The Billionaire's Virgin

I leap across the room to catch it and hold the door shut. “Be out in a second!” I shout, my voice strangled and tense. “Just changing real quick.”

“My bad. Be in the kitchen,” she calls back, and her footsteps creak off across the living room. I sag against the door with a gasp of relief.

That’s when I hear Pierce’s laughter again, and I realize the speakers are far too loud now that Erin is home. I dart back to the laptop to quiet him, and find him smirking at me. He’s enjoying this way too much, the bastard.

“I am based in San Francisco. You are in Oakland, I understand?” he adds nonchalantly, getting right back to business, and I gape at him again.

“How did you . . . ?”

“The FIDM sweatshirt.” He grins. “I love a girl who prioritizes education.”

I narrow my eyes. “Yeah, well. Don’t judge a book by its cover. I don’t go to FIDM.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t prioritize your education, does it?”

I roll said narrowed eyes. But I shake my head, sighing. “Fair point, I guess. Sir,” I add, slightly sarcastically.

His smile widens. “In the future, when you sass me, it will cost you.”

Feeling emboldened by his desire, and by standing in my lingerie in front of a webcam for the last ten minutes, I lean in toward the screen. “Oh really?” I grin. “Is that a threat or a promise, sir?”

His eyes widen, and so does that sharp smile of his. “I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy my time with you, Bonnie. Very, very much.”

The pulse of desire radiates throughout my body, until I feel it from the top of my head all the way to my fingertips. I want him. Oh, fuck, I want him bad. My heart slams against my ribcage, nervous and excited and panicking all at once.

“One more thing. Before we meet, I would like you to have your pussy waxed. Full Brazilian.”

My mouth drops open. That was not part of the bargain.

But he talks right through my shock. “Go to the Luxe Gold Salon in downtown San Francisco. Tomorrow at noon. They’ll be expecting you.” He smirks again, and that smile has probably caused whole legions of women to fall to their knees before him. “The salon manager will have your instructions following that. And don’t worry about your . . . wardrobe.” His gaze darts to the corner of my screen, clearly eying the pile of clothes I’ve got stacked there. “I’ll send something over for you to wear.”

Before I can protest, because there’s oh so much to protest—how does he know I’m free tomorrow at noon? What does he mean I need to get a full Brazilian just so he can fuck away my V-card? And what the hell does sending something for me to wear mean? —he’s ended the call. I’m left staring at a black, empty screen, with a thundering pulse, and an absolute puddle between my legs.

He might be hot—okay, ridiculously so, which is definitely a bonus when it comes to agreeing to fuck him—but he’s a cocky asshole, too. Adding on all these caveats last minute—I have to get waxed, I have to wear some suitable outfit he chooses, because nothing I own could be good enough for him, clearly. Two can play at that game.

He wants to pay for my virginity, and he’ll get it. My regular virginity. Normal sex, nothing else. Nothing kinky or crazy. If he’s making me rip out all my pubic hair just to fuck him, it’s the least I can stipulate.

I stand in the middle of my room, formulating this plan, staring at my blank computer screen, for at least a few minutes. Until I hear Erin shouting from the kitchen, something muffled about coffee break. Then I snap back to attention and pull my jeans back on, nabbing my discarded shirt.

What have I gotten myself into?

3

“How are you feeling, Gram?” I hold her arm as she makes her third circuit of the gardens outside the temporary home where she’s staying, which is already costing me an arm and a leg every night. At least that price comes with certain privileges, like how I bullied my way in to visit even though technically I missed visiting hours (thanks a lot Pierce with the spontaneous and distracting webcam call).

I don’t even want to think about the loan bills racking up with every day that she remains in here. Not to mention the credit card I had to charge my rent to last month.

“I told you, Bonnie, I’m feeling fine,” she grumps, because it is the third time I’ve asked her, to be fair. But according to the nurses, she was anything but fine today. Her PT session was a disaster, and there was a particularly scary moment where she forgot her general practitioner’s name, a man she’s known for at least five years.