Banking the Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys 2)

Jesus.

“Is she actually crazy?” I asked myself aloud. I shook my head and laughed, talking to myself again. “Maybe. But you definitely are, asshole.”

“I wrote the best fan fiction scene during my break,” I gushed to Georgia as I hopped on the A train after finishing up a late shoot in Hell’s Kitchen.

“Fan fiction?”

“Uh, yeah,” I scoffed and adjusted my camera bag over my shoulder. “You know I love to write Fifty Shades of Grey fanfic. Don’t you ever check my Wattpad page?”

“You still write on there?” she questioned in surprise.

“Hell yes, I do. I’m still waiting for E.L. James to read my work and fall madly in love with me.” I’d been writing Fifty Shades of Grey fanfic since I devoured the entire series a few years back. I had always loved to write, but it was that series that had actually motivated me to put my fingers to the keys for my own enjoyment. It was probably one of the best things I had ever decided to do. There was just something about writing your own little world of whatever the hell you wanted. It was downright liberating.

“Pretty sure she’s a little busy to be reading fanfic on Wattpad.”

“You’re ruining my BDSM buzz.”

“Sorry,” she said through a laugh. “I honestly had no idea you still did that. I thought that was a 2013 thing.”

“And here I thought, every time I published something new, my Wheorgie was actually reading it. Some best friend you are,” I teased even though I couldn’t blame her. I didn’t normally stick with things this long.

“So, explain how this works to me. Do you just rewrite Ana and Christian’s story or what?”

“No. I apply their story to my life and create my own little fantasy world of BDSM, hot sex, a sweet-ass apartment that isn’t located anywhere near my shitty place in Chelsea, and a perfect cock that can get it up on demand.”

When the word cock left my lips, a woman across from me, dressed in plaid loafers and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt, threw the stink-eye in my direction. “Disgusting,” she muttered loud enough for my ears.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, lady. Don’t eavesdrop if you’re going to get pissed about what you’re hearing.

“Hold on, G.” I stared at Loafers until her gaze met mine again. “Would you prefer I say penis?” I questioned brashly. “Please, let me know how you would like for me to continue my phone conversation.”

She scoffed and stood up from her seat, moving down the aisle to the opposite end of the train.

“For the love of God, don’t get arrested on the subway,” Georgia said into my ear on a laugh. “Chelsea is not shitty. Especially not our building. There’s a fucking elevator and a doorman. And, technically, you’re not even living in Chelsea anymore.”

Thank fuck. I told myself it was just the apartment making me feel that way and not the giant ogre whose bed I shared.

“God, I can’t wait to get out of there. Between the construction, the constant dust, and the overall depressing vibe I get every time I walk through the neighborhood, I’m ready to move out.”

I couldn’t see her, but I knew my little Wheorgie was shaking her head in silent defense of Chelsea. But I was my own woman, goddammit, and if I said Chelsea was shitty, it was.

Especially compared to Thatch’s floorplan.

“Are you going to find a new place once you’re done playing house with Thatch?”

I laughed. “Actually, I am. While Thatch is busy trying to one-up me, I’ve been busy getting our old apartment back up to snuff. I’m meeting with a contractor tomorrow to get the floors and kitchen redone.”

“Well, shit. That’s convenient,” she responded. “But I’ll reiterate…Chelsea isn’t that bad.”

“Oh, puh-lease.” I laughed, loud and boisterous. “You are so far out of the Chelsea loop it isn’t even funny, sweetcheeks. Your opinion means jack shit when you’re living in a goddamn suburban oasis with your mogul husband where all you have to worry about is which room to bone him in.”

A guy had replaced Mickey’s number one fan across the aisle, and he grinned at me. I held his eyes until he started to blush.

Georgia giggled. “Speaking of my husband, he just walked into the bedroom. Are you almost home? I’d sleep better if I knew you were back.”

Right. Like Big Dick was going to let her go right to sleep.

“Wait…which home are you going to?”

“Yes,” I answered as I walked off the train and headed for the steps that would get me to street level. “And my swank new pad in Midtown, of course.”

“Okay, well, call me tomorrow if you’re free for lunch.”

“Sounds good.” I ended the call and slid my phone into the pocket of my jean shorts.

The walk to Thatch’s apartment was about five blocks, and since I was getting home so late, the sidewalk traffic was a breeze. Six minutes later, I was getting off the elevator and unlocking the front door of my home away from home.

“Thatcher, I’m home, and I’m hungry as a motherfucker!” I shouted as I kicked the door shut with my Converse-clad heel. My mind was already one-tracking straight for the special delivery of roses I had sent around two this afternoon, and I didn’t give two fucks if I woke him up.

I probably should have cared, but I wanted at least one interaction with him. Now that, wanting it so bad I didn’t really have control of my actions anymore, I cared more about.

Perfect, I thought to myself once I saw the outrageously large bouquet sitting on the kitchen table. They looked ridiculous in his neutral apartment, their blood-red petals damn near blinding compared to the black-and-white décor. I plucked the note from the center of the vase and couldn’t stop myself from grinning as I read the brilliant words.

God, I’m a fucking genius.

Well, a horny genius.

I had come up with the flower delivery plan on my break, while I was three spanks deep into my fanfic scene. My brain had been so goddamn fixated on Thatch while I was writing that I could not stop thinking about having sex with him again. Hell, my pussy might as well have written that chapter. If only she could hold a pen.

But I wanted Thatch to ask for it. And if I couldn’t have that, I wanted some outside reason, like a floral offering from his dick.

“Well, look who’s home,” Thatch greeted as he walked into the kitchen, wide awake and completely fucking fuckable. He was freshly showered and dressed comfortably. It should’ve been illegal for a man to look as good as he did in a simple pair of black jersey shorts and a white cotton tee. His eyes caught sight of the note in my hand. “You’re getting in a little late. Busy day?” he asked with a knowing smirk.

“Very busy day,” I answered and held the note up for his amused gaze. “It looks like someone else was busy too. And thoughtful, I might add.”

He shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest. The muscles bulged, and I swallowed a groan. “What can I say? My cock is generous. And considering I’m having a hard time recalling when he found the time to send those to you, I’d say he’s pretty fucking smart too.”

I grinned. “Well, he definitely has great taste in flowers.” I leaned forward, sniffing the sweet aroma of roses. “You know, I almost feel compelled to thank him.”

Thatch leaned forward against the counter, stretching his arms wide and making the veins of his forearms stand out, and I could practically feel my breasts swell. “Almost?”

“Yeah. Almost.” I set the note down beside the vase and turned to give him my full attention.

He smirked. “Honey, my dick sent you two dozen roses. I think you can go ahead and take out the almost and just leave it as you feeling compelled.”

I moved toward him, into his space until he leaned back and made room for me to stand between his legs. “Today was a really good day.”

He smiled.

“Do you want to hear about my day, Thatcher?” I asked as I ran an index finger down one of his arms.

He stared down at me with an intrigued smirk. “Tell me all about it.”

“I’m surprised I got anything done. I was very distracted by thoughts of you.” I stood on my tiptoes and softly pressed my lips to his. “Did you know I like to write?”

“No, honey, I didn’t know that.” He gripped my hips with both hands. “What do you write?”

I skimmed my mouth across his lips and then his jaw, and I savored the sound of his soft intake of breath. “Have you ever heard of Fifty Shades of Grey?” I asked as I pressed soft yet biting kisses down his neck.

“The BDSM books with all of the spanking and hot sex? Yeah, I’ve heard of them.”

“I like to write stories based on those books. And today, I wrote a little scene with you in mind. You want me to tell you about it?” I asked coyly, gazing up into his warm eyes.

His hands slid up my T-shirt until his fingers were resting beneath the swell of my breasts. “If by telling, you mean showing…” He leaned down and took my mouth in a soft, seductive kiss. “Tell me all fucking about it,” he whispered, his breath warm against my lips.

I kissed him once more and then bit his bottom lip, tugging gently before finally pulling away. “Meet me in the bedroom.” I turned around and headed for the hallway.