Shopping for a Billionaire's Honeymoon

by Julia Kent

  You know – like this morning?

  He frowns. “Why are you being so negative?”

  That’s really it.

  I rip his Bluetooth off his head and march into the bathroom. Flinging the wires into the toilet, I flush. Dec’s right behind me, gasping in my ear.

  One problem.

  I forgot to close the toilet seat.

  Blue water and black wires shoot up in an impressive spray, reminding me of the fountains at the Bellagio, except no one’s playing The Three Tenors soundtrack right now. Dyed toilet water splatters all over me. If some wet substance is going to shoot up and cover me, I’d prefer it come from my new husband, damn it.

  I start to choke, reaching to slam down the lid, Declan’s earpiece falling back into the toilet and disappearing into the jet’s holding tank.

  “That was quite a show.”

  I turn around and glare.

  He snickers, anger long gone.

  “You’ve taken the whole ‘something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue’ thing a little too far, Shannon.” His eyes travel to the toilet, brow wrinkling with worry. He hands me a towel.

  “Don’t laugh.” I resist the urge to lick the drops sliding down my nose, over my top lip. I mop up what I can, livid.

  He bites his lips, eyebrows up suddenly, mirth evident in those green eyes the color of Irish hillsides.

  “You look like a Smurf.”

  “This is all your fault,” I say through gritted teeth, reaching for his arm. I use his cuff to wipe my mouth.

  “My fault?”

  “You’re ignoring me! We’re supposed to be focused on each other and having Mile High Club married sex, and your phone’s Bluetooth mic is getting more of your mouth action than I am.”

  His eyes are clouded with work. There’s this look Declan gets when he’s in the business zone, flow and optimization top in his mind. He simultaneously becomes more him and less present. The combination is a tricky one.

  Snapping him out of it is even trickier. The delicate balance between respecting his effort and achievement and getting him to find time for me isn’t easy.

  I rub up against him and press my lips against his.

  He pulls back. “I have no desire to be a Smurf, too.”

  I stroke him over his wool pants. “Bet there’s something on you that’s blue, too.”

  He groans.

  And we’re off.

  Declan

  Howard Hughes couldn’t have been more reclusive than Blanton Jean-Pierre Koshigiri, the owner of the Kona coffee plantation.

  And Shannon just hung up on him.

  I should be angry. I should text Grace back and get him on the phone. I should grovel (not that I know how to do that) and apologize. The breach of protocol here is immense.

  My entire business empire rests in the hands of a man who just got dropped because my wife threw him in the toilet.

  But other hands are resting on me. Moving on me. Stroking me over my clothes, pulling me out of the zone. The blue chemical water is a turnoff, but those hands...

  Damn her.

  Damn fine.

  Business is my life. Giving in to baser urges is also my life. I’m a man.

  My palm finds her knee, gliding up over those firm, sweet thighs, finding them bare and smooth, perfect for inhaling. Her skin is its own perfume, the swell of her hip crying out for a firm hand. I entwine the thin fabric of her garter – oh, sweet Jesus, it is so warm -- between my fingers, grasping at it as if I’m playing tug of war with myself.

  Stay in the business zone and hold steady.

  Pull hard on the lifeline Shannon’s garters represent, and join her erotic zone.

  I have to make a decision. I’m torn.

  So are Shannon’s garters now. Oops.

  Decision made.

  “Hey!” she squeals, her voice going to that timbre that says the words that are about to come out of her mouth mean the opposite of what she feels. “You can’t tear my clothes off like that!”

  “I can, and I will.”

  “Declan!”

  “Didn’t you catch that line in the wedding vows at our ceremony yesterday? ‘I, Shannon Eveline Jacoby, do promise to let my faithful husband rip off my lacy lingerie at will.’”

  “I don’t remember that line.”

  “Let me help you remember.”

  Before she can answer, I shut her up with a kiss. She’s wet and smells like a chemical plant. Memories of driving through parts of New Jersey threaten to take over, but I shove them aside and reach behind her, lips on lips, tongue on tongue, and turn on the hot shower spray. So many major life events happen in bathrooms for us.

  It’s bizarre.

  So is life.

  “This is what I want,” she whispers. “You. Nothing but you.” She reaches inside my waistband and slips her fingers around me, stroking up, centering me. A rush of heated need races through my blood, my bones, erasing all thoughts of business.

  She is my business now.

  “We had sex this morning,” I whisper, licking the shell of her ear as I run one hand down her body, pulling her skirt up, the other hand cupping her breast with the firm touch of a man who is done being teased. “You want more?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “God, ye – yes,” she gasps as I pop open her shirt and kiss her neck, her breasts, my body completely shifting gears now, fast and furious and ready to rev.

  Ready to open her up.

  Ready to be nothing but us.

  Shannon’s radiating fire and need, her heat blending with a scent that I can’t place. It’s unique and maddening, one that she’s cultivated more recently. Pheromones change as women grow. Given that I have a sample size of one, and given that this is the best conclusion I have for Shannon’s new scent, I’m going with it.

  Her kiss is urgent, almost feverish, desperate and hot in its intensity. She’s a live wire, practically climbing me as she shoves me against the small bathroom wall, taking the real estate of my mouth like she is exercising eminent domain. Making her wait seems to have the opposite effect of what I’d feared. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

  Or something like that. It’s hard to remember as she undresses me and wraps her hand around my shaft, making the world disappear, her hand the focal point of the universe.

  Her heart a close second.

  Bzzz.

  I’m ignoring that. Willfully, deliberately, painstakingly, intentionally ignoring my damn phone. Yes, it’s probably Grace, patching in the world’s most reclusive man. Fragments of thought float through my awareness.

  Blanton Jean-Pierre Koshigiri. Kona coffee. New coffee shop chain. Our financial future. World domination via latte.

  Those wisps of thought compete with:

  Fingertips. Wet, warm tongue like ripe grapes and fine, tangy olives. The soft parting of her thighs against mine. The crazymaking scent of her hair against the tip of my nose. My forearms touching her bare ribs. The shower spray misting behind us, inviting us in.

  Shannon wins.

  Shannon always, always wins.

  Chapter 2

  Shannon

  The jet’s bathroom has a tiny shower. For someone who’s just spent over an hour on the phone, completely engrossed in the finer details of buying an eight-figure company and choosing anonymous, dull businessmen over me, Declan undresses with remarkable speed.

  Not so much grace, though.

  Turbulence makes him falter as he’s sliding one leg out of his boxer briefs, tipping into me as I’m down to bra and torn garters, the shower on, steam filling the tiny room.

  As Declan crashes into me, all limbs, my arm slips between the toilet seat and the bowl, my hand immersed again in blue toilet water.

  I’m stuck for a few seconds, until the plane levels out.

  “Sorry about that, Mr. and Mrs. McCormick,” the pilot says over the speakers. “Small pocket of difficulty there.”

  Declan
is on his side, pinning me against the toilet, while my arm does an imitation of a boiled egg with a Paas kit the day before Easter.

  “Look at you,” he says, free hand stroking my cheek. He doesn’t move. I’m trapped. Work Declan dissipates, his eyes turning soft and intense, his breathing quickening. Mesmerized by me, he changes, coming into sharp focus.

  “You find this romantic?” I point at my toilet arm. “I’m turning into Smurfette, one appendage at a time.”

  “I always thought Smurfette was kind of cute. And we’re recreating the first time we met, Toilet Girl.” None of the intensity dissipates like it normally does when we joke. A rush of ecstatic adrenaline shoots through me like a fireworks display synchronized with my hormones and a musical score we’re making up as we go along.

  “Give me your cell phone and I’ll make it authentic.” Let’s just ignore the creepy cartoon fetish thing, shall we? I splash my hand in the bowl, making it flop like a fish. “You do not get to make fun of Edward Cullen while finding this sexy.”

  How long will it take before I stop pushing back against the awkwardness – one-sided, I imagine – in these deep moments?

  Eh. I guess we’ll find out. We have a lifetime, right?

  He laughs, more of Fun Declan replacing Borg Declan. Hope springs eternal in my chest.

  Or maybe that’s blue chemical water burning my ribs.

  “Can we get in the shower? I’d prefer not to look like someone who plays drums at the Charles Playhouse.”

  “If this whole co-owning a coffee empire doesn’t work out, you can always work for Blue Man Group,” he jokes, standing slowly, reaching out a hand to help me up.

  I quickly extract my toilet hand and slap it in his.

  He cringes, but doesn’t let go.

  True love, ladies and gentleman. That’s true love, right there.

  Wriggling out of the rest of my clothes, I beat him to the shower, the hot spray delightful, pale blue water swirling down the tiny drain. The shower is a three-quarters circle built into the wall, down a narrow hallway off the bedroom. We’re surrounded by glass and chrome, the setting decadent and nothing like flying economy on a commercial jet airplane.

  Scratch that.

  There’s one thing in common.

  As Declan climbs into the narrow space, I get poked in the back.

  Except this isn’t a child’s sharp-toed shoe kicking me.

  “Mmmmm,” he says, nuzzling my neck. “You need to be soaped up.”

  “I need more than that.”

  “Let’s start here.” He kisses my wet shoulder, his hand traveling down my ribs to my hip, over the bone and between my legs, where he finds a slickness that’s been waiting for him since long before we got into the shower.

  When he touches me, I become more than myself. This is what I’ve craved for days—weeks, even—the craziness of our wedding fading as his palms glide along my torso, his fingers tracing my navel, his lips grazing my neck.

  Time.

  Naked time without interruption.

  One hand lifts my hair as he kisses me until I shiver, the other parting my legs slightly with a commanding touch that makes me groan.

  “Yes,” I gasp, leaning into his touch. “Oh, yes.”

  “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, water dripping from his wet hair onto my ear, the trickle of shower spray intensifying each sensation. His body behind me is a wall, a blanket, a second skin he shares with me, his thighs pressing into the curve of my ass, the hot steam entering my lungs, pushing my shoulders down, making me twist and melt.

  “Sorry for what?” I curl my abs inward, pressing my backside up, and his erection nudges into the cleft of my ass, the feeling delicious.

  “For forgetting how good this is, Shannon. Sometimes I go too deep into Work Mind and disconnect.”

  “Deep, huh? The only place you need to be deep is in me.”

  Flexing up, I seek friction, his hand staying with me, the wide pad of his thumb on my sweet spot, my body seeks rhythm. After trying so hard to vie for attention and having it all at once, this feels surreal.

  This feels right.

  Somehow, it manages to be both.

  Which is exactly why I can spend a lifetime loving this man. So many layers. So many contradictions. So many assumptions drawn that never come to be true. Mysteries abound inside each of us, and we’ve committed to a lifetime of solving them.

  I hope it’s enough.

  And if not?

  We’ll have to meet in the next lifetime to pick up where this one left off.

  My breasts tingle as heat pours up from between my legs, his hand firm and focused, his breathing turning to an excited rasp that won’t stop, the vibration of his low, husky sound turning me primal. I widen my legs and reach back for him, but he shifts slightly, out of reach.

  “No. You first,” he demands. “I made you wait.”

  “I—” Words begin to fail me. I’m reduced to the sound of my own breath, the rush of my body toward his, the effort to hold back shed second by second, my spirit greedy for his attention. “I love your form of penance.”

  He shuts me up with an earlobe bite that makes me clench as he slips one, then two, fingers inside just as I fall to pieces in his arms. A spreading heat takes over, covering my skin with a warmth the shower spray enhances. My ass rubs against his thick, strong thighs as I move to keep the elusive pleasure he’s giving, his lips on my neck, his chest pressed hard against my back, his body there to share this moment, to create this cocoon of wild release.

  The feeling builds, multiplied by Declan’s attentions and I give in to it, time escaping from us, my mind making that subtle move into all sensing, no thought. Just skin and fire, tongue and stroke, bodies and kisses and wetness as he whispers nothing and everything, my name and words of encouragement that aren’t quite language, not yet groans. He explores and finds rhythms that are not his, overcoming his own body’s beat to give me more of mine, the water soaking our skin, the friction of his wet thighs against my bare ass as his forearm makes magic with my clit so perfect I tighten and let go all at once.

  Suddenly, I am bucking and jerking, grasping the shower bar for an anchor, his touch unabated as he makes me come over and over, his promise fulfilled.

  I came first.

  But I won’t come last.

  Spinning to face him, I kiss him, our mouths meeting without sound, the caress of his tongue between my lips a sweeping sensation that makes me wrap my arms around him. We’re supposed to be enraptured with each other, our honeymoon a time for memorizing fine details, the burrowing spiral into the marrow of each other’s bones a prerequisite for endurance.

  When you find love like this, the trick isn’t in how easy it can be in the now.

  It’s in knowing how hard it’s going to be someday.

  And that the now makes that someday worth it.

  My skin rises to his nearness as we walk, wet and loose, falling onto the made bed, not caring about our soaked hair dampening the sheets, the rivulets of water sucking into the cotton like our bodies soaking in each other’s essence. He’s long and hard against me, biceps bulging as he holds himself over me, face dark with desire, eyes flinty and determined, the look disarming but for the need behind it.

  He is a fortress, his thighs rippling with lines of muscle I don’t have, one leg pressing between my knees, his mouth dipping to my breast.

  I thread my fingers in his wet hair then run my slippery palms down his shoulders and back, stopping at the narrowing of his waist, his head popping up to find mine, mouths and tongues tangling like seaweed in the tide. He is in me so fast, my gasp unnecessary, the sigh that follows full of gratitude and joy.

  This is who we are now, coupled in body and spirit.

  Trembling, I take him in deeper, hips widening, legs wrapping around him with a welcoming embrace that invites him to find eternity with me in thrust and motion, in moan and promise.

  “I love you,” he whispers, as if I need to hear it, as if h
is body doesn’t say the words a thousand times with each stroke. He takes his time, stopping at one point, looking down at me with so much love that all the heat in my blood rushes to my heart, pressing against his chest, trying to become one.

  “I love you,” I answer, stressing the word you, clenching as if pulling him inside more will somehow make the love between us stronger. How much of me can he touch? Is there a limit? When we move together, naked and vulnerable, craving and insatiable, can we move one more increment, one more standard deviation, one final drive toward a new connection that much more permanent than the last?

  Or is the impermanence what drives us to new heights? Does he resume his thrusts while looking at me, so tender and consumed, because he’s so aware of our fragile transience?

  Bodies last only so long.

  Hearts, too.

  Love, though—love can be found carved in rock, hammered in stone, forged in steel.

  And passed down child to child, generation to generation, bone to bone.

  As I ride my hands up the long, thick muscles of his arms, settling on his ribs, curling down to his ass, he becomes fire, body burning for me, his movements fierce and knowing, gaze on me and me alone.

  I do not look away.

  I cannot.

  Declan gives me no choice, and as we come together, crying out each other’s names, sounds of joy and release mingling with the rasp and shift of skin and timelessness, he gives me what I’ve wanted all day.

  Him.

  Yes, we had each other this morning, but that feels like a lifetime ago.

  “Oh,” I whisper, tears pooling in my eyes. My inner thighs tremble, the spasms short and brief, electric and involuntary. Declan’s full weight is on me, his mouth buried in my hair, his hot breath warming my jawline, the slack cover of his body a gift.

  Being with him involves so much of society, from business colleagues to people who work for him to family and friends. I don’t get this very often—naked Declan.