Scoring the Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires Book 3)

by Max Monroe

  And, well, as it does, all those stupid choices had led to the ultimate stupid move—I had sex with him.

  He was an intuitive lover. Always knowing what I needed without me even having to tell him. Wes had a power that no one else had ever had. He could take me out of my own head to the point where I would just feel.

  Feel everything. Every touch like it was a soft caress across my skin and each touch seeped into my pores until it became a part of me and I couldn’t be anything but in the moment and feeling. Just feeling.

  Put simply, it had been off the charts—and still was.

  Great…now I’m picturing him naked. This can’t be good in public…

  As surreptitiously as possible, I glanced down at my chest to make sure I wasn’t visibly showing off my arousal to the world. All clear. If it weren’t for the little bit of padding in this bra, I might as well have had a giant neon arrow over my head letting everyone know, “This woman has sex on the brain. Wes-sex brain.”

  “Kick his fluffing ass, Thatch!” Cassie shouted with both hands cupped around her mouth. Her feet were propped on the cooler in front of her—an empty cooler carted there by her husband for just this very purpose—and her skin flushed red as the bitter wind whipped around it.

  “I can’t believe you’re wearing a tank top right now,” I muttered, even though I knew better than anyone that the hormones of a pregnant woman were an unpredictable thing.

  Confirming that very observation, Cassie’s eyes cut to me threateningly.

  Eek. “Sorry,” I muttered when the power of her stare started to feel like actual knives. Georgia bugged out her eyes at me from over Cassie’s head, and I decided it was best to metaphorically take a careful step back.

  Turning back to the field and its roguishly handsome inhabitants, I watched as Thatch ran at full speed toward the opponent’s end of the pitch. He was seriously athletic, they all were, but it didn’t seem natural for a man that size to be so agile.

  “Bumrush him, Thatcher! Bumbazzle him!” Georgia screamed in excitement.

  As if propped on top of screws, my and Cassie’s heads turned to the right in perfect synchronization. I had to put a hand to my mouth to stop myself from completely losing it.

  “What?” Georgia asked as she surveyed our wildly tickled faces.

  “I think you mean bamboozle him,” I explained through my amusement. “Or break through the defenses. That would work, too.”

  “Whatever,” she said with a scoff and turned her gaze back to the field. Thatch had the ball and was dodging defenders left and right. Georgia surged to her feet and hopped comically from one foot to the other like she was doing some kind of rugby-rain-dance. “We need our team to score a fry! Go, Thatch! Go, Thatch! Get the fry! Get the fry!”

  Cassie and I looked at each other behind Georgia’s back, and when the dam finally broke, Cassie sounded like a wounded animal being attacked by a hyena, her hysteria was so powerful—which, in turn, made me laugh harder. She held her rounded belly with both hands as it shook violently up and down, and I watched through wet eyes, wiping vigorously at the tears streaming down my cheeks.

  Georgia was undeterred by our humor-induced meltdown, but Thatch looked over just as he crossed the try line, the sound of Cassie’s laugh like a primal call into the wild for her mate.

  “Wooohoooooooooo!” Georgia clapped and screamed. “We just got the fry! Woooohoooooooo!”

  “Try!” I exclaimed through choking breaths. “They got a try, Georgia. Not a fry.”

  She turned toward me and tilted her head to the side in confusion.

  Cassie struggled to speak through her wheezing. “We’re not at McDonald’s, Wheorgie. No one’s ordering Happy Meals. We’re at a rugby game. French fries do not come on the side.”

  “It’s called a try? When they score the goal?”

  I grinned. “It’s just a try, honey. Not a goal or a fry. A try.”

  “You suck at sports, G,” Cassie added. “I mean, are you trying to suck this bad at sports? I’m honestly starting to wonder.”

  “I do not suck at sports!”

  Yeah. She really did. Her sports knowledge was so bad it couldn’t even be scored.

  Cassie nodded, sweeping a hand out toward the field. “Um…yeah…you do.”

  One stubborn hand went straight to Georgia’s hip. The real attitude had arrived. “I work for the Mavericks, you know. I work for them, and I know a lot about football.”

  I nodded thoughtfully and pursed my lips before asking, “What’s the quarterback’s name?”

  “Quinn.”

  “What’s his last name?” Cassie pushed.

  She stared Cassie down for a second, and it was obvious she was racking her brain for the answer. Her mouth formed silent words, but they were easily read.

  QB Pie…Q…B…Quinn…B…Quinn…

  Her eyes lit up. “Bailey! Ha-ha! His name is Quinn Bailey! Suck on that, cupcake!”

  Cassie smirked. “That’s so cute, Wheorgie. That you call the quarterback of a professional football team, QB Pie.”

  Georgia’s jaw dropped, and then her nose scrunched up in frustration when she realized she had laid her cards right on the table without saying a single word.

  “You are literally the most adorable human being I’ve ever met,” Cass added with a wink.

  “She’s right,” I agreed. “You’re fucking adorable.”

  “Goddammit,” Georgia muttered. “I will know sports someday. I will.”

  I reached around Cassie and patted Georgia’s shoulder. “I have full faith in you.”

  Cassie coughed to hide her words. “Gnome, you don’t.” And then she coughed again. “I gnome I don’t.”

  Georgia shoved her, and I laughed.

  “I hope you shit yourself when you deliver the baby,” Georgia mumbled, but she said it loud enough for us to hear.

  “Excuse me?” Cassie asked and squinted both her eyes in irritation.

  “I said,” Georgia enunciated dramatically, “I hope you shit yourself when you deliver the baby.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Cassie scoffed. “No one does that.”

  Oh, Jesus. Here we go.

  Georgia’s smile was full-megawatt, I motherfucking told you so.

  Cassie’s head swung back and forth like a flag in the wind, and then she paused—the calm before the storm.

  “WHAT!” she screamed as she jumped to her feet, and the people sitting in the bleachers in front of us turned to look. “I’M GOING TO SHIT MYSELF WHEN I HAVE THIS BABY?”

  I honestly thought time had stopped in that moment.

  Just stopped.

  And the entire universe was focused on the three of us.

  Cassie held her hand above her eyes to shield the sun, and she stared out onto the field in search of her husband. “THATCHER!” Her voice was a fucking bellow, possessed by the evilest of spirits. “YO! SUPERCOCK!”

  Thatch, noting the severity of the situation, stopped midrun and turned to look at his crazy wife.

  “Cass? Honey? I’m kind of in the middle of something here,” he yelled back to her.

  “THATCHER! DID YOU KNOW THAT I’M GOING—”

  I hopped to my feet and slapped my hand across her mouth before she could take this situation from ridiculous to downright insane.

  “It’s fine!” I called out to Thatcher. “She’s just having a moment!”

  He smirked and shook his head. “Tame the crazy until after the game, honey, okay?”

  Cassie tried to yell something back to him, but I held steadfast in my silencing ways.

  No one at this game, no one in this city, no one on planet Earth needed to have those kinds of visuals put inside their heads. If anything, I was doing this as a civic duty to protect humanity.

  Even Wes had taken notice of the situation and looked up toward the bleachers where we sat. His concerned gaze met mine, and he mouthed, “Are you okay?”

  I just nodded and offered a reassuring smile. He turned
to go back to play, but he paused and looked up at me once more.

  “Are you sure?” he mouthed.

  I nodded again.

  And then a sly, slow smirk crested his perfect lips, and he did the one thing that I didn’t expect.

  He held up his hand and showed me the inside of his fist with a wink.

  Our signal. In front of everyone there, Wes Lancaster had unmistakably declared him and I as a unit in that moment.

  To say I swooned would’ve been an understatement.

  Sure, the parameters were still hazy as fuck, but the evidence of the lines were there.

  “What was that?” Cassie asked when I finally pulled myself together and removed my hand from her mouth.

  “What was what?”

  “That little thing Wes just did. With his hand. What was that?”

  I shrugged. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Great, Winnie, my hearted chided. The hot sex-god finally makes a declaration, and you do everything you can to avoid admitting to it?

  We sat back down on the bleachers, and while I forced my focus toward the field, I could feel her staring holes through the side of my face.

  I ignored her intensity for a while, but eventually, it felt impossible. When I turned toward her, her smile got bigger than her face. It was creepy, to be honest.

  “That was a thing, wasn’t it? A sex thing.”

  I shook my head and added the wag of a finger for good measure. “It was not.”

  “I think it was a thing,” Georgia stated, jumping into our tête-à-tête without hesitation. “A kinky sex thing.”

  Cassie nodded in agreement. “I think you’re right, Wheorgie. I think Winnie is falling head over heels in fluff-drunk love with Wes, and I think that was the symbol for butt stuff. You’re a little freak, huh?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You guys are ridiculous.”

  But they ignored me. And started talking about wedding plans.

  My wedding plans.

  Mine and Wes’s.

  “Someone save me, please,” I muttered to myself just as Wes met my eyes as he ran and slid his tongue along his bottom lip.

  Sweet Jesus.

  You don’t want to be saved. You want to be swept off your feet by Wes Lancaster.

  Was everyone crazy here? Even me?

  I was honestly starting to wonder.

  “Please! Holy hell, Kline, I can’t believe you’re spewing this crap to me,” Thatch boomed as I approached the round corner booth they’d somehow managed to snag. McCallan’s Pub was packed, jammed with people looking to ease the stress of work and commune with friends and foes alike—and, probably, escape from the ball-shriveling cold.

  And yes, I’m the type of person who constantly whines about how cold it is, only to bitch about the heat when the weather turns. You’re better off accepting it now.

  Something about the mix of alcohol and food always made McCallan’s seem like the perfect place to sit down for a laugh with your mortal enemy—if ever there was a place.

  If I’d been here on time, I probably would have paid someone for the best booth in the place, but there was no way Kline had stooped to my level. I’m sure he’d somehow managed to rationalize to the manager he or she should set it aside for us.

  Shaking my head at the mental picture of him doing just that, I didn’t notice Winnie looking at me until I was right there, too close to escape the effect she had on me and far too distracted to conceal my reaction.

  She seemed surprised as my face lit up openly, but shock quickly morphed into elation.

  Happiness sure looked good on her.

  Christ, the truth was, everything looked good on her. I’d been half a nut for the entire game as I tried to keep one eye on the ball and the other on her. She’d been laughing and smiling and looking at me like I could walk on fucking water—and yeah, I’d seriously wanted to take her home with me and fuck her.

  I’d planned to do just that, but she’d been gone before the game was over, and I hadn’t had the chance to ask. Something about running home before dinner to do…something. Fuck if I really knew, I just knew she was gone.

  But she was here now.

  “All I’m saying is that you can’t blame Jacob. She cried to him and counted on him, and fuck, the kid is jacked. It’s no wonder he thought maybe he had a chance at being more than friends with her,” Kline explained to Thatch passionately, talking with his hands and gesturing to Georgie in an effort to get her to back him up.

  “What are you guys talking about?” I asked, taking a seat next to Winnie, running my arm along the back of the booth and making sure my thigh pressed tight to the warmth of hers. One glance down had me wishing I hadn’t been so hasty to put my arm up near her shoulders.

  A sliver of her long, tan legs peeked out from the hem of a shorter than normal office skirt before being concealed again by thigh-high black suede boots. Clearly, one of the things she’d done at home was change clothes.

  Goddamn, I’m in trouble tonight.

  Winnie noticed the direction of my gaze, but she didn’t mention it. Instead, she rubbed her thighs together teasingly and bit into the flesh of her bottom lip.

  I had to drag my eyes away with virtual sled dogs as Georgie provided an answer to my question.

  Her face was bright, on the edge of manic, as she shared, “They’re having a Twilight argument.”

  “Twilight?” I asked before it clicked. Because, really, there was no reason for it to make sense that quickly.

  “You know, Twilight,” Cassie explained. “Favorite movie to teenage girls all over the world and the catalyst to several thousand vampire fetishes. Thatch is wisely Team Edward. Kline, here, is trying to make a case for Jacob.” She scoffed.

  I laughed once, almost harshly, before both Kline’s and Thatch’s eyes shot to me. They didn’t look happy.

  Looking from face to face, I met each of our party’s eyes with disbelief before my gaze landed back on my best friends. My adult, male best friends. “You’re serious?”

  “Fuck yeah,” Thatch boomed before turning back to Kline. “Bella and Edward were fucking destined for each other. Jacob was only there because he was pining for the combination of their sperm and egg. You can’t fight lifemates, Klinehole. You just can’t.”

  “Jesus,” I said to myself, but all three women laughed. The sound of one caught my attention in particular. Rough but sweet, Winnie lost herself in that moment with her friends, and I hated myself thoroughly for denying myself the opportunity to watch. But I was getting in deep, so much so that I was starting to worry I might never be able to pull myself free. Winnie Winslow’s quicksand was strong, and it was only wise to hold myself safe from that. Right?

  “I think I need a drink,” I muttered to Cassie, my eyes meeting hers as she put a hand to her stomach and smiled.

  “Me too,” she agreed, and I frowned.

  “I said I needed it, not that I was going to do it,” she protested easily. “But you have to live it for me. I’ll order shots.”

  Fuck. I hadn’t done shots since college. “I don’t know about—”

  Tears pooled at the corners of her unique eyes immediately. “No shots?” she asked, sounding like I’d told her her baby had no toes.

  I buckled more spectacularly than a Pilgrim.

  “Okay, shots. I’ll do shots.”

  Winnie reached over and squeezed my knee as immediately as Cassie’s tears dried right up. Satisfied, she turned back toward Thatch and leaned around him to get the attention of the waitress. I wasn’t even sure what her gesturing was supposed to mean. To me, it looked like she was milking several extremely large cows, but the waitress seemed to understand.

  I’d been played like fuck, but the feel of Winnie Winslow’s hand on my leg without persuasion or invitation mended my ego immensely. “Don’t feel bad,” Winnie whispered, pressing the tips of her fingers into the meat of my thigh. “She’s really good at hormonal manipulation.”

  I
glanced down to catch sight of her hand on me, and, embarrassed, she moved to pull it back. I moved faster, though, pressing the palm of my hand into the back of hers and sealing it tight to the denim fabric at my thigh.

  Leaning over slightly, I whispered directly into her ear. “Uh-uh, Win. If I’m going to spend my night at the sleepover from hell, discussing chick flicks and doing brightly colored shots, the least you can do is put your hands on me.”

  She blushed, and the color on her cheeks looked so good, I decided to push it even further. “Though, if I had my way, you’d move that hand about five inches to the right.”

  Truth be told, I’d have been even more thrilled if we’d moved both of our hands about eight or so inches to the left—to the inviting space right between her legs.

  As her throat worked to control her reaction to my last comment, I gave her more, groaning roughly before stating, “That inch of skin is sexier than anything I’ve ever seen.” Easing my hand off of hers, I ran just the tip of my pinkie finger from the outside of her thigh in, right along the top of her boot. “God, Win, it makes me want to do things to the skin I can’t see.”

  “Wes,” she murmured softly, her breathing completely unsteady.

  “Touch it, eat it…fuck it. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

  The whole not-sleeping-together-because-it’s-not-a-good-idea thing was a distant, fleeting memory. When it came to Winnie Winslow, I had none of my normal self-control—and I’d finally realized it wasn’t worth the wasted minutes I spent fighting it.

  I could use that time to fight with her, tease her, touch her…taste her.

  She was my new oral fixation, and it’d been entirely too long since my last hit. I’d deal with the consequences of the end of it when they came. And there would be emotional consequences—for both of us. Of that much, I was sure.

  “Is that what I looked like?” Thatch asked Kline, and the way he said it pulled my hazy attention from Winnie.

  “Like you were high, drunk, stupid, and seconds away from lifting a leg?” Kline replied conversationally.

  Thatch nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Then, yeah.”