The Billionaire's Virgin

“Sir,” I add belatedly.

He nods. “Better. And I’m glad to hear my offer caught your attention. I hoped it would. As I said, you piqued my interest. And I have rather, shall we say, exacting taste.” His gaze slides down my body, and my face burns again as I glimpse the stupid bunny on my shirt.

Dammit, Bonnie. I can’t even sell myself properly.

But he’s not frowning. He’s still got that hungry smile on when his eyes snap back to mine. Or at least, to the camera, which makes it feel like he’s staring straight into my soul. Those eyes of his are mesmerizing. So pale they’re almost gray, except for the bursts of bright blue around the center.

“I hope this arrangement will work for both of us. But I understand, of course, that there will need to be certain parameters set. And certain proofs given.”

“Proofs?” I repeat like an idiot. Then I shake myself. Of course. “I mean, yeah, I . . . No offense, but I don’t really know if you’re who you say you are, so—”

He raises a single eyebrow. “Who did I say I was, Bonnie?”

I blink. “Er. No one, I guess. What I meant was, I’ve never met anyone from the internet before, and, uh, well, you hear stories about . . .”

His smile deepens. “I understand completely. Naturally, I will provide you with whatever proof of trustworthiness you require, along with a small token of my means upfront, to assure you of my honest intentions. You will, I trust, be willing to provide the same type of proof to me.”

“I . . .” This was not at all how I pictured this would go. Then again, I hadn’t expected it to actually go anywhere. “Yeah, of course,” I stammer.

“Bonnie,” he says, and there’s a warning in his voice that I don’t quite understand.

“Yes, Pierce?” Shit. Only then do I realize. “I mean, sir. Sorry, sir.

“That’s the second time you’ve forgotten.” His eyes flash. “Don’t do it again.”

Fucking hell. Why is it so damn hot when he does that? And why do I want to simultaneously slap him and press my lips to that perfectly sharp, curved mouth of his? “I won’t, sir.”

“Now. If at any time you begin to feel uncomfortable with this arrangement, or pressured in any way, you are free to walk away. I want you to remember that, Bonnie. None of this is necessary. It must be something you want to do.”

“I do, sir,” I reply, my voice strong and clear. Because I really do, I realize. For the money, but also to lose my virginity once and for all. And, additionally, because Pierce P here is literally the hottest man I’ve ever spoken to for more than 10 seconds. And the way he’s devouring me with his eyes right now, like I’m a piece of meat he’s hungry to bite into . . . Fuck. I want him to do whatever the hell he wants with me. Money or no money.

Focus, Bonnie. Eyes on the prize.

“Same goes for you,” I tell him, suddenly. “If you don’t want to do this or anything, or change your mind before we . . . Um, before we do that. I understand, sir.”

He laughs, and that sound, low and almost dangerous, does funny things to my stomach. I feel like I just swallowed a jar full of butterflies.

“May I ask what’s funny, sir?” I venture, my cheeks still red hot. They’ve been burning this whole time, an involuntary reaction to him. Just another reason to be embarrassed. Between that and my hideous shirt and my complete awkwardness, it’s a wonder he hasn’t ended this call yet.

But his eyes rake over me again, still every inch as appreciative. “Oh, my dear. I thought my desire was quite clear.” He’s doing that thing again, staring straight at me, and the computer seems to melt away, so it feels like we’re in the same room, face-to-face. “I want you,” he says, and I swear to god I can feel my leg muscles start to give out. Thank god I’m sitting.

Once again with the mind-reading, however, he tilts his head to the side. “Now, Bonnie. Please stand. I’d like to see all of you.”

I rise on trembling legs, and the laptop is at an angle on the bed where it just points straight at the crotch of my jeans.

“Move the laptop. Do you have a desk?”

Why am I letting him order me around? I wonder, even as I obey and set the computer on my desk. Much better angle, though it shows off my messy room behind me, and the fraying window curtain and tape-marked walls behind that. Oh well. He wants to know what he’s getting.

“Take off your shirt.”

I feel my nipples harden beneath it, and a throb of desire pulses straight to my crotch. But I hesitate, one hand on the hem. “Look, no offense, but I still don’t really know who you—”