The Billionaire and the Virgin

by Jessica Clare

  “I bet it wouldn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t take that bet.”

  She shook her head. “Then why remain at a resort on an island?”

  “I found something here that made me want to stick around,” Rob told her. And his hand moved over her own, and he rubbed his thumb on the back of her knuckles.

  And Marjorie found herself blushing all over again.

  They went back to the resort, fingers locked together, and Rob walked Marjorie back to her room since it was late. They stood at her doorway, talking in soft voices, and when Marjorie reluctantly told Rob she had early plans in the morning, they got to the goodnight kiss. Rob’s hands went behind her neck and he pulled her against him, and they kissed for what seemed like forever, and when they parted, her breasts were pressed against his chest, her arms wrapped around his neck, and she was flushed and out of breath.

  “’Night, sweetheart,” he told her in a husky voice.

  “Not your sweetheart,” she said automatically.

  “Not yet,” he agreed. They kissed one more time, and then he left her for the evening, and she went back to her room, flopped down on the bed, and touched her fingertips to her mouth.

  They’d only kissed. Rob had been a perfect gentleman.

  Why was that so thrilling and so disappointing all at once? Why did she want so much more? Wasn’t she waiting for love? Not lust? She’d waited this long, what was a few dates more, right?

  But . . . she kind of wanted to see if Rob was interested in experiencing other bases with her. Hugging her pillow against her front, Marjorie thought about their next date.

  She wanted more than just a kiss. Now . . . how to get it?

  Chapter Fifteen

  As he left Marjorie at her doorstep, Rob adjusted his aching cock and headed into the elevator, toward his new room under the name Ron Glasscock. His time with Marjorie had been a pleasant idyll tinged with aching every time she laughed or licked her lips, or brushed up against him, because he wanted her with an intensity that was driving him mad.

  But he had to play it carefully, because she was a virgin. He didn’t want to scare her away. He’d go slow, even if it killed him.

  By the time he got back to his room, his cock was aching even more. Time for his nightly jerk-off session to Marjorie. But first, a call.

  One of his assistants picked up. Smith. “Yes, sir?”

  “The Tits crew. They’re filming here, right?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “One of them approached Marjorie. My Marjorie.”

  “I take it she wasn’t flattered, sir?”

  “No. Absolutely fucking not. She was devastated. You tell those jackasses that if they come near her again, I will fucking ram their cameras down their goddamn throats, understand?”

  “Understood, sir,” Smith’s voice was cool. “Whom shall I describe for them to avoid?”

  “She’s fucking six feet tall, Smith. Tell them to avoid any girls that are taller than them. Christ!” He terminated the call, and when that didn’t feel like it had enough oomph, he went to the room phone and slammed it in the cradle, over and over again.

  His own fucking crew. His own goddamn crew made the woman he liked feel like she was attacked. Jesus fucking Christ.

  How was he ever going to tell her what he did for a living?

  Rob groaned and rubbed his face, his erection gone.

  ***

  “How do I get a guy to notice me?” Marjorie asked at the bridesmaids’ breakfast four days later, her fork toying with her scrambled eggs. The long table in the private dining hall was filled with Brontë’s bridesmaids . . . well, minus Angie, who’d found a new guy while hanging out at the resort and was spending all her time with him instead of the bridal party. In her seat sat Violet DeWitt, who was dating one of the groomsmen and was becoming a close friend of Brontë’s.

  All the women turned and stared at Marjorie as she spoke, and the table got quiet. Inwardly, she quailed, but she forced herself to repeat the question. “I want a guy to really, really notice me. How do I swing that?”

  “Boobs,” Gretchen said between mouthfuls of fruit. “Guys love boobs.”

  Audrey rolled her eyes and pulled off a corner of her dry toast. “You’ll have to forgive my sister, Marj. She doesn’t believe in things like ‘politeness’ or ‘filters.’”

  “Sure I do,” Gretchen said. “But I believe in honesty more.” She pointed her fork at Marjorie. “Boobs. Trust me.”

  “Or legs,” Violet called across the table. “Some men like legs, and I bet yours does, Marjorie.”

  “You’re not helping,” Audrey said, but a smile dimpled her round face.

  “A good blow job,” Maylee chimed in.

  They all turned and stared at the angelic-looking blonde.

  “What?” she asked, an impish smile on her face. “Don’t tell me y’all don’t do that kind of thing in the north?”

  “I’m suddenly looking at stuffy Griffin in a whole new light,” Gretchen said.

  “Well, don’t, because he’s mine,” Maylee said with a grin. “And you can’t have him.”

  “I don’t want him. I have Hunter, thank you very much, and I’m not trading for anyone.” A dreamy look crossed Gretchen’s face. Then she looked over at Marjorie. “Your guy, is he a virgin? Because let me tell you from experience, it is hell trying to nail that down.”

  “He’s not,” Marjorie said, cheeks red with embarrassment. “I just want him to, you know, take things up a notch. Not necessarily get into bed together.” Since the ice cream date four days ago, they’d spent just about every waking moment together. They’d played board games, gone to bingo, had dinner together, and simply enjoyed each other’s company. It was nice. Really nice.

  He never went further than kissing her goodnight.

  She was starting to get a little tired of nice. And the doubts were starting to creep in. Was Rob just not that interested in her? The wedding was in three days, and things were scaling up. Her time was going to be taken up by the wedding more and more, and then she would be flying home two days afterward. She wasn’t going to have much more time to spend with Rob.

  And she wanted to. She really did. But she just didn’t know how he felt about her. He held her hand, and he kissed her . . . and that was it.

  Didn’t he want more? She did.

  “I don’t understand why we don’t want to take things up a notch,” Gretchen said. “What’s wrong with taking things to the next level? I love sex.”

  “Ignore my sister,” Audrey said in a placating voice. “You don’t have to sleep with a guy to have a relationship move forward.”

  “Like you would know, Miss Oh-oops-I’m-full-of-your-baby-batter-and-we-forgot-a-condom,” Gretchen retorted.

  Audrey blushed, her face turning red from her ears to her hairline. “One time. One time!”

  “This is crazy,” Violet said, “But have you tried actually telling this man that you like him and want to take things a step further? Because I find that grabbing a guy by the collar and telling him how you feel works wonders.”

  “‘You will never do anything in this world without courage,’” Brontë chimed in. “Aristotle.”

  “I knew she had one of those in her,” Gretchen said.

  “She always does,” Audrey said fondly.

  This was as bad as asking Edna and Agnes for advice. “Thanks, ladies,” Marjorie said politely. “You’ve given me a lot to think on.”

  Maylee beamed at her from the far end of the table. “When in doubt, blow jobs.”

  A chorus of snickers and giggles arose from the table, and Marjorie felt like the only one not in on the joke. She wasn’t going to just grab Rob and give him a blow job . . .

  Was she? That seemed awfully like fourth base. Maybe three point five. She just wanted to see what two was like.

  Maybe three.

  Okay, she probably wanted to see three first.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Things wer
e going pretty fucking good with Marjorie, Rob thought as he gazed at her from across the dinner table. She was animated as she told him another tale about another dress fitting and how she’d gotten her dress and it was almost half a foot too short. The bride had panicked and burst into tears, another bridesmaid had yelled at the seamstress, and someone else had gained weight and burst through her dress. Marjorie’s expression was a mixture of amusement and sympathy for the stressed bride, but he had to admit that he wasn’t listening to the story half as much as he was watching her movements. The way that she brushed her hair off her shoulders when she got animated. The way her eyes lit up when she talked about her friends. The graceful curve of her neck. Hell, he was even fascinated with the way her throat moved when she swallowed her drink.

  He’d never been this bad over a woman before. Never.

  What was fucking ironic was that he was okay with her being a virgin. He knew it going in, and he’d figured that he’d wine and dine her, seduce her into giving up her V-card, and then forget all about her. But the more time he spent with Marjorie . . . the more it didn’t matter. Having her comfortable with him, seeing her laugh and her animated smiles was worth so much more than pushing her to have sex just so he could get his rocks off.

  Not that his rocks didn’t want to get off. They did. It was just that . . . Marjorie was more important. He could wait a month or two, or three. However long it took for her to be ready.

  Marjorie was his. He knew her time here at the resort was growing limited, and he was working on a plan to see her again after the resort.

  He just had to figure out a way to bring up who he was and what he did for a living.

  It still amazed Rob that they’d known each other for a week and she hadn’t once googled him to find information out about him. She . . . trusted him. And that was both humbling and terrifying.

  And it made him even more determined not to fuck things up by being his usual self.

  “Rob? Are you listening?” Her brilliant smile faltered slightly.

  “I am,” he lied, and then took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “I was just a bit distracted watching you.”

  Her cheeks pinked in that adorable way. “Watching me?”

  “It’s my favorite pastime. I fucking love watching you.”

  She rolled her eyes at him, but she smiled.

  “So . . . when is the wedding?” he asked. “Has to be soon, right?” After all, his crew had already filmed two episodes’ worth of footage for Tits or GTFO in this week, and it hadn’t flushed Logan Hawkings out of hiding just yet. Rob was running out of opportunities.

  Strange how thinking of his original motive for coming to Seaturtle Cay made him feel guilty. Marjorie would hate him if she knew the truth. He shouldn’t have hidden who he was, but he felt cornered; he didn’t have a choice. If she knew the truth, she’d loathe him. So he kept his mouth shut and pretended to simply be a run-of-the-mill business guy on a business trip.

  And Marjorie was so trusting that she believed every word of it.

  “The wedding?” Her expression dimmed a little. “It’s in three days.”

  He rubbed his thumb over her hand, enjoying the simple act of touching her. “You don’t seem thrilled.”

  “It’s not that. I’m ready to go to New York and start my new life. And I’m excited for Brontë and Logan.” Her smile returned, but it didn’t have the spark he was used to. “I just, well. I’m not ready for this week to be over yet.”

  “I know the feeling.” Christ. Her upcoming job in New York was going to be another kink in his plans. Bad enough that he lived in California and only flew in to New York for business. How could he date Marjorie when she spent every minute with Brontë, as her assistant? She was sure to get her ears filled with tales of how awful he was.

  Briefly, he contemplated somehow sabotaging the job offer that Brontë had extended . . . but then discarded the thought. Even he wasn’t that big of a dick. It’d be selfish to ruin Marjorie’s life just because he wanted her all to himself for a bit longer.

  A mischievous look crossed her face and she got up from her chair. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see,” she told him, and tugged at his hand.

  He tossed money down on the table to cover the bill and allowed her to lead him out of the dark, atmospheric restaurant, intrigued by this turn of events.

  But a few minutes later, he protested when Marjorie took off her high heels and began to pad through the sand toward the beach. “Oh, come on. You know I fucking hate the water.”

  She only looked over her shoulder at him, her expression playful, and kept strolling toward the beach, her hips swaying with her movements.

  And he found himself following her after all. “Are we going to walk on the beach? Because I’m fine with that as long as we don’t go any deeper.”

  Marjorie simply laughed, and when she got to the edge of the water, she stripped off her dress. He experienced a moment of shock, then realized she was wearing a bikini.

  And . . . damn. When had his modest Marjorie bought a bikini? He stared at the tiny string tied at the center of her back, at the small stripey panties that barely covered her luscious ass.

  “Do you want to swim with me?” she asked, easing into the water. Her long legs were gorgeous in the moonlight.

  He was glad the beach was empty, because his pants were growing uncomfortably tight across the groin. “If I say no, are you going to get dressed?”

  She looked back at him, smiling, and ran her fingers over the surface of the water. “You want to come in here with me. You know you do.”

  “This part of me does,” he agreed, pointing at his dick. “This part of me isn’t so sure.” He pointed at his brain.

  Her laughter floated up between the crash of the waves. “It’s still warm. You’ll love it, I promise.”

  “The last time I went out higher than my ankles, I nearly became worm food,” Rob called out, but he found himself taking off his shoes and socks anyway. Like a dumbass.

  “I’ll hold on to you,” she offered enticingly, and then walked further out into the water, until it was up to her breasts. And then she beckoned him. “Come join me.”

  Rob sighed. His hands went to his hips and he studied the beach. It was near midnight, the tide high. The moon was shining down on the dark waters of the ocean, and the waves rolled in rhythmically. The beach, normally crowded in the daytime, was completely empty this late at night. It would just be him and Marjorie.

  He stalled a moment more. “I’m not wearing a swimsuit.”

  “Are you boxers or briefs?” She called out to him, splashing water in his direction.

  “Will it bother you if I say neither? I go commando. Always have.”

  Her shocked giggle floated through the night air, making his dick even harder. “Really?”

  “Really. You still want to swim?”

  “I do,” she called out. “I promise not to look.” And she turned her back to him.

  Well, dammit, he kind of wanted her to look. Virgin, he reminded himself. With a sigh, he glanced around and then shucked his pants into the sand. This was going to be a huge fucking mistake, he just knew it. But he was drawn toward the frolicking, bikini-clad Marjorie like a moth to flame.

  The water was fucking cold and he yelped as it hit his bare nuts. “Jesus, you’re a fucking liar,” he called out. “This is like ice!”

  She only giggled, her hands moving through the water as she continued to stare out into the ocean, obediently not looking as he eased into the water. He wished she’d look, though. He wanted her to gaze at him with wondering eyes, to check out his package like she had that morning in the hotel room.

  Then again, considering that he was probably shriveling thanks to the cold, it was likely for the best that she didn’t check out his stuff. Yet.

  “You’re a horrible, horrible little tease,” he growled under his breath, wading out to her. The water grew dee
per, now at his waist, and when the tide rolled back, it sucked and pulled at his legs, and panic stirred in him again. “Come back,” he told her. “Don’t go out so fucking far.”

  “This isn’t far,” she said lightly, dancing a few feet away. “I’m barely at chest height.”

  “Yes, but I’m shorter than you,” he said. “I might drown if I go out that far.”

  She turned around and splashed him, scowling.

  He put up his hands to block the icy water, chuckling. “That got your attention.”

  “Cruel man,” she said in a tone of voice that implied he was anything but. Hell, just that teasing note in her voice made his dick get all hard again, icy water or not.

  “You’re the cruel one—trying to drown me in the water here.” He skated a hand over the surface. “Do sharks swim at night? Do we need to worry about that shit? What about riptides?”

  “It’s fine,” she soothed. “Don’t worry. I’m right here with you.”

  “I fucking hate the water,” he grumbled. “Fucking hate it. Can’t believe you’re making me come out here.”

  “This isn’t so bad, is it?” She moved toward him a few feet, close enough that he could see the amusement shining in her eyes, and the water lapping just below her breasts in that tiny string bikini. His gaze kept traveling downward, and he kept forcing it up again to be polite.

  At this rate, he was going to need a medal for sainthood.

  Something brushed against his foot, and he yelped and moved toward Marjorie in the water. “What the fuck was that?”

  She giggled again. “That was my foot.”

  “Christ, don’t do that again.” His heart was hammering in his chest.

  “You really are scared, aren’t you?”

  “I think I have PTSD from almost drowning last week. It doesn’t bother me too much until I’m out farther than ankle deep. Fuck, I don’t even like baths anymore. Just showers.”

  “Poor baby,” she soothed in that teasing voice, and her arms moved to his neck and wrapped around him. “I’m right here. You can lean on me if you need to.”

  “That so?” His hands went to her waist, caressing her skin just above the bikini bottom. He didn’t know what had brought out this playful side of Marjorie, but he was liking it. He drew her closer, and his mouth moved toward hers. “If you feel something jab you in the stomach, that’s not the Loch Ness Monster. Just my dick.”