is.”

“Mmm, I can’t wait. I think I’ll just live off your pussy for the rest of our honeymoon.”

That comment had me smiling and blushing at once.

“Draft the contract, Brooks. I’ll be back in a few,” he said with a wink, rapping on the wood of the deck with his knuckles.

I watched as he turned and dove into the sea. His arms sliced through the calm waters in precise movements as he headed for the horizon. Man, he was almost as good at swimming as he was at fucking my brains out. And let’s face it, Kline Brooks could work it.

I stood there for a good five minutes, stupid smile still intact, until my growling stomach forced my focus to food. Heading into the kitchen, I turned on my laptop and set the mood with a little Bob Marley on my Spotify. And then I got to work, rummaging through the stocked fridge for ingredients. In the mood for something light and savory, I began making a chicken Caesar salad. Sure, we could have had room service delivered on a regular basis, but both me and Kline preferred to keep our honeymoon mostly to ourselves without the threat of even tiny interruptions.

Once the food was ready, and I had changed into a yellow cotton sundress, I stood at the breakfast bar and dug into the crisp salad while going through some emails.

The only one that needed an urgent reply was another one from Wes. I was starting to wonder if he was doing this on purpose, attempting to distract me, his best friend’s wife, while on my honeymoon. It wouldn’t surprise me if that was his game. The trio, aptly nicknamed Billionaire Bad Boys, tended to give each other shit as often as possible. It was a wonder they had time to do anything else. At least everyone else seemed to be getting the Leave Georgia Alone memo.

I promptly read through the newly drafted contract for VITAsteel. It looked a hell of a lot better than the original proposed deal, but I still wasn’t thrilled with it. I wanted our players to get as much out of this endorsement as they could, but I didn’t want them to have to sign their lives away either.

I didn’t care how fantastic the numbers looked on paper. No one should be handcuffed into exclusivity with one sponsor. That type of situation had no way to go but down. Yet another lesson I’d learned from my clever husband. He knew how to see the shit hidden within a field of flowers.

Our players needed and deserved to have the freedom to accept other endorsements while playing in the NFL. Most of them had families to provide for, and let’s face it, their careers as professional athletes wouldn’t last forever.

The music switched over to one of my favorite Marley songs, “Is This Love.” As my hips swayed to the music and my lips hummed the beat, I rested my elbows on the kitchen island and started drafting an email with my suggestions.