Kitty Valentine dates a Billionaire

by Dodd, Jillian

  I freeze.

  So does he.

  I wanna die.

  I don’t realize until he starts shaking that he thinks this is funny. He’s shaking with laughter which, bless his heart, he’s trying so hard to hide but can’t manage it.

  “I’m sorry! Don’t take it the wrong way!” he urges, tears rolling down his cheeks as my face burns with shame.

  I tumble off his lap, horrified. “I’m so sorry. That was disgusting.”

  “It was normal.” He chuckles, wiping his eyes. “Oh, Kitty, you’re the whole package. It’s my fault for getting things started while we were halfway through our meal. Don’t be embarrassed,” he insists when I don’t crack a smile. “I’ve heard a lot worse. I’ve seen a lot worse too. You’re a human being who just ate a bunch of sushi and drank some wine. It’s not the end of the world.”

  No, but it’s hardly the sexiest thing I’ve ever done either.

  There goes the whole sex-goddess thing.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “How can you eat that?”

  Matt looks up at me from the metal container he’s currently digging through with his chopsticks. Definitely wooden, definitely the sort that come with the meal and have to be broken apart and rubbed free of splinters. Not a bit of gilded rose gold in sight. “Huh?”

  I point to his food with my own plain chopsticks. “That.”

  “Chow mein?”

  “It looks like something I once vomited.”

  “Oh, charming. That’s definitely the sort of thing you should be talking about when a person’s trying to eat.” That doesn’t stop him from digging back in—probably with more gusto than he actually feels, all in an effort to disgust me. “Let’s not forget that I’ve seen you throw up, and it didn’t look anything like this.”

  “You’re gross.”

  “You started it.”

  He’s right, of course, so all I do is stick my tongue out at him.

  “Thanks for paying the delivery fee anyway.”

  “And now, you have the nerve to sit here and criticize my food choices.” He shakes his head. “Ungrateful.”

  “That’s just a drop in the bucket compared to what you owe me,” I remind him before picking up a piece of sesame tofu.

  “Meanwhile, how can you eat that garbage? It’s like eating a sponge.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “It is.”

  “When’s the last time you ate tofu?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t remember.”

  “When’s the last time you ate a sponge?”

  “This morning.”

  I barely manage to keep a straight face. “You’ve probably never eaten tofu, and you’re just parroting what you heard somebody else say.”

  Is he blushing? It could be a trick of the midday light flooding in through my living room windows. This is the first time Matt’s ever been here. I just straightened up yesterday while avoiding a tricky plot point in Phoebe’s story, so I figured it was safe to have him over. No random underwear or feminine hygiene product wrappers in the bathroom—that sort of thing.

  “Have I ever talked about my best friend, Hayley?” I ask. It’s a question I didn’t plan on asking. I’m just as surprised as he is at the sound of it coming from my mouth.

  He frowns, lowering the white container of rice he was just shoveling in. “I don’t think so. Why?”

  “She had a super-embarrassing thing happen the other night, and I told her it’s probably more common than she thinks it is.” Okay, bald-faced lie. That’s what Hayley told me when I texted her—that it was common for people to let loose with various bodily noises, even when they were making out or in the middle of having sex.

  Am I as sheltered and prudish as everybody’s been accusing me of lately? Because it’s starting to seem that way.

  “Oh?” He goes back to shoveling rice in like it’s his job. “What happened?”

  I can tell he doesn’t really care, and that’s probably not a bad thing. No sense in him paying close attention. This isn’t supposed to be anything deeper than idle conversation.

  “She was making out with some guy, and it was getting pretty hot, you know. But then she burped. Like, loudly.”

  He snorts. “That sucks.”

  “I know. She was so humiliated. She doesn’t know whether the guy will want to see her again or anything.”

  His eyes meet mine for a beat when he glances up from his food. “Hmm.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Is it that big a deal? Burping? I mean, I could burp for you right now, if you want.”

  “I don’t want.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Yeah, I know you are, but why would I want you to?”

  He shrugs. “It’s a normal thing.”

  “For a guy maybe. Not for a girl. We’re not supposed to do things like that.”

  “That’s dumb.”

  “I don’t make the rules. That’s what we’re raised to believe. No burping. No …” I wave my hand around behind me, near my butt. “Only in private.”

  “Is that why I’ve never heard that from anybody I’ve dated? I thought they all had something wrong with them.”

  “Stop it.”

  “I’m serious.” He looks it too. “I didn’t know it was, like, social conditioning.”

  “Are you truly that obtuse?”

  “Now, you’re just being hurtful.” But he’s grinning, so I figure it doesn’t bother him too much. “So, what did your date think when you burped in front of him?”

  “He said it was okay—” My chopsticks clatter to the floor once I stop talking because, dang it, he got me.

  And he loves it.

  “I thought so.” He laughs. “You’re not a good liar. You suck at it, in fact.”

  “Laugh all you want,” I mutter, teeth clenched. “It was a very real embarrassment for me. But please, take pleasure in my humiliation.”

  “I doubt it was that humiliating.”

  “What did I just tell you? It’s unladylike and gross.”

  “If you think a burp is the least ladylike thing there is, you must be a miserable lay.”

  “Hey!” I grab the closest thing to me—a packet of duck sauce—and fling it his way. “That’s rude and wrong. I’m not a miserable lay.”

  “Do you ever make noises?”

  “That’s not the same as moaning somebody’s name, Matt.”

  “Ooh. Say it again. My name. But moan it.”

  “Shut up.”

  He sits back in his chair, crossing one bare ankle over the other knee. He truly doesn’t like wearing shoes. Even in my apartment. I guess it’s okay. I threw up all over his place after all, and I’ve slept naked in his bed.

  “Okay. Serious now. What did your date say or do when you were so unladylike?”

  I don’t know what’s more humiliating—having gone through it or having to tell the story to this smirking, smug jerk. I shouldn’t have said a word. “He laughed until he cried.”

  A twitch of his lips. “At you? Or at the situation?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Did he point at you and laugh and ask why you even bother breathing, being such a pig?”

  “No!”

  “So, he laughed because it was funny and unexpected, and you should’ve laughed with him and gotten past it instead of making it a big deal. I’m guessing that’s what you did.”

  I wish I could tell him he was wrong. I really do. “I was embarrassed.”

  “Everybody does embarrassing things sometimes. I guess when you’re, you know, in a relationship or whatever, stuff’s gonna happen. I wouldn’t know, but I’m guessing.” He pokes around his container, shrugging.

  “You’ve never been in a relationship?”

  “Not really.”

  I lean forward because this is intriguing. “No? You’re sort of a catch. I mean, for a certain type of person who doesn’t mind getting made fun of.”

  He points to himself, his l
ips pursed like he’s surprised. “How am I a catch?”

  “Don’t make me throw anything else at you. You make decent money—at least, I guess you do. You’re not completely heinous to look at.” Massive understatement, but his ego is already inflated enough. “And you have a super-awesome neighbor who lives across the hall.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that would be a huge selling point.” He rolls his eyes, snickering. “I guess I’m not cut out for it. Relationships. Commitment.”

  “No? You don’t want to settle down with somebody? Make a life with them?”

  “Not really.” When I gape at him, he frowns. “What? Is that a crime?”

  “No, not a crime. I just don’t get it.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s my life. It’s how I feel. Just because you believe in happily ever after doesn’t mean the rest of us do or even want to. I’m happy enough by myself. I don’t need anybody else to make my life happy or, you know, complete me.”

  “I never said I did either.”

  “No?” His brows lift, practically hidden under his floppy hair. “You write about that sort of stuff though. Don’t tell me you don’t believe in it.”

  “I do, but I don’t need it.”

  “Right. You mean to tell me, if Mr. Wonderful proposed tomorrow, you wouldn’t jump at the chance?”

  “Blake would never do that, and I don’t want him to. I hardly know him.”

  “I didn’t mean him in particular. Just, you know, the perfect man for you. Hell, I sat here and told you I don’t believe in settling down and building a life with just one woman, and your jaw hit the floor. Come on.”

  “You know what?” I stand, food forgotten. “You can leave my apartment if this is how you’re going to be. I don’t feel like having you criticize me anymore.”

  “I’m criticizing you? You’re the one who acted like there’s something wrong with me.”

  He stands, which I wish he hadn’t done since he’s so much taller than I am. I don’t like looking up at him.

  With my chest stuck out and my hands on my hips, I snap, “You have commitment issues. That’s not exactly healthy.”

  He points a finger at me. “And you’re lost in some dream world where there’s one person for everybody and nobody can make a life for himself or herself without having that one special person next to them. Where nobody wants to be single for the sake of being single. This is the real world, sweetheart, and some people just want to have fun. Not everything has to be so emotional.”

  “Get your finger out of my face and then get out of here,” I growl, teeth clenched. “I don’t appreciate your attitude.”

  “I don’t appreciate yours.”

  “Go.”

  He does but not without slamming the door. I’m sorry he did because I wanted to be the one to slam it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It’s not another two full days before I’m called upon to prove that I’m actually working on a new book, chock-full of sexy goodness. Or badness. Depending on how you look at it.

  “Maggie,” I chirp on answering her call. Do I sound happy to hear from her? Dismayed? Desperate? Suicidal? I can’t tell.

  And it’s not like she cares very much either way. “How’s the new book coming along?”

  It’s unlike her to call me while I’m in the process of writing something, which tells me she doesn’t have a ton of confidence in what I’m doing. That’s okay since I don’t have a ton of confidence either.

  “It’s definitely coming along. I have a strong story, great characters. My heroine, Phoebe, is sort of a smart-mouth, and her boss likes that—”

  “Great, great, but is it filthy? Oral? Anal? Bondage?”

  My skin crawls. “It’s pretty filthy. Lots of sex, lots of fantasizing before the sex happens. Her fantasies are pretty raunchy.”

  “Excellent. When do I get to see some of it?”

  Yep, she’s worried.

  I stare at the blank page in front of me. There are plenty of pages filled with words on my computer, but this one happens to be empty. Because it’s the page on which I have to start the big, important first sex scene between Phoebe and her boss. No more fantasies, no more flirting. They’re on the jet, flying back from the weekend conference after Phoebe helped him pull off a major victory at the last-minute meeting.

  So, they’re celebrating, and soon, they will do so by inserting Tab A into Slot B. Only in a much sexier way. I hope.

  “Uh, I can send you a bunch of chapters tomorrow morning, if that’s okay? I wanna look through them before sending them over.”

  “Sure, that sounds great. I expect to need a fresh pair of panties by the time I’m finished reading.”

  Welp then. That doesn’t nauseate me or anything. “I can only hope so,” I manage to say before I have to end the call. I don’t want to imagine how much worse this conversation could go.

  Terrific. Now, I have to write a truly dirty, filthy, panty-flooding scene. And I have an entire day to do it.

  The light outside my window changes as hours pass, and my fingers move much slower over the keys than I would like. Here’s the thing about writing sex: everybody thinks it’ll be easy until they have to sit down and do it themselves. It takes a strong imagination and the ability to see everything, from every angle, and describe it clearly.

  But it has to be more than a bunch of body parts thrashing around. The best sex involves the feelings and thoughts and sensations the characters are experiencing. Otherwise, it might as well be a description written in a medical text.

  Not sexy.

  “I need to thank you,” he murmured, his breath hot on Phoebe’s already-overheated cheeks. “I wouldn’t have been able to do that without you. You’re a superstar.”

  If his nearness and the champagne hadn’t already made her flush, she would’ve blushed to the roots of her hair. He was so close, closer than they’d ever been. The only time she’d ever been near enough to feel his breath on her face was in her daydreams and fantasies, and those didn’t count.

  “I did my job. It’s what you pay me for.” She shrugged. “Though a bonus wouldn’t be out of the question.”

  “You think I should give you something extra?” A faint smile played over his generous mouth.

  “I do.”

  “What if I don’t have any extra cash to give you?”

  She couldn’t help but snicker softly. “You? No extra cash?”

  “Not on hand. I’m afraid I’d have to come up with some other way to balance our accounts.”

  His gaze dropped to her chest, where she knew her V-cut neckline revealed more than she normally did at the office. Especially when leaning forward, the way she was now.

  Instead of sitting up straight or adjusting the way the dress fell, she stayed just where she was and let him get an eyeful. The tip of his tongue moistening his lips just about undid her along with his deepening breath.

  He wanted her. He wanted her just like she wanted him.

  The touch of his hand on her knee only made her more certain.

  “Sure, sure, that’s right,” I whisper, nodding slowly.

  They’re in the cabin of the jet, which, naturally, looks a heck of a lot like Blake’s jet. My hero looks a lot like Blake Marlin, too, except his hair is jet-black and his eyes are like two chips of ice.

  The similarities are a coincidence, of course. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

  She slid over the buttery-soft leather, inching closer to him. Leaning into his touch. Letting his hand slide higher up her leg, setting her skin on fire with each skillful sweep of his fingers.

  “I’ve been wanting to touch these legs of yours for as long as I can remember,” he whispered, staring deep into her eyes.

  “Really?” Not sexy or seductive. Surprised more like. “Me? You’ve been thinking about me?”

  “Every morning,” he confessed. “Every afternoon. Every night. You bend over a desk or lean in to look, and I smell your perfume and your skin. When I
feel your tits pressing against my shoulder or I see your ass stretching your skirt, it’s all I can do to keep from taking you by the waist and …”

  She shuddered as his fingers slid against the hem of her panties—panties which were getting more soaked by the second. Each word out of his mouth came out at once, in a single breath.

  Hmm. Not bad. I managed to work wet panties into it and everything.

  It’s dark out now. I check the time and recoil when I see it’s past midnight. How did that happen? I never ate dinner. What was lunch? Did I eat that?

  This is the way it always goes when my back’s to the wall, and I have no choice but to grit my teeth and get the work done. I lose track of time while typing, backspacing, typing, backspacing again, staring off into space and questioning my choice of career.

  There’s leftover curry in the fridge and enough greens for a salad to go with it. I’ve been shamefully lax with my eating lately, between gorging myself with Blake and noshing on leftover Chinese from my disastrous lunch with Matt a couple of days ago.

  The thought of him is enough to boil my blood. Obnoxious jerk. Talking to me like there’s something wrong with me, and why? Because I believe in love and commitment? What’s so bad about those things? Maybe if he had a good woman in his life, she’d take him down a peg or two and even out that inflated ego of his.

  Which is probably just as much a reason as any for him to stay single. He wouldn’t want anybody to call him out on his stupidity.

  I have bigger fish to fry. I can’t afford to waste time thinking about him. Life was a lot easier back before we ever spoke a word to each other. Maybe I knew instinctively that he wasn’t worth the time.

  Now, he’s in my head. I can’t help but wonder why Blake hasn’t called or texted all week, and I keep going back to what that idiot across the hall said. That I should’ve rolled with it, laughed it off, and gotten back to business.

  I’m wondering if I lost that chance for good, all because I was ashamed of myself. I wish I could go back. I’d do it all differently. And I might even end up spending the night in Blake’s bed, in Blake’s apartment. In Blake’s arms.