Shopping for a Billionaire's Honeymoon

by Julia Kent

  I stifle a moan. Breasts and red garters? My mind floats through memories, remembering the day she came into my office wearing the garters. How we had a quickie on my desk, the wide glass window of my executive suite at Anterdec making me king of the world, thrusting into her as she raked my back with her nails. How good it felt to make my office my territory, marked with her scent, our love, our conquest.

  Plus...red garters. The moment you run your fingers up those creamy thighs, one fingertip sliding under the wisp of fabric. How your big hand looks next to the delicate lace. How her thighs quiver with anticipation. How the red contrasts with pale, translucent skin that presses against your ears in seconds, your woman driven wild by your tongue.

  Blood pounds through me as I remember. Shannon is pissed at me now, but playing it cool in her chair. She’s wearing the lingerie for me. Not just for the reaction she knows she’ll get from me.

  But for me.

  I have to express my gratitude, right?

  That’s what gentlemen do.

  We thank our women thoroughly. A full thanking is in order.

  What rhymes with “thanking”?

  And....now I’m hard.

  Dad continues chewing me out. I tune in to my wife.

  I see her. I watch her every day, riveted by some source of magic she conjures from within. The shy trepidation she exhibited when we first met, the incredulity and disbelief that I wanted her were byproducts of a time when she wasn’t cherished. Men before me were boys. Fools. Too blinded by their own need to seem like men, arrogant with nothing to back it up, to realize what a treasure they had before them.

  The heart knows what it knows without needing to think twice.

  I picked her. I chose her above all other women.

  I don’t make mistakes.

  Plus...say it with me.

  Red garters.

  Her hair spills over one shoulder, the color of creamy dark caramel that flows in waves. She’s reading, her eyes tracking the words on her electronic book, and her shoulders are relaxed, a red line of cloth enhancing her neck. The set of her jaw tells me she’s still tense. I want to kiss the stress out of her, sink into her, connect with everything but words. Blinking rapidly, Shannon taps the screen, moving on to the next page.

  Speaking of moving on...

  “And I resigned from Anterdec,” I remind my father, suppressing a sigh. I’ve spent the better part of an hour and a half on the phone with suppliers and financial people, managing the acquisition of Grind It Fresh!, the coffee chain I bought for Shannon as a spur-of-the-moment wedding present.

  The only acquisition I want to pay attention to is sitting right next to me on this private jet, fuming away. I know Shannon’s upset. I need to make it up to her.

  In multiple ways.

  “I reject your resignation.”

  “You can’t do that, Dad. You’re no longer CEO. Remember? You gave Andrew the job.” I’m not above sounding a tad bitter here.

  On the other hand, maybe I should thank him. That’ll really get his goat. People hate when you thank them for making decisions that they think will make you feel inferior and elevate themselves. You destroy their sense of order in the universe.

  Order that only existed in their own mind.

  “Is that what this is about? Jealousy? Given Andrew’s behavior, perhaps I’ll rescind the job from him and give it to you.” Dad’s voice is dripping with the kind of contempt only an aging CEO unaccustomed to hearing the word “no” can muster. Then again, he just barged in on my naked brother and his girlfriend, both coated in Cheeto dust, her co-worker, and Andrew’s Vegas chauffeur all wearing wedding rings and with no recollection of the night before.

  I left before they could rope me into fixing that. Unlike my wife’s family, I have boundaries. I do not involve myself in my brothers’ affairs. What Andrew does in the privacy of his own resort suite is his own business. Interfering is off limits.

  Pointing, laughing, and making fun of him for the rest of our lives is well within bounds, however.

  “Too late, Dad. Resignation tendered. I’m leaving Anterdec for good.” That last sentence gets stuck in my throat. I’ve never done this. It’s uncharted territory. I am unwavering. The decision has been made. Confidence fills every action I take, each layer of the new business revealing itself to be better than expected. Shannon’s silly “unauthorized latte” from Grind It Fresh! this past week turns out to have opened up a future empire.

  Who knew her lack of self-control could yield such riches?

  “Too late? It’s never too late. There are no such thing as deadlines, son. Everything is negotiable.” I can tell he’s getting tired of this.

  So am I. Now I’m thinking about Shannon and her lack of control...in the bedroom.

  “I am not negotiable.”

  Neither are her red garters.

  He huffs, the dismissive sound shooting through my nerves, ringing them like bells in a fire station. “You’ve always been unnecessarily competitive with your younger brother. It makes you look weak.”

  Leave it to Dad to get in the insults on my honeymoon.

  “Thank you,” I say. His silence confirms I’ve startled him. Thrown him off.

  “For what?”

  “Hiring Andrew as CEO. Your fine decision led to the best decision I ever made.”

  His laugh sounds like he has something stuck in his throat. “You think your little coffee chain is going to be the next Starbucks? Dream on.”

  “Starbucks? No.” We’re going to be better.

  “Glad to hear you’re being realistic. On the other hand, that’s exactly why Andrew’s a better choice for CEO. He doesn’t aim low.”

  “But apparently you do, Dad. Below the belt.”

  “The rules apply to you, too, son.”

  “My rules apply to me, Dad. Not yours. I have a half-billion-dollar deal on the line right now, literally – they’re on hold, so we need to be done.” That’s a lie, but my wife is on hold, too. Under no circumstances should my father take priority over my new business or Shannon.

  Ever.

  “Oh, so now you’re punting me so you can go do business with the big boys, Mr. Hotshot?”

  Click.

  Hanging up on my father feels better than it should. For years, I divorced myself from my feelings about my father’s treatment of me. Being with Shannon means talking about feelings. I can’t get myself to a non-reactive state with Dad.

  Yet I have to get myself out of this non-reactive state with Shannon. Business makes me shut down and turn myself into a laser, focused on making the deal work. The synergy that comes from taking disparate functions and turning them into a well-oiled machine feeds my soul.

  Meanwhile, I have a wife who is pretty close to replacing me with a well-oiled machine in a very different way.

  In sickness and in health...in control and out of control...caffeinated and uncaffeinated...

  Tell me again why I’m ignoring her? Look at that lusciousness, all bundled into one perfect body with a finger wearing my ring.

  She bears my name.

  Someday she’ll bear my child.

  We’ll name it Red Garters McCormick.

  First things first. Time to give her the attention she deserves. The air in the cabin stills. The private jet is quiet and sedate, with thick beige Berber carpets and fine, creamy leather seats. Nothing out of the norm for private flights, and just dated enough to make it clear Dad approved the decoration scheme.

  But it’s quiet, private, and best of all, a giant metal tube speeding at 500 miles per hour toward a bigger bed, a bigger room, a large beach and nothing but naked wildness with my wife in my arms.

  The craziness of the last week finally peels off my shoulders. I look at my left hand, heavy with my new ring. Hers matches. We match. Paired together by choice and love. The internal downshift that needs to take place happens so fast. I’m hot for her, striding across the cabin, ready to recline her seat and take her right now.


  I go from downshift to stick shift in seconds.

  Bzzz.

  I groan. Shannon doesn’t even react. This could be a bad sign. I’ll make it up to her.

  I keep the headphones in and read the text on my phone, torn between chucking it aside and getting naked and finishing up this one last call with a human resources transition expert who wants to discuss employee ranking structures to decide who to keep and who to lay off as we take over Grind It Fresh!

  Snooze. Boring, but important.

  Covert glances at Shannon reveal she’s engrossed in her email, anyhow. Either that, or she’s pointedly ignoring me, sending passive-aggressive signals I’m supposed to magically decipher now that I’m a married man.

  I shrug.

  We’re together forever, right? She can wait. What could go wrong?

  The text from Grace reads: Hawaii secured. Japan after. Jessica Coffin being interviewed on CNN right now about your wedding and reception. Owner of Kona coffee plantation in Hawaii wants meeting. Warning: a bit eccentric.

  Jessica is a gadfly. Who cares?

  And the man who gate-keeps the best coffee in the world is eccentric? I can manage eccentric. Have you met my mother-in-law?

  The real news is the Kona contact. If I can secure a deal with this Kona micro-producer and Grind It Fresh! can become the exclusive distributor for their coffee, we can explode from the start, right out the gate. This is the big time in the coffee world. Hawaii’s the only location where I need to do face-to-face business. Japan is full of tea drinkers, though coffee is gaining ground. Give me enough time and I’ll dominate there.

  Turning this new coffee chain into a blockbuster worldwide brand is crucial.

  Mostly so I can show up my dad. The money is an afterthought. Anyone can make money.

  One-upping your old man? Priceless.

  Another covert glance at Shannon tells me she’s gone from bored to pissed. I run my tongue along the top row of my teeth and wonder what that garter tastes like.

  Time to find out.

  Beep.

  My phone rings. It’s the plantation owner.

  Bzzz.

  Got the owner on the line. Patching through, Grace says.

  Hot damn! Excitement ripples through through me, weaving along two strands like DNA in a double helix, one spiral of business success, the other nothing but unadulterated testosterone.

  I text back: Name your price. Come to Grind It Fresh! because you’ll die of boredom if you retire.

  I see the dots, Grace’s reply coming any second.

  You can’t afford me, she texts back.

  I don’t even react. This is a victory. That’s not a no. It’s all I need. Having Grace move over to our new coffee company is imperative. Training someone new to work with me would be an added transitional cost I don’t want.

  Plus, depriving my little brother of the best executive admin in the world is just the cherry on top.

  And then I pick up the call that is my financial future. Pulse pounding with the taste of victory on the tip of my tongue, I open my mouth to speak.

  Hopefully, my emotional future will handle the delay. Red garters or crazy Kona kings?

  I press the button that unlocks our future.

  Shannon

  “Dec?”

  I get the finger again.

  I give him one of my own.

  He’s deep in thought and doesn’t notice. If the man can’t notice red garters how can I get him to notice anything? He’s so oblivious, trapped in business hell.

  My phone buzzes.

  A text from my mother.

  Honeymoon oops babies are the best wedding present for your mother. <3

  That’s it.

  I call for the flight attendant, who comes to me immediately. Declan looks relieved.

  “Yes, Mrs. McCormick?” Her voice is cheerfully professional, using a cultivated tone I’ve come to recognize. Working for the wealthy requires a skill set no one teaches you unless you brush up against this world. I would have gone my entire life not knowing. Grace has the tone. Gerald does, too. It’s an unflappable, responsive way of managing people who don’t have to deal with the same worries that the rest of us juggle.

  Another skill people who work for the wealthy possess: an innate ability to pretend they didn’t see embarrassing sights. Around me, that skill gets put to good use.

  “Hi. How are you?”

  “Fine, Mrs. McCormick.” She doesn’t make eye contact, but you can’t tell she isn’t looking me in the eye. Again, skill.

  Mrs. McCormick.

  I love that.

  “Could you please tell the captain to cut off all cell and internet access?” I instruct.

  “Excuse me?”

  Funny how that unflappable tone turns to panic.

  “Cut off all cell and internet to the plane. Not, though, you know, the controls to fly the plane,” I add quickly.

  “But it’s corporate policy to—”

  I point to Dec’s back. “See that hot guy in that beautiful suit?”

  She gives me an uncertain look. “Mr. McCormick? Yes?”

  “See that unused bedroom?” I nod toward the door.

  She blushes. “Yes.”

  “I need help getting Hot Guy and Toilet Girl in bed.” And to stop hearing from my mother about oops babies.

  To stop hearing from my mother at all.

  She looks at the bathroom. “Toilet...girl?”

  “I’m Toilet Girl.”

  “I don’t—I don’t understand.” Her eyes are beautiful, dark and wide, with more white around the deep, minky irises than usual. Thick eyeliner gives her an Egyptian look, and her cheekbones are wide, well rouged, and apple-sized from smiling.

  “Do you understand wanting to have sex on your honeymoon?”

  Adele. That’s her name. Adele gives me a sour look before quickly composing herself. “I—um...” She fiddles with the paisley scarf at her neck as she blinks rapidly.

  “What?”

  “I know what it’s like not to have sex on your honeymoon,” she whispers confidentially, eyelids flaring.

  That thought never seriously occurred to me. Given that Declan’s more likely to make love to a notary stamp than he is to me right now, though, the potential’s there.

  Maybe I should put a notary stamp beneath my belly button.

  “What happened?” I ask with sympathy. Hey, she’s talking to me. I’m getting more conversation out of her than I am from my new husband.

  And she doesn’t give me the finger.

  “He drank too much Champagne.”

  “And he couldn’t...perform?”

  “Not when you’re puking.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “Keep Mr. McCormick away from the drink.” Her eyes cut over to him and she frowns.

  “And the phone?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Patting my arm like we’re old friends, she makes her way on five-inch heels as if they’re an extension of her body.

  As she slips into the cockpit, I realize that if the pen is mightier than the sword, the mouth is mightier than the finger.

  And boy, does that apply to everything. In so many ways.

  As I approach my husband, he holds up his index finger.

  Standing on tiptoe, I slowly ease my warm, wet mouth over it, wrapping my flat tongue around the hard ridge of his knuckles, sucking hard. Using the tip of my tongue, I flick the spot between the end of the joint and the pad of his palm.

  His eyes widen. His body stiffens. I use my hand to make sure something else stiffens, too.

  His eyes plead with me. But he can’t say a word, so I don’t know if he’s telepathically saying Stop or You are a tongue goddess with the dexterity of a Romanian gymnast.

  I go with the latter.

  I let go of his finger with a little twirl of the tip at the end, then lean in and whisper, “Get off the phone. Now.”

  “I can’t.” At least he has the decency to look
genuinely torn. I squint slightly, narrowing my eyes as I take him in. He’s shifty and twitchy, out of character for Dec. His face is a little flushed and he’s moving his weight from one leg to the other. Either he needs to pee really bad, or...

  Aha.

  “Then I’m going into that bedroom, stripping naked, and taking matters into my own hands.” I lower my voice, making it smoky and seductive, convinced that my hunch is right.

  “Taking matters into...” The way his eyes go straight to my breasts, then my hands, then he shifts his weight again confirms it.

  He is out of the business zone. The man might be on the phone, and his attention might be on business, but his body is in my zone.

  “What do you think Edward Cullen is for?” I tease. I know what you’re thinking, but that’s the name of my vibrator. Seriously. It’s a great name, because a vampire is the ultimate boyfriend. And, like a vibrator, he only comes out at night, he never dies, and I don’t have to feed him.

  Declan’s eyes do that “ah-OO-gah” cartoon thing, popping out, rolling around like roly-poly bugs, and fitting back in his head. Considering Dec normally uses a grand total of three facial muscles in any given twenty-four-hour period (sexytimes excepted), it’s gratifying to see I have an effect on him.

  He puts the phone on mute. “You brought your vibrator on our honeymoon?” he says to me, eyes clouded with a mixture of admiration, anger, and – oh, yeah.

  Arousal.

  I could lie. I could. I’m believable. Hey, I was a professional mystery shopper. We’re paid to pretend and obfuscate, to act a part and use deception for a greater cause.

  No one could blame me for doing that now. Because what more noble cause is there than getting some with your new husband on your honeymoon?

  But lying to Declan is hard. Really hard. So I don’t.

  “Come into the bedroom and find out.”

  “I’m not sharing you with a battery-operated plastic wand named after a vampire.” He points to his phone. “Plus, this business call is important...” He’s practically pleading. Declan doesn’t plead. Declan orders. Declan demands. Declan declares.

  What is going on?

  “No one has ever said anything that romantic to me before. Such a charmer.” This is not how I want him to behave right now. Where is the man who used to look at me like he wanted to do dirty, dirty things with my body, for me to return the favor, for hours of sensual pleasure to unroll before us to think about – and enact – the forbidden?