Banking the Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys 2)

“Yes. I’m very interested. And Cass happened to mention you were single. And well, I’m single. I think we’d hit it off. So, I was wondering if you’d like to grab a drink sometime?”

“And Cassie told you this was something I’d be interested in?”

Joshua’s gaze shot to mine, but he kept his composure on the phone. “Not in so many words, but, yeah.”

A soft chuckle filled the receiver. “Well, Joshua, it’s a pleasure to talk with you, truly, but I’ve got a bit of a problem with this scenario.”

“Oh.” His voice was dejected. “And what would that be?”

“I’m kind of in love with a set of talking tits. And the owner of said mystic wonders is pretty fucking head over heels for my cock.”

“I’m not in love with your cock, T-bag,” I responded, and Josh’s and Olivia’s eyes aimed right at me.

Joshua stared at me for a few seconds and then flipped me off.

“You are a bigger bitch than love,” he told me with an amused grin, handing me his phone and whispering into my ear, “You totally want to get Thatched, you little floozy. And don’t think I’ll forget about this anytime soon. You owe me, Phillips. You owe me big.”

I laughed and shook my head. “Nah, I just like fucking with him. And how big are we talking here?”

“A new boyfriend with a ten-inch snake coiled inside his pants.”

“Ten inches?” My eyes went wide. “You can take that much?”

“Oh, yeah. My deep throat game is strong.” Joshua winked. “And you’re a liar, by the way. You want that big, bad man between your thighs,” he added in a whisper before heading toward the other tent to clean up.

I switched the phone off speaker mode, and Thatcher’s deep voice filled my ear. “You know you don’t have to create these elaborate pranks just to hear my voice, honey. The subscription messages and now this. Seems like a lot of extraneous effort when you can call me any fucking time.”

“Bye, Thatcher,” I said in dismissal, feigning annoyance even though I was anything but annoyed. Thanks to the photo and Thatch’s throaty fucking chuckle, I was too busy picturing him driving his big train through my tunnel.

“Be good, Cassie.”

“I’m always good.”

He laughed. “I’m having a hard time believing that. Tell Joshua I appreciated the call and the offer. And if I wasn’t into pussy, I would’ve taken him out for a nice dinner, some drinks, and then back to my place so I could fuck his brains out.”

“You paint such a pretty picture. Are you sure you don’t want to give him a shot? Who knows? Maybe you’ll love the D?”

“You think?” he asked, audibly playing along even though we both knew when Thatcher Kelly pounded something, it was pussy.

“I let you kiss me, so stranger things have happened.”

His voice dropped a few octaves. “You wearing a bra right now?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You wearing a bra or not wearing a bra always has everything to do with everything. It’s literally never off topic.”

I shook my head but glanced down at my T-shirt. “This shouldn’t surprise you, but no, I’m not.”

If there was one thing Thatcher Kelly loved, it was my boobs. For all I knew, he had a fan club dedicated to the mounds on my chest.

“Yeah, I’m hard at that visual. It’s safe to say I’m straight as an arrow.”

“Put your boner away, Thatcher.”

“Come help me,” he dared.

“That’s a lovely offer, but I’m not in New York. “

“Where are you?”

“Key West.”

“And when are you coming home?”

“Not for another couple of days,” I answered honestly.

“You should call me when you’re back in town.”

“Oh, I should? And why would I do that?”

“Because you can’t stop thinking about me.”

I stared out toward the darkening blue sea. I couldn’t deny he was slightly correct on that front. Almost two months ago, we had spent an ungodly amount of time together while watching Kline and Georgia’s cat, while they banged like bunnies in Bora Bora on their honeymoon.

The cat watching had turned to cat searching when Walter had gone missing for a few days, and somehow during that debacle, Thatcher Kelly had started to grow on me. I’d even found myself occasionally calling him or sending him random text messages just to see what he was up to.

It was all very unlike me, and I was starting to wonder if I just needed to fuck him out of my system.

“I don’t know about that,” I answered with a skeptical tone. “I mean, I just saw the new Superman movie, and I’ve been using up a lot of brainpower on Henry Cavill fantasies.”

“I’m down for role-playing, honey. I’ll even put a cape on my cock if that’s what you’re into.”

Well, that was a hot visual.

“But how would I blow you?”

“You wouldn’t. I’d be too busy with my mouth on your pussy. We’ll save the blow job for our second date.”

God, he was the king of one-upping. It probably should’ve annoyed me, but it didn’t. I got far too much enjoyment out of bantering back and forth with him.

“Have you been Googling pickup lines again?” I teased.

“With great penis comes great responsibility, honey.”

I laughed at that. “God, that’s awful.”

“Fuck me if I’m wrong, but I know you want me to kiss you again.”

Yeah, so he had kissed me. Once. I was pretty sure it was used to shut me up, but it didn’t leave a bad taste in my mouth. Though, it’d pissed me off when he acted like that kiss was a game. I wasn’t normally sensitive to that shit, but I’d been fully invested in the moment until he’d taken me out of it. The bastard.

“I’m hanging up now.”

He laughed. “Fine, fine. Call me when you’re back in town.”

“I’ll consider it.”

“You’ll consider it?” he repeated. “Well, fuck, that’s a hell of a lot better than the last time I told you to do that.”

My eyebrow quirked up. “What’d I say the last time?”

“That you’d slap me in the dick.”

“Don’t worry, T. I’ll find a way to accomplish both.”

His deep chuckles were the last thing I heard before hanging up the phone.

Only then did I realize I’d expressed my intent to see him. Because no matter how I planned it, dick slapping was an in-person kind of thing.

Forty years of my parents’ marriage and thirty-five years of my own life history had brought me here, back to my hometown, Frogsneck, New York. My parents were the picture of everything I wanted in a marriage when it came to commitment, and celebrating so many years of their love for one another tonight had been a seriously special experience. They were the best kind of people—loving and loyal and fucking honest to a fault.

But I hated being back here in my hometown, the looks people gave me and my parents never having faded even after this many years.

Perception is the ultimate example of “it is what you make it.” Unfortunately, what people “made it” sometimes lacked basis in the truth.

I knew I shouldn’t have come here to the local watering hole after the party. I should have remembered the past and toasted to the future in the privacy of my childhood home instead, but I hadn’t.

And now, as the door opened to reveal one of my most negative high school memories, I had to face the consequences.

“Hey, Ryan, you see who’s here?” Johnny Townsend asked his friend, Ryan Fondlan.

I’d spent so many of my younger years despising Johnny that even the sound of his name made my blood pump faster. That was probably the half-baked reason John from BAD rugby and I couldn’t seem to get along. BAD was the rugby team Kline, Wes, and I played on during the week and the basis of our ridiculous nickname, the Billionaire BAD Boys. The team was aptly sponsored by and named after Wes’s restaurant, BAD. It was a terrible fucking name for a restaurant, but hell if Wes wasn’t profiting. It probably helped that he owned an NFL team and drew in the professional athlete crowd.

John was on that team, and I couldn’t deny we spent far too much time tossing jabs at one another. Shit. I probably needed to try not to be such a prick next practice.

“Johnny—” Ryan attempted to interrupt, but it was no use.

Ryan had always been the well-meaning sidekick to Johnny’s insensitive ways, and it pained the fuck out of me to see them both singing the same tune after this many years. It’s one thing for boys to be boys, but it’s quite another for men to act like them.

“I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. A big shot like Thatcher Kelly at the Sticky Pickle? Seems odd to me,” Johnny prodded, trying to incite a rise out of me. He’d been pushing my buttons since I was an overweight freshman just trying to survive high school. I’d never been insecure, but he’d been all too happy to try to make me that way. The tables had only turned when two years, a foot of height, and fifty extra pounds of muscle on my frame made them.

“Cool it, John,” Ryan suggested, directing, “Have a seat and get a drink,” before turning to me.