Stranded with a Billionaire (THE BILLIONAIRE BOYS CLUB)

by Clare, Jessica

  “And do you want kids someday?”

  It was a tough question, but she’d been expecting it. Brontë chewed, thinking for a long minute. Then she dabbed her mouth with a napkin and gave him the only answer she could. “Someday, with the right person.”

  He nodded.

  “You?”

  Logan’s eyes were on her again. “Someday. I’ve already found the right person. I’m just waiting for her to be ready.”

  Brontë’s nervous giggle surprised neither of them.

  ***

  The only movie that they could get tickets to was an action movie, but sitting in the dark with Logan was pleasant no matter what the flick. Though the movie theater was crowded, she still enjoyed herself, and spent half of the movie with her head on Logan’s shoulder, waiting for him to make a move. After all, date movies were for making out, weren’t they?

  Except he didn’t, and when they walked back to the subway, Brontë was a little confused. Their date had gone so well. She’d found out so much about him and been so comfortable with Logan tonight, but he was keeping it platonic. Extremely platonic. And she didn’t know how to handle that. After all, they’d been intimate before.

  Extremely intimate.

  Since it was late, he walked her back to Gretchen’s apartment building, and they stood on the stoop, gazing at each other.

  “Are you going to give me a kiss good night?” Brontë asked.

  Logan looked up at her with a slow, assessing gaze, and then shook his head. “Not tonight.”

  “Why not?” She flushed at how forward that sounded. “I just mean . . . we’ve already been lovers. I—”

  “Brontë,” Logan said in a soft voice, hushing her. He stepped closer, and his hand moving to her waist, tugging her a little closer to him. “It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you. It’s that if I start, I don’t think I can stop.”

  Her entire body felt suffused with heat at his words. “Logan, I—”

  “No, let me finish,” he said. “You need this to feel comfortable with me again. You want to date without the money or the power. I understand that. And now that I’ve had some time to settle into the idea, I like it. So we’re going to take things slow.” He took her hand in his, and then raised it to his lips, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles. “We’re not going to take things to the next level again until you’re ready. But I don’t want just sex from you, Brontë. When we go to bed together again, it’s going to be you and me. Strings attached and all. So think long and hard about what you want. Because I know what I want. I want you.”

  So direct and to the point. She felt breathless, gazing up into his serious face. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that yet,” she told him honestly.

  He pressed another kiss to her knuckles and smiled. “Then we date again. What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  “I have to check my work calendar to see if I’m free,” she began.

  “Brontë,” he said patiently. “We both know you can be free tomorrow night. Don’t play games.”

  He had a point. She was just pushing to see if she could win, and it wasn’t fair to him. “I’m free. What do you want to do, then?”

  “Be with you.”

  At this rate, she was never going to stop blushing. He made her feel . . . a little excited, but strangely pleased. She rather liked being the center of his universe, even if at the moment his universe consisted of small, easy dates. “Do you want to go bowling? Dinner?”

  “Have you been to Broadway yet?”

  Excitement flared through her. “Oh! No, I haven’t, but I’m dying to. I would love to see a show! Isn’t it too late to find tickets to anything good, though?”

  “Leave that up to me. I’ll pick you up for dinner tomorrow.” He reluctantly released her hand. “Think of me tonight?”

  “I will. Good night, Logan.”

  She watched him descend the steps of her building and head back down the street to the subway. He didn’t look back at her, but that was okay. Her entire body was still warm from his words.

  What do you want to do, then?

  Be with you . . . Think of me tonight.

  Strange how admitting that she would think of him somehow felt more intimate than a dozen kisses.

  Brontë went inside, heading up to the apartment. Gretchen hadn’t moved from the space she’d occupied when Brontë had left hours earlier, except her bun now had several pencils stuck into it, and the cat had moved to curl around her feet. She looked up at Brontë as if surprised, then glanced at the clock. “Oh. Oh. It’s late.” She rubbed her eyes and stared at her computer screen. “Well, shit. I think I lost track of time. How’d it go?”

  “Good,” Brontë said with a dreamy sigh. “And bad. I’m still totally in love with him.”

  “Just don’t tell him that,” Gretchen said, reaching down to pet Igor. “I guess I’ll stop hating him until you two break up again.”

  Brontë made a face. “Very funny. We’re going out again tomorrow night.”

  “Fine with me. That’ll give me a chance to fix this last chapter I wrote. It’s horrible.” She stared at the screen and grimaced. “Good thing this book won’t have my real name on it.”

  Brontë snorted. “Well, I’m heading off to bed. See you in the morning.”

  Gretchen didn’t look up from the screen. “See you.”

  Brontë went to bed, and just like she’d promised, her thoughts were entirely of Logan.

  ***

  The next night, Logan took her out to a popular Broadway show, and she had an amazing time. She didn’t even raise an eyebrow when he produced box seats instead of ones in the nosebleed section. Afterward, they went out for drinks and spent the evening talking and laughing together. She told him about her childhood in the Midwest, and he told her about his adventures at boarding school as a boy. When they parted that night, he simply given her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  The next night, he took her ice skating at Rockefeller, determined to show her a good time even if it meant hitting every tourist hot spot that New York had to offer. She didn’t care, though. She loved the sheer fun of being out with him, seeing all the famous places around town. Holding hands with him as they careened around the ice. She laughed the entire time, and even Logan’s serious face had a smile on it.

  Of course, that night, he gave her just a caress on the cheek and a quick peck before leaving her on the stoop, her pulse throbbing with unfulfilled desire.

  She knew he was doing it on purpose, of course. If she wanted to have a few dates just as a normal couple, they’d take it slow. Extremely slow. That had been her plan, after all. A week or two of just dating.

  Unfortunately for her, the plan was backfiring in a major way. By the time they went on a walk through Central Park two days later, his every touch sent a ripple of desire through her body. Her nipples were hard enough at his nearness that she wore several layers of clothing to cover it up. And when he leaned in to nuzzle the nape of her neck in a quietly affectionate move, her knees went weak, her sex instantly wet.

  This was not exactly how she’d planned for the week to go. She said nothing, of course, though she might have rubbed up against Logan’s thigh a bit more than she should have in the carriage ride around the park, and when he held her close, she might have pushed her hips back suggestively. Her skin was heated and flushed with need, but he only gave her a light kiss on the lips.

  If this is how he thinks normal people date, she thought wryly, he is going to be very surprised when I jump his bones in the next date or two. She had wanted to move slow with Logan to prove that the real spark was there between them. However, he had apparently interpreted “slow” as “glacial.”

  She couldn’t really complain, though. His schedule kept him busy in the daytime, though he’d send her occasional text messages throughout the day to let her know wh
at their plans were for that evening, or simply to tell her he was thinking about her. When she’d told him she was looking forward to their date, he’d sent back a quote that made her heart flutter with delight.

  “. . . and when one of them meets the other half, the actual half of himself, whether he be a lover of youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy and one will not be out of the other’s sight, as I may say, even for a moment . . .”

  She’d been giddy over that single text. She hadn’t even corrected him considering that was a quote from a satire of love. It was meant from the heart from Logan, and that was all that counted.

  Meanwhile Gretchen, who was still on deadline and crankier than ever, complained that Brontë was too easily swayed. And maybe it was true.

  But she knew it was love. At least, it was on her end. Love and desire and need and want all mixed into one giant bundle of nerves. And while she knew it was love, she also knew one other thing for certain.

  She wasn’t going to be the one to say it first. Not this time.

  Chapter Twelve

  Logan told Brontë to ask Cooper for the day off on Monday. She asked, with a bemused smile on her face. Cooper was confused about the situation, of course. Since Logan was in the process of buying the coffee shop, and she was dating Logan, did she really have to ask Cooper?

  Yes, Brontë informed him. She did.

  She got the day off, of course.

  When Logan showed up with the limo, she should have been mad at him, but he had such a I-know-I’ve-been-bad smile on his face that she couldn’t get upset. Instead, she eyed the car and then his clothing, noting that despite the expensive wheels, he was dressed down in jeans and a ribbed sweater. “What’s with the limo?”

  “We need a ride out to where we’re going today.”

  She crossed her arms but couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “We do, huh?”

  “We do,” he agreed, and produced a blindfold. “Unless you don’t mind walking the streets blindfolded. This is for you.”

  Skeptical, Brontë took the length of fabric from him. “Blindfolded?”

  “For our surprise date.” He took it from her and gestured for her to turn around.

  Obediently, she turned, biting back her smile. She could feel his fingers moving over the back of her head, and skitters of delight moved through her at even that simple touch. When his hand clasped her arm, she jumped in surprise, gasping.

  “Did I startle you?”

  “No, I-I’m okay.” Her nipples were hard, though. Embarrassingly so. “How long do I have to wear this?”

  “Until we get there,” he told her, and then led her into the limo.

  It was impossible to tell how far they were driving—she couldn’t see a clock or see the streets to know where they were headed. Her entire world became the interior of the car and, more precisely, Logan’s large body next to hers in the backseat, his thigh warm next to her own. Her senses were enveloped with his nearness, and just the occasional whiff of his aftershave was driving her wild with need.

  When he put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, she tilted her head back, hoping he would kiss her. Instead, his thumb lightly traced the contours of her lips. The tender touch sent sensations cascading through her, and Brontë could barely breathe for the ache in her breast . . . and between her legs. God, she needed him. This was torture. Her breasts yearned for his touch, and her entire body felt attuned to him. Without the ability to see, all her other senses seemed to have come alive, and she was on fire with longing.

  The car stopped, and Logan shifted next to her.

  “Are we there?” Her voice was breathless and husky.

  “Not quite,” Logan said. He took her hand in his and led her out of the car. “This is as far as the limo goes, though.”

  Brontë tilted her head, wishing she could see his expression. She listened to the sounds around her—lots of people. Outdoors. But where? She wasn’t familiar with the city. “When can I take this off?”

  “Now,” he said, and his hands moved to her hair.

  He untied the knot, and she caught the blindfold in her hands, tugging it down off of her face, eyes open-wide to interpret what she was seeing.

  People everywhere. A park with tall trees, and a large brick wall. Signs stood by the entrance, and she quickly scanned one. One gave ferry rates . . .

  “The Statue of Liberty,” she gasped, delighted. Brontë turned back to Logan, unable to contain her smile. “Is that where we’re going?”

  “It is.” He looked pleased at her response. “Come on.”

  It was the most ridiculously touristy thing they’d done so far, but she loved every moment of it. They rode the ferry across the water to Ellis Island and the museum. Logan held her hand in his as they walked the grounds, their headsets on as they shuffled along listening to the tour. They stopped by the gift shop, and she got a Statue of Liberty T-shirt, postcards, and several pens for her friends back home. Once she’d finished her shopping, they went on to Liberty Island. The Statue was fascinating, and she stared up at it with wide eyes, delighted.

  “Do you want a photo?” He asked. “I seem to recall that you wanted your picture taken in front of the Statue of Liberty.”

  She nodded, beaming at him. “Want to do one together?”

  “Of course.”

  They took pictures in front of the Statue, pausing to switch off so they could both have photos on their individual phones. Brontë laughed at the sight of them in one shot. “Your eyes are closed in my picture, Logan. We have to take it again.”

  “Let’s change up our pose, then,” he said, and took the phone from her, holding it low so the picture would be an uptilted view.

  And he leaned in and very lightly kissed her mouth.

  Immediate heat flushed through her body. Brontë clung to him, her hands going to his cheeks and anchoring her mouth against his. She’d wanted this for what felt like forever, and when his lips parted, she took advantage and swept her tongue into his mouth, letting him know her need. He groaned low in his throat at her kiss, and then his tongue was rubbing up against hers. An ache settled low in Brontë’s hips, and she whimpered in response.

  Logan slowly pulled away from her lips and grinned down at her. “Let’s hope that photo turned out.”

  Dazed, she stared up at him, and reached out to take the phone back. The photo was tilted awkwardly, and the Statue wasn’t even in the picture. “It’s fine,” she murmured, still flushed and tingling.

  “It’s not. We need to do it again,” he said, and his hand went around her waist as he took the phone back from her. He angled it up once more, adjusted it, then leaned in and began to kiss her again. The kiss this time didn’t start off delicate. His mouth immediately claimed hers, sending driving desire rocketing through her. Over and over, his mouth slanted over hers, tongue licking at hers in a way that made her knees weak. People were probably watching, and she didn’t care.

  She nearly sagged when he released her again, and glanced down at the phone. “Better?” She asked in a wobbly voice, clinging to him.

  “My eyes are closed again,” he said, and couldn’t hide the triumphant expression on his face. “We should do it one more time.”

  “I’m starting to think you’re doing this on purpose,” Brontë protested, but her words were cut off by the heated kiss he bestowed on her mouth again. And oh, God, desire was hammering staccato notes through her body, and all her nerve endings seemed to be demanding one thing. His body, over hers. In hers. ASAP. All this dating and yearning seemed like one big cruel tease at the moment.

  Endless, endless foreplay, she thought, lost in the feel of his mouth against hers. A low moan almost escaped her when he pulled away, but she bit it back. His gaze moved over her face with that same heated look that she was positive was plast
ered all over her own face. She licked her lips and nearly moaned again, because she could taste him on her skin.

  Logan glanced down at her phone, and then handed it to her. “Perfect.”

  Dazed, Brontë stared down at the picture. A hot flush crept over her cheeks—in the photo, she was clinging to Logan, the two of them wrapped around each other, the Statue looming in the distance.

  She loved that picture.

  He leaned in and her breath caught. She stared up at him, hoping for another kiss, but his mouth moved to her ear.

  “I want you,” he told her. And he bit her earlobe.

  She did moan then, the sound low and full of longing.

  “Shall we find someplace private?” he asked her, still nibbling on her ear and making her bones turn to liquid. “Get to know each other a little better . . . all over again?”

  “M-my place,” she breathed. “Not yours.”

  “That’s fine. Your roommate?”

  “Working today,” Brontë told him, and was suddenly wildly thankful that Gretchen had a job of some kind that got her out of the apartment. “All ours.”

  “Good,” he told her, and the sound was full of so much satisfaction and promise that she went weak in the knees all over again.

  Brontë clung to him on the ferry ride back to Battery Park. His arms were wrapped around her, and she had gone all too easily into his embrace. Waiting to get back to the apartment was a slow, delicious torture, but it gave her time to think . . . and stew in her own thoughts.

  He’d taken her out to Liberty Island to see the Statue. Brontë thought of her comment on the plane ride to New York. She’d asked him about seeing the Statue and teased him about how clichéd it was and how she still wanted to do it. Such a small, offhand comment, but he’d remembered it. He’d remembered that she loved sightseeing and had wanted to see the city, and had taken her on a tour of New York City with every date. Even when Logan was deliberate, he was thoughtful.

  And he’d completely stolen her heart.

  Gretchen had warned her about falling too fast all over again, but this was Logan. Her Logan. Warm and delicious and handsome and thoughtful . . .