Best Man (Billionaire Bachelors Book 6)

by Lila Monroe

  I gulp, trying to remember if I wore good panties. Dear Lord, please don’t let me be wearing H&M cartoon knickers on a night like this, I pray. Then I glance down and see to my relief that I’m in a perfectly serviceable pair of white lace boy shorts.

  Thank you!

  Fitz looks up, a devilish grin on his face. “Are you doing OK up there?”

  “Uh huh,” I manage.

  “Really?” Fitz leans closer and lands a soft bite against my inner thigh. “Because you’re looking kind of tense . . .”

  He slides his hands up the inside of my legs, spreading them wider.

  I moan.

  “A little tense, sure . . .” I gulp. My legs are wide, displaying myself to him . . . and whoever happens to be watching the tenth floor here. But I don’t care. All I care about is the feel of his breath, hot against my skin, and how every nerve in my body is alert, fired up and waiting for him.

  He leans in again and kisses me through the lace of the panties. Soft. Too soft.

  “Fitz!” I protest, wound so tight I think I’m going to explode.

  He chuckles; a low rumble against my stomach. “What’s the magic word?” One hand slides higher, fingertips stroking me through the fabric. I wriggle, trying to press closer.

  “Harder?”

  “Nope.” Fitz gently hooks his thumbs under my waistband and tugs my panties down. Oh God. Now I’m completely exposed to him.

  I shut my eyes tight and brace myself against the glass. I feel his breath, hot between my thighs, the rasp of his stubble against my sensitive skin.

  “Fitz . . .” my voice twists in a moan.

  “I’m waiting . . .” he teases me, one hand tracing slow circles on my stomach while the other grips my thigh tightly, pinning me in place.

  “Please,” I finally beg, needing him so badly it aches. And at last, Fitz pulls me closer and licks up against me, his tongue hot, and wet, and—

  “Oh my God!”

  My jaw drops, it’s that good. Fuck. He licks harder, deeper, and then his hands are sliding higher, and his fingers are nudging deeper and—

  I climax with a cry, holding onto his shoulders for balance.

  Which I promptly lose, as Fitz gets to his feet, picks me up, and slings me over his shoulder, heading for the bedroom. Caveman style. He tosses me down on the bed and strips off his clothes so fast, I want to applaud. Because what he’s been hiding under those finely-tailored pants?

  Gimme. Now.

  Fitz grabs a foil packet from the nightstand, then joins me, kissing me slow and deep as he unbuttons my blouse and makes short work of my bra. I run my hands appreciatively over his body, lingering over his taut ass. He chuckles against my mouth. “So, you’re an ass woman, hmmm?”

  “Maybe,” I laugh, giving him a light spank. “You do have a pretty fine one.”

  “And you . . .” Fitz draws back, slowly looking me over from head to toe. “You are fucking spectacular.”

  I blush, wriggling under his gaze. Fitz bends his head, kissing one of my breasts, and then the other. He sucks my nipple, then nips it, hard enough to make me moan. His fingers slide between my legs again, teasing my wetness as I reach for him, closing my hand around his hard, thick length. I fist him slowly, until Fitz tears himself away from my chest. “Fuck, I want you,” he growls in my ear. His fingers pulse and flex inside me, but it’s not enough. Nowhere close. “You’ve been driving me crazy in those pajama pants . . .”

  “Snoopy?” I laugh, surprised. “I look like a slob.”

  “A sexy, tempting slob,” Fitz corrects me, smiling. My gaze drops to his cock, and I feel a shiver of anticipation.

  Because sure, size doesn’t matter in theory . . .

  But in practice?

  Let’s just say, I’m more than ready for the main event here. And clearly, Fitz is too, because he grabs the condom and rolls it on. I pull him down to meet me, spreading my legs as he readies himself, poised above me.

  Then he thrusts inside, burying himself to the hilt.

  Oh. My God.

  I clench around the thick length of him, loving how he feels. Fitting me just right. Fitz thrusts again, pulling out and then driving deep inside, and I moan.

  “Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans against me, and I can only manage an incoherent reply.

  Because hell, all that sex I was having with Christian that seemed perfectly fine?

  It wasn’t.

  Not even close.

  Fitz drives into me again, but just when I’m finding a rhythm, he rolls us, bringing me down hard on top of him.

  Holy shit! He thrusts up, deep inside me, and now the angle is incredible. My last shred of self-consciousness disappears, and I ride him, hard, chasing the pleasure that’s twisting through me, rising, faster, until—

  I break apart with a cry, coming for the second time in ten minutes.

  Which, to be clear, is a record.

  I collapse against Fitz, panting. He thrusts into me again, faster now, his breath ragged against me until he comes with a groan.

  We roll again, until we’re side by side, panting.

  Then I start to laugh.

  Fitz looks over. “I’ve had swooning, and tears of awe, but I have to admit, laughter is a new one.”

  I keep giggling. “I’m sorry, I just . . . I realized. There’s no chance of getting an annulment now!”

  11

  Becca

  I wake wrapped in the softest, most luxurious bedding known to mankind. Or at least, known to Becca-kind. I guess some people get to relax in 500-billion thread-count all the time, but this is new for me. And they definitely beat my Target sheets, that’s for sure.

  The hot guy who kept me up all night with the best sex of my life is a plus, also.

  Mmmm . . . Fitz.

  I yawn, rolling over to find—

  The bed is empty.

  I sit up. I can hear music playing down the hall, and is that . . . ?

  The smell of bacon cooking.

  My God, I really have died and gone to sexual fantasy heaven.

  I sink back into the pillows for a moment, waiting for the regret and second thoughts to hit. I mean, I just ripped up the rule book as far as professional boundaries are concerned. Olivia warned me that the lines could get blurred, and, well, if they weren’t messy before, then us rolling around on them naked probably did the trick.

  Mmmm . . . Fitz, naked.

  I smile. Oh, who am I kidding? Guilt and regret can wait. I deserve a little fun, after the crappy year of stress and heartache I’ve had.

  And there’s nothing little about Fitz.

  I bounce out of bed and scurry into the master bath. The drop-dead gorgeous, size-of-my-apartment master bath. Damn, there’s marble for days in here, plus six different steam jets in the five-person shower.

  Dating a rich man has perks, after all. Why didn’t I do this sooner?

  Oh yes, because all the trust fund guys I’ve met can give Brett a run for his money in the smarmy asshole stakes.

  Still, I’m not about to ignore the fringe benefits with Fitz, so I luxuriate under the hot spray, lathering up with something delicious and fragrant. Then I dry off in towels so fluffy I could cry and wrap myself in a cloud doubling as a bathrobe. Then I check that Fitz is still clattering away in the kitchen, and I go snoop.

  I mean, explore.

  Color me curious, but I want to know more about the man who just gave me several orgasms, and it’s like Fitz said: someone’s place can tell you plenty about them. Like the fact that Fitz’s bedroom is as drool-worthy as the rest of this apartment. I check the medicine cabinet, poke my head in the luxurious guest suite, and even sneak a peek at his home gym, but by the time I’m done rifling through the linen closet, I’m still no closer to the truth.

  This place is spotless. And completely impersonal.

  Sure, there’s striking art on the walls, and interesting curios scattered about the place—some first-edition Robinson Crusoe books, a collection of ant
ique globes—but when it comes to any deep-dive hints into the mind of one Arthur Fitzgerald?

  I’m coming up a blank.

  Who doesn’t even have one photo of their family? Or an old birthday card from a friend? And now that I think about it, I still don’t know exactly what he does for a living . . .

  There’s one more door on this hallway, and when I push it ajar, I find it’s an elegantly appointed office space—

  “Good morning, sweetheart.”

  I spin around with a yelp. “Fitz! Hey, you scared me.”

  He’s in the doorway, looking hot and ruffled, and frankly irresistible in a pair of gray sweatpants and . . . nothing else.

  I guess cooking shirtless is a habit for him. I could definitely get used to that.

  “Looking for something?” he asks.

  “Oh. No, I took a wrong turn,” I say, guilty. “But here you are.”

  He grins. “And here you are . . .” Fitz moves closer and slides his hand under the robe. His smile turns smoldering when he finds me naked. “It’s a very good morning.”

  I grin, shivering to his touch. “That shower of yours is insane. I might have to leave you and move in with it.”

  “Whoa now, no need to be hasty,” Fitz smiles back. “I’ve always wanted to try an open relationship. I can share.”

  I laugh as he takes me by the hand and leads me out of the office—closing the door behind us. “What are you hiding in there?” I ask, teasing.

  “Just my international porn empire,” Fitz replies, not missing a beat. “How did you think I paid for all of this?”

  “Producing, or performing?” I ask.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Fitz steers me out to the main living area, where the enormous glass dining table is set for two. Pancakes, waffles, bacon . . . I gape. “I’ve died and gone to breakfast heaven!”

  “Carb-loading,” he says with a wink. “All the best athletes do it. Helps you keep up your stamina before a workout.”

  “I’m going to need my strength, am I?” I ask, laughing.

  “Definitely.” Fitz pulls me closer and gives me a hot, slow kiss that turns me to jelly. “We’re just getting started.”

  I kiss him back, shivering as his hands roam under my robe, and his body presses hard against me. Talk about a wakeup call.

  I could get used to this . . .

  The alarm on my phone sounds somewhere behind us. I pull away with a groan.

  “Ignore it.” Fitz dips his mouth to my neck.

  “I can’t . . .” I say, reluctant. “I have to go to work.”

  “Play hooky with me,” he murmurs, kissing lower. “We can fly to Miami and be on the beach before noon.”

  Damn.

  “Tempted” doesn’t even come close. I mean, spend the day doing paperwork in a cramped office ducking requests to examine people’s warts, or luxuriate with a hot man and cocktails on the sand? I’d have to be crazy to turn him down.

  Crazy, or just a person with an over-developed guilty conscience.

  “I can’t,” I say regretfully, pulling away. “My clients are counting on me. The Delgados are trying to get their kid into an experimental cancer treatment program. We’re meeting to go over the paperwork.”

  Fitz drops his hands. “OK, they win,” he says with a smile. “But the offer stands.”

  “Maybe this weekend?” I suggest, still not quite believing I’m making plans to jet off with my sexy husband.

  Fitz kisses me again. “Count on it.”

  I devour breakfast—and, yes, a maple syrup-flavored Fitz—then head back to Waverly to quickly change before work. I’m floating on a cloud of sexy endorphins, but when I arrive outside the building, I find Brett standing out front with another man, poring over some plans.

  Talk about a cold shower.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand, before I can stop myself.

  He gives me a creepy smirk. “Lovely to see you too.”

  “I just mean . . . Everything’s settled now, isn’t it?” I ask, my heart racing with panic. Has he heard something? What does he know?

  “It won’t be settled until the executor signs off on the will,” Brett replies. “And in the meantime . . . There’s nothing stopping me making some contingency plans. In case something happens to undermine your claim.” His smile gets smugger. “Have you met Gabe Sherwood?” he asks, beckoning over the guy currently snapping photos of the front façade. “He’s one of the best developers in the city. We’ve got big plans for this place.”

  “Are you one of the residents?” the other man asks. He’s tall and handsome, with a friendly smile, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s the Enemy.

  “Yup,” I manage to reply, glaring at the both of them.

  “Such a great building,” Gabe continues, looking up at it. “The character, the history—”

  “The square footage,” Brett interrupts. “What do you think? Strip the place from top to bottom, throw in some imported marble and an in-ground pool. It’ll make a fuck-off townhouse for some Russian billionaire.”

  Gabe looks amused. “That’s one way to go, sure.”

  “I’m sorry, but Brett’s wasting your time,” I inform him icily. “The building isn’t his to sell.”

  Gabe looks surprised. “I thought—”

  “It’s a legal matter, still in process,” Brett interrupts, scowling. “But we’re confident of a swift resolution.”

  The only thing I’m confident about is the fact I’ll smack him in his smug face if I have to spend a minute longer with them.

  Luckily, Brett rolls up whatever blueprints he’s got there and gives Gabe a big, fake smile. “Why don’t we go grab a bite to eat and continue this conversation somewhere more friendly? I know a great gentlemen’s club uptown. Very classy, great dancers.”

  Ewww.

  Gabe clears his throat. “Actually, I better get going. Nice to meet you.” He flashes me a quick smile. “Brett, let me know when you have this ownership issue straightened out.”

  He strides away like he can’t get clear of Brett fast enough.

  Maybe the man has some taste, after all.

  The minute he’s gone, Brett turns on me, scowling. “Why did you have to go and do that? Sherwood is the best around.”

  “And this building doesn’t belong to you,” I shoot back fiercely. “It’s not going to be sold off to be fancy condos or some mega-mansion. It’s staying exactly the way it is.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Brett says, giving me a mean look. “By the way, where’s that husband of yours?”

  “Around.” I shrug.

  “Real devoted.”

  “What do you want me to say?” I ask. “We’re in a healthy, loving relationship. I don’t keep a tracking anklet on him.”

  “Maybe you should.” Brett gets that smug look again, the one that spells trouble. “Maybe you don’t know your husband as well as you think.”

  Before I can ask what he means, Brett turns and saunters away.

  Good riddance.

  I head inside and quickly change for work before tearing back downstairs, but instead of heading out, I find the key for Marigold’s apartment instead, and step inside.

  It still smells like her.

  I inhale with a pang. I know we should have cleared out her stuff and rented the place by now, but somehow, I can’t bring myself to pack up all her handmade quilts or take down the bright artwork from the walls. This place still feels like Marigold, and sometimes, I have to admit, it’s nice to sneak down here and just sit a while, feeling close to her again.

  What would she make of all this?

  She’d probably find it hilarious, that I’ve tied myself up into so many knots trying to do the right thing. She was always telling me that things had a way of working themselves out. “Leave it to the man upstairs,” she’d say with a wink. “He knows what he’s doing.”

  But now she’s gone, and I’m the one who has to figure the answers alone
.

  Well, not exactly alone . . .

  I think of Fitz again and smile, despite myself. How can a guy who’s so wrong for me feel so right? Is this because I skipped my whole teenage rebellion phase? Maybe if I’d dyed my hair, and got a stud in my nose, and hung around the mall with Billy Kennedy and the rest of his skate-punk gang, I would have gotten it out of my system by now.

  Instead, I’m stuck remembering my night with Fitz in vivid, Technicolor detail. The way his body pressed me into the mattress, and how his skilled tongue made me scream.

  Because of all his practice, I remind myself, trying to pull it together. Sleep with every supermodel in the country, and you can’t help picking up a few skills.

  Still, I remember what those skills felt like, pressing hard against me . . .

  Down, girl!

  I go out to the patio and water Marigold’s flower boxes. There’s a cute garden back here—which Brett is no doubt planning to rip up and replaces with a three-car garage. I think of his townhouse plans and scowl. There was something about the way he was talking that makes me nervous. I mean, yes, he’s always creepy and smug, but today, he seemed extra moustache-twirly.

  What does he know?

  “There you are.”

  I turn. Fitz himself is standing in the doorway—fully clothed. Unlike the version in my mind.

  I clear my throat. “Hi!” I greet him, confused. “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought you might need this.” Fitz holds up my cellphone, which I didn’t even realize I left behind.

  Having a guy lick maple syrup off your naked stomach will do that to a girl’s memory.

  “Thank you!” I take it from him. “And thanks for coming all this way.”

  “Well, you did say you were bad with directions. I didn’t want you winding up in Brooklyn instead of meeting me for dinner tonight.”

  “Is that an invitation?” I tease, smiling.

  “You bet it is. Luciano’s, seven o’clock?”

  “I’ll be there,” I agree.

  And then, hopefully, I’ll be naked sometime afterwards.

  “So, this was Marigold’s home?” Fitz asks, looking around.

  I nod. “I drop by to water the plants, do some dusting . . . I know it’s weird, but I still feel like it’s her place.”