Charmed by the Billionaire

by Jessica Lemmon

  “You are one of the most sincere, genuine people I know,” she says. I start to sweat, worried she can tell I’ve been sitting here trying not to be either of those. “Why all the dating? I don’t get it. I was certain you were going to keep jumping from one relationship to the next like a rock skipping across a lake, until you met Trish. Then I worried—I mean, wondered—if you two would last.”

  The mention of my ex-girlfriend startles me so much I’m unable to hide my shock. Thanks, sex. “Why did you think that?”

  “That was a long relationship. Longer than any other relationships you’ve been in. I mean probably.” She picks at a loose string on the blanket. “I wasn’t like, tracking it or anything.”

  “What does length have to do with it?”

  “I didn’t have much experience before, but after tonight I’d say length matters quite a bit.” Her eyebrows lift into a saucy wiggle. Then the beautiful smartass lying across from me lifts up the sheet to inspect my naked body. That earns her a kiss. I can’t help myself. I’ve always enjoyed my ego being stroked, in addition to other parts.

  She drops the sheet. “Most people measure successful relationships by how long they last. You dated her several months. Didn’t you think it was going to turn into more at one point?”

  I’m already shaking my head. “No. Trish and I got along, but neither of us were anxious to take it further.”

  Absently, Cris picks at the string again. Or maybe not absently. I have a feeling she isn’t meeting my eyes on purpose. “Why did she end it?”

  “She didn’t. I did.”

  She frowns, head cocked. “Really?”

  “Sometimes things don’t work out. All the time, in my case.” I press my lips closed, willing myself to shut the fuck up.

  “How is her mom?”

  Sweet Cris. Always thinking of everyone else.

  “Is this really what you want to talk about tonight?” I sure as hell don’t.

  “Not Trish, no. I’m curious about you.”

  Danger! Danger!

  “Well, I’d rather talk about sex.” Sex, I can hide behind. Sex, I’m confident I can deliver to a round of applause. Sex…masks the unpleasant feelings fermenting in my gut. I shake off that disconcerting thought and shoot her a smarmy smile. “Do you have any sex questions I can clear up for you?” I deliver a smacking kiss to the center of her lips. She turns her eyes to the ceiling in thought.

  I’ve successfully distracted her. Thank Christ.

  “I have one,” she announces. “Now that I’ve experienced sex for the first time—”

  “You’re welcome.” That earns me a poke in the stomach.

  “I admit it’s mind-blowing. But…” A slightly embarrassed smile crosses her lips.

  “But what?”

  “Does it…” She wrinkles her cute nose. “Lose its excitement later?”

  A disbelieving “ha!” leaves my lips because the first thought that lights my brain like the bulbs on a marquee is of course it never loses its excitement! Except I can’t say that. It’s not true.

  The first time I had sex I was understandably nervous. I knew the basic mechanics but wasn’t ready for everything that came with it. The awkward closeness. The strange silence as we pulled our clothes on afterwards. The next time, or maybe it was the next, next time, I tried to avoid the awkward and the silence. Then sex became nothing short of awesome, which made me happy. Happiness doesn’t come easy to a kid with two dead parents and zero family members in this country. Granted, sex is a different sort of happy, but it sufficed. It was a duct-tape solution to a problem requiring complex machinery, but I accepted it at face value.

  I lick my lips, debating how to answer. I sure as hell can’t say any of that.

  “I imagine starting over with a new person each and every time would be strange,” she presses, not leaving room for a graceful exit out of this conversation. Her eye contact is unwavering. The walls surrounding me are more like mosquito netting. I have the uncomfortable feeling she can see straight through them to the ugly bits I’ve been trying to keep hidden. “Granted, your body is perfect, so maybe it’s not strange for you. I’ve been worried about how imperfect I might look to you. How much shorter and rounder I am than some of the women you’ve dated before.”

  “What?” I shake myself out of my terror to address the very wrong impression she has of herself.

  “I’m a woman. I have body issues.”

  “Your body is perfect. Lush hips, beautiful breasts. Flexibility is important,” I joke, and she cracks a smile. Success.

  Click.

  “Well, no matter how ‘perfect’ you think I am, the idea of being naked in front of a veritable god”—she gestures to my body, and a choking laugh erupts from my throat—“has been overwhelming. And the idea of doing this every couple of months with someone new is a frightening prospect.”

  She’s right. Picturing her naked with a different guy every few months is pretty fucking frightening. I don’t want to picture her naked with anybody but me.

  “Women do not corner the market on body issues,” I say instead. “But you have a point. Intimacy comes with familiarity.”

  “And so when it starts to become intimate, you leave?”

  My head jerks back, but her shocking comment hits lower than that. Somewhere in the vicinity of my gut, like I was sucker-punched in the diaphragm and I’m struggling to catch my breath.

  I’ve never thought about it in such precise terms before. It’s not a pretty picture, is it? Do I bail out of relationships when they become intimate? Do I make my escape before we get to the good stuff?

  I’m nowhere near ready to admit that, even in question form. Instead I go with, “I’ve always seen sex for what it is. A physical release between two people. It’s up there with the basic needs in life. Shelter, food, water, sex.”

  “Sex is needed to populate the planet. If you’re not populating the planet, why do you need it?” she challenges.

  I lean in and murmur, “Why did you need it?”

  She blushes. “To be honest, I didn’t know I did. You make a compelling point. I’m not sure if I can live without it now.”

  I’m halfway to punching the sky in triumph. What stops me is the realization that the intimacy she spoke of, the intimacy I may or may not be trying to avoid, is filling every corner of this room.

  I’ve never had a conversation like this. With anyone. Long relationship or short, the topic of intimacy never came up. I’m not sure if that speaks to the shallow relationships I’ve had, the women I’ve been with, or my own warped ideas about how relationships work. I’m torn between being relieved and pissed off. Nobody bothered to do a deep dive on Benjamin Owen before tonight. What gives?

  I roll to my back and study the ceiling. I’m not sure how much of what I’m thinking I should reveal, if any of it. Since she keeps revealing things without my permission, I guess it doesn’t matter at this point. Cris is a safe space. She is my life coach. She’s my assistant at work. She’s my best friend. Just because I’ve never shared the ins and outs of my relationships with her doesn’t mean I can’t.

  So why didn’t we talk about them? Why didn’t she ask me about Trish when clearly, she must have wondered? Why was she so careful to stay out of the way? I could blame professionalism, but her work attire of tattered jeans and Chuck Taylors are proof professionalism isn’t top of mind for her. Still studying the ceiling, I ask, “Why the sudden interest in my relationships?”

  When no answer comes, I roll to my side and prop my head on my hand again.

  Her mouth frowns as she shrugs. “I was curious.”

  Curious because we slept together? Curious because I took her virginity? These are the kinds of questions I don’t typically have to contend with since the women I sleep with are experienced. Cris is the very definition of inexperienced.

  “There’s no reason for you to be twitchy,” she states, confirming she can read my mind. If I was twitchy before her observation, now I�
�m twitchier. “Normally we talk about whatever interests us.”

  “Yeah, normally we do. You’ve never asked about Trish or why we broke up before.”

  “You never offered to tell me,” she snaps. “I may have phoned in a few reservations for dinners, but you kept me in the dark about the women you were dating.”

  I open my mouth to tell her she’s wrong, but she’s not wrong. That’s the thing about Cris. She’s always fucking right.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start an argument.” She tears the sheet off my body and hers and climbs on top of me. I’m covered in petite blonde, her feisty smile and perceptive gray eyes going a long way to helping me forget this conversation.

  Her breasts are between us, the perfect handfuls. I focus on them rather than the jittery feeling that I’m overlooking something really obvious. So. Breasts. I love the way they taste on my tongue, and she loves the way I love the way they taste. On that, we agree. Wholeheartedly. We should focus on what we agree on tonight.

  “Let’s not spend the rest of tonight arguing,” she says, again echoing my thoughts. “I’m sure you can think of a dozen things we can do instead.”

  “Honey, I’m game for whatever you want to do.” As much as it pains me to say it, there is a “but” coming. “But this is your first time or technically, your third time tonight. I don’t want you to be sore tomorrow. We can take it slow. I can do a lot of completely satisfying things with my mouth without the sex.”

  She looks almost hurt. “Is that what you want?”

  “No! No. Not even a little. But it’s not like this expires when we check out of the hotel. We can have sex at home.”

  “Really?”

  That’s the second time she asked, and I admit I’m almost as surprised as she is that I offered. I wasn’t planning on dumping her on her ass after this trip, but I was expecting her to want to wrap things up. I thought after she’d taken what she needed from me, she’d be ready to go back to the way we were. I hadn’t thought that far ahead until now, but damn, why would we stop?

  Answers line up to shout at me. Answers like “the intimacy,” “the questions,” and “because she’s your best friend.” I ignore them. They don’t know what I know. They don’t know Cris the way I know her. She’s cool. As evidenced by her suggestion to stop arguing and have sex instead. How many women have said that to a guy in the history of the world?

  Exactly.

  Zero.

  She doesn’t want to march the debate to its inevitable end, but that isn’t the only reason I’m continuing our affair after we leave Florida. I cup her breast and lean in for a kiss. “I won’t stop you if you would like to use me for my body some more tonight.”

  She smiles so big I accidentally kiss her teeth. That moment is as memorable as the rest of them. Cute. Sweet. Sexy. Erotic. I’m not sure I’ve used those four words to describe one woman, but here we are.

  What was I saying earlier? Oh right, the reason I’m continuing our affair after we leave. The main reason—I deepen the kiss as I roll her onto her back—is I’m having way too much fun with her to stop.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Cris

  I’m sitting across from Benji at the Thai restaurant, Muse Elephant. It’s trendy and delicious, and I’m damned relaxed considering the circumstances. I’ve been sleeping with my best friend/boss for over a week now, and things are going really well.

  Like really, really well.

  He was right about my being sore after that first night. The day we returned to Ohio, muscles I didn’t know I had were aching between my legs. Not that he was rough in any way. I was the one on top when I talked him into having sex before we checked out of the hotel. On a high from the night before, I didn’t hold back. Being in charge of his pleasure was both exciting and enthralling.

  I couldn’t imagine doing any of it with anybody else. Or maybe I don’t want to. There’s a comfort level with him I don’t have with other people. I’ve seen him day in and day out consistently for the last year and a half or more. I can tell him if he has basil stuck in his teeth without either of us being embarrassed. Sex with him is so…easy. I have a feeling if I were with someone else I’d worry myself silly over my partner’s every microexpression.

  We are doing remarkably well. I don’t have much experience, but I’ve offered a sympathetic ear to my girlfriends. I’ve heard about their dating lives, and let me tell you, it’s a lot of agonizing over “should I do this” or “is he doing that.”

  I haven’t grilled Benji about his dating history since my rogue bout of curiosity at the hotel, but the women he’s dated have crossed my mind. I’ve known him for ten years, albeit most of those years from afar, but he didn’t date any of them long enough to know them as well as he and I know each other.

  I sip my wine as he continues talking about work, silently wondering if his arms ever grow tired from holding up his guard.

  His smile is hiding something. I assumed it masked stress at work. But what if it’s covering something thornier? Does he have a problem with intimacy?

  There is a compatibility factor already in place thanks to our friendship. He certainly didn’t have friendship with Trish. I’m aware there was physical attraction between him and the women he dated, but it’s clear we have that component as well. Benji and I are off-the-charts physically attracted to each other. Not only have we crossed a couple of firsts off my list, but I’m teaching him a few things as well.

  Like: Women don’t always like butt grabs as they’re walking away. And we like to be told we’re smart as well as hot. Oh, and having a ceiling fan on while he’s going down on me makes me cold. In turn he’s taught me if I bury him under the covers while he’s pleasing me he’s in danger of suffocating.

  We’re both learning.

  “Leave it to Josie,” he says, wrapping up his story. I was listening, partially. In my defense, I already knew what happened. I know everything going on in the office. I overheard his conversation with Josie this afternoon. “I figure you can iron it out on Monday. She likes you.”

  “Absolutely.” I reach for my cell phone and open my calendar.

  “No phones at dinner,” he says.

  “Now you’re turning into your mom?”

  “It’s Dad’s rule, but he made it for her.”

  “Will is a good husband.”

  Benji nods, his smile as warm as a mug of tea. “He is.”

  “How else am I supposed to remember I need to do something for you on Monday if I don’t put it on my calendar?”

  “One of the perils of mixing business and pleasure.”

  I press my lips together to keep from smiling at him unabashedly. The mix of business and pleasure between us is less fifty-fifty and more like thirty-seventy. I’m having trouble compartmentalizing like I promised myself I would. The lines between best friend and boss were easier to navigate than the lines between best friend and lover.

  “I didn’t invite you to dinner to talk about work. And here I am talking about work.” He picks up his wineglass and promises, “No more work talk.”

  “Don’t be silly. What else do couples talk about when they’re on a date?” I lift my own wineglass as an awkward silence falls between us. Clarity dawns as I replay what I said. We’re a couple in the most technical sense of the word. But we’re not a couple by the standard definition. There will be no shared holidays. No snuggling on the sofa after a long day. No moment where he gives me his house key or we talk about how to navigate the treacherous waters of dealing with the in-laws.

  I am saved from further dissecting who we are to each other by our server, who glides over to ask if we’d like dessert. She rattles off a long list of options. By the time she mentions “warm vanilla-glazed donuts” I exchange glances with Benji across the table. His eyes sparkle, a knowing smirk parked on his lips. I assume his mind returned to the memory of the donuts we shared the night I surrendered my virginity. If, like me, he’s thinking how any donut, no matter how gourm
et, would fail to stand up to the divine perfection of the donuts we shared that evening.

  “Just the takeout boxes,” I tell our server without breaking eye contact with my date. “We’ll have dessert at home.”

  “Excellent choice,” Benji praises after our server leaves.

  “The takeout boxes?” I widen my eyes and try to look innocent.

  “Pray tell,” he says, holding my hand over the table. “What kind of dessert do we have at home? And are you now calling my house ‘home’?”

  “I… I guess I am. I’ve been at your house more often than mine.” Lately especially. For good reason. My house is cavernous and lonely. There are no noisy brothers to keep me company any longer, and no luxurious bedding with Benji on top of it.

  “Yeah, I guess you have.” His eyes narrow in consideration. “I didn’t notice. I’m so used to you being there. Huh.”

  “I can cut back if you like,” I sort of joke as my hand grows damp in his.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he reprimands gently as he pulls his hand from mine.

  “I’m just surprised I didn’t notice.”

  “Too busy having your mind blown?” I lob the brag at him, hoping he takes my cue. We can banter our way out of being uncomfortable if he’s willing. He doesn’t disappoint.

  “I have created a monster.”

  “It’s not nice to call a lady a monster.”

  “I can’t say what I’m thinking here, Cris,” he murmurs.

  “Those damn decency laws,” I whisper, noting the exact moment when the awkwardness dissipates between us. He leans in, taking my hand again. I’m warm all over, eagerly anticipating some signature Benji dirty talk.

  Unfortunately, at that moment the server returns with our takeout boxes. Even more unfortunately, we are forced to sit back in our seats and wait while our server makes small talk and packs up our food for us.

  When we finally make it out of there with our bagged goodies, we dash hand in hand to Benji’s car parked on the edge of the street.