Kitty Valentine dates a Billionaire

by Dodd, Jillian

  “Kitty Valentine, you need to grow up,” I sigh, taking the curry off the burner and pouring it over the rice I heated up in the microwave. It’s still tasty, and my stomach’s glad to have something in it. I might think better with food in my belly.

  Do I need to grow up? I guess so. No matter how I look at it, facts are facts. I’ve been sheltered, in a bubble. There’s a reason Hayley encouraged me to date around. I have no experiences—not just sexual ones, but life experiences too. Like how to deal with embarrassing moments without making them worse.

  It could be that I’m in the right business but the wrong genre. I could write a how-to manual on how to deal with humiliation. Lord knows, I have enough personal experience to draw from.

  Except I’d still have to learn how to deal with these situations without shriveling up and wishing I could die on the spot, so …

  Back to writing sex. Imagining Blake in the position of the boss is helpful indeed. I can see him on the jet, can imagine him lowering himself to his knees in front of me. Taking my hips and jerking them until I’m at the edge of the chair, sliding my panties down, down, down …

  Giggling in the hallway breaks my train of thought, and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming. It’s like the entire world is conspiring to keep me from writing this scene.

  Matt’s door opens and closes.

  Wonderful. He’s getting lucky tonight.

  “Blake. Think about Blake.”

  I do that, turning my focus back to the jet cabin and Blake, on his knees, working my dress up to my hips and spreading my legs wide. My mouth goes dry as sand.

  He inhaled her, eyes closing like he smelled the sweetest perfume. “Beautiful,” he groaned before pressing his lips to her inner thigh. “So beautiful. So sweet. I need to taste you. I wanna lick you until you flood my mouth. Until you scream my name.”

  Phoebe shuddered in pleasure, the heady pleasure of knowing she was wanted. Watching this powerful man, this titan, on his knees and just about salivating at the scent of her …

  “Do I have to use this word?” I whisper, frowning. I guess I do. Maggie wants filth. “P-U-S-S-Y,” I mutter with each letter.

  What would I do? How would I feel? Jeez, I could be taking this from a real-life memory if I hadn’t been such an idiot before. I might not have to imagine what it would be like for Blake to go down on me if I hadn’t ruined everything.

  “Ooh … yeah …”

  I look from the screen to the wall in front of me. Did I imagine that? Is my fantasy that strong?

  Nope. No such luck. It’s the lucky girl of the night, moaning like she’s in the throes of bliss.

  “Perfect timing,” I mutter.

  Phoebe closed her eyes, letting herself go. Letting him slide his tongue up and down the length of her cleft.

  Is that the right word? Well, if Maggie doesn’t like it, she can change it.

  Letting him dip deeper, urging him to, she lifted her hips to meet his hungry tongue. “Please,” she whimpered, forgetting to be shy or hesitant. How could she be hesitant when he was driving her crazy?

  “Please what?” he growled before taking another lick and then another.

  “Please … more. Harder. Make me come, boss.”

  “Oh, Matt! Baby, yes!”

  “Give me a break,” I mutter, rolling my eyes and pushing back from the desk in frustration.

  At least she knows his name, but she sounds like she’s practicing for a porn video. A really bad one where you know the girl is faking.

  I’ve done a little research since that unfortunate incident with the volume control. I know what I’m talking about.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh!” It’s in time with what I guess is his thrusting or her thrusting onto him.

  What is this man packing that he inspires that sort of squealing? Oh, right. I’ve pretty much seen it—at least, when it was tenting the front of his boxers and making me blush from head to toe.

  I guess I’d sound like that too, if I were her. Though I’d at least put my face in a pillow or something. I’m not a complete barbarian.

  Knowing him, he’d tell me not to. He’d take the pillow away because he’d want everybody to hear what he was doing to me.

  I narrow my eyes and stare at the wall between our rooms. How much would it cost to invest in a little soundproofing? I might even be able to write it off as a business expense since there’s no way I can concentrate when somebody’s getting plowed next door.

  A deeper voice joins hers. “Ugh! Yeah!”

  Oh my Lord, he’s grunting now. I wish my imagination weren’t as good as it is. As strong as it is and as vivid. Because now, I’m imagining him slamming into this faceless girl for all he’s worth, and it’s killing me.

  Which is what leads me to type a few words into my browser’s search, and before long, rousing marching band music comes blaring from my laptop.

  “See if this helps you maintain the mood.” I grin, cranking up the volume until my ears are ringing.

  No way he can’t hear this. No way she can’t. I don’t care if she’s on the verge of an earth-shattering orgasm.

  I’d bet good money she’s not anymore. Not with John Philip Sousa providing background music. I might have to put a playlist together.

  After the third repeat of “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” I let the music wind down. Nothing but silence reaches me after that.

  Except for something that sounds like a fist hitting the wall. Just once, just hard enough for me to hear it.

  But enough to let me know the message was received.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “You got tickets? Are you serious?” I’m holding a pair of tickets in my hand, sitting next to Blake in the backseat of his sleek car. A pair of tickets that most people can’t get their hands on unless they’re willing to give up a kidney. At least.

  “Sure.” He chuckles, kissing my cheek. “No problem. I thought you might be interested in seeing it.”

  “The entire world wants to see it.” I turn to him, beaming. “I just can’t wrap my head around this, is all. I didn’t even think you wanted to see me again.”

  “Do me a favor and stop thinking that, right this very minute,” he murmurs, closing one hand over my knee and stroking gently. “I’ve thought about you a lot. That’s saying something, considering that I was on the road all week.”

  I settle back against the arm he’s extended across the top of the seat, and he closes it around me. This is nice. So nice. I’ve been thinking about him, too, after all.

  What would he think if he knew exactly what sort of thoughts he’s inspired in my surprisingly dirty mind lately?

  “Where were you?” I ask, breathing in the spicy scent of his cologne.

  “Miami. LA. Up to Boston from there. And now, here I am.”

  “You must be exhausted.”

  “What, afraid I’ll fall asleep on you again?” he asks with a playful smile before planting one sweet, lingering kiss on my upturned mouth.

  No, that is certainly not what I’m afraid of. That’s not what had me spending the day avoiding anything carbonated once I knew he wanted to go out tonight. Considering all the trouble I went to, getting myself ready—all those extra, above-and-beyond things a girl does for a special date—I don’t want to do anything to spoil it.

  “After this,” he murmurs in my ear, tickling me with his breath, “I thought we could grab a late supper. My place maybe? If that doesn’t suit you, I’m sure we can get in just about anywhere.”

  “Just by using your name?” I tease, and I get a kiss on the nose for it. “Your place sounds fine. I like the idea of having you all to myself.”

  He smiles, and his hand moves up my leg. “Funny. I was thinking along the same lines.”

  “Were you?” My gaze lands on the privacy glass separating us from the driver as my pulse picks up speed.

  “Hmm.” He kisses my cheek, my throat. “What are you thinking about, huh?”

  I gasp when his hand reache
s my upper thigh, fingers just barely skimming my skin. Amazing, how such a simple touch can set a person on fire. Here I am, dressed to the nines, having spent a solid hour on my hair and makeup, yet I’m already writhing against him.

  “This is all I wanted when I was with you at my place,” he whispers in my ear, his voice sultry. “To hear your reaction to being touched. To see you. To taste your skin. To make you feel good.”

  He’s succeeding.

  “Can I touch you?” he asks. “Can I make you feel good?”

  “Oh, please do,” I beg in the faintest whisper. I grip the seat when his fingers find my panties and then slide underneath to where it’s so hot and slippery and aching. “Bl-Blake!” I gasp against his throat, drowning in his scent and his warmth and wave after wave of excruciating pleasure as he works my most private places until I’m on fire.

  “That’s right,” he whispers. “Let go for me. Just for me.”

  That does it. I stiffen against him with a single soft cry that I sincerely hope the driver didn’t hear before melting against Blake’s firm chest and shoulder.

  “Oh gosh,” I breathe, chest heaving.

  “So sweet,” he whispers, kissing my temple and my forehead over and over. “So sweet.”

  “I can’t believe that just happened,” I confess with a choked giggle.

  “It definitely did. You deserve to feel that way all the time.”

  He watches as I straighten myself out, smoothing down my dress and my hair. I can hardly look at him, caught between embarrassment and giddy excitement and—let’s face it—an afterglow.

  We’re at the theater a few minutes later, and I wonder if everybody around us knows something just happened in the car. How can they not know? I mean, it was one of the best orgasms of my life; it’s got to be written on my face. But aside from a handful of people looking at Blake like they recognize him and a few handshakes and brief pleasantries with people I’ve never seen before, we don’t make a big impression.

  We have box seats, practically up against the stage.

  “I can’t believe this,” I whisper for probably the tenth time as we sit. “I mean, this is extraordinary. Do you know how extraordinary this is?”

  “I do.” He grins before kissing me. “Certain things aren’t lost on me, even now.” He takes my hand just as the lights go down, and the murmuring throughout the jam-packed theater quiets.

  What would it be like to live like this always? I can’t help but imagine it as the show starts up and Blake’s hand is still in mine. Box seats, the two of us holding hands after a little fun in the backseat of the car. I still feel giddy and like I could start giggling at any second.

  I mean, is this my life? What did I do to get so lucky?

  The first act is winding down by the time I lean over to whisper that very question into Blake’s ear—only a certain buzzing from his jacket pocket interrupts me. He mutters a curse, which the rousing music drowns out.

  I’ve gotta take this, he mouths, standing and slipping out of our box before the curtain falls.

  Well, now’s as good a time as any, I guess. Intermission is supposed to be fifteen minutes long. I’m too busy rushing to the ladies’ room to worry much about it anyway.

  Only once I’m finished and back in my seat, Blake’s still nowhere to be found. I didn’t see him in the lobby or the hall or by the bar where so many people were crowded between acts. My heart starts racing as disappointment spreads through me. I’d hate to see him miss any of the next act.

  Or the first song. Or the second song.

  Eventually, I have to give up hope of him coming back at all. I don’t think he left me stranded here—heck, even if he did, I could find my way home. I’m a big girl. But I doubt he would’ve left without saying anything.

  Though honestly, who knows? I would never have imagined him skipping out on the second half of the hottest Broadway musical of the last decade either, but here we are.

  He’s waiting by the car, pacing with his hands in his pockets. “I’m so sorry,” he says once I reach him. “There was nothing I could do. Did you like the show?”

  “Sure.” I shrug. “It was fantastic. I wish you could’ve seen it.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” Blake helps me into the car and follows behind after telling the driver to go to his penthouse. He’s short, curt. Angry about something.

  Is it more than missing half the show?

  “Is everything okay?” I whisper, closing a hand over his. I want him to know I’m with him. “You don’t have to keep everything to yourself. If you need to talk, I’d love to listen.”

  I try not to take it personally when he snickers. “It’s complicated. Business.”

  “Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  Probably not the nicest thing I could’ve said, but I don’t feel nice anymore. I feel ignored and lonely. “It means, you’re always busy with business. And it puts you in a bad mood more often than not.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Almost every time we’ve been together, something has happened. A phone call, a last-minute meeting, you falling asleep because you’re so tired from all this travel you’re always doing. Don’t get me wrong,” I add when his mouth falls open. “I understand. But I don’t have to be thrilled about it. I sat through the entire second half of the show by myself.”

  “You’re not the one who had to miss half of it.”

  “No, but the whole time, I was thinking about how sad it was for you that you had to. You spent all the money on the seats—”

  “The money,” he scoffs, waving a hand.

  “Yeah, I know. It means nothing to you. All these grand gestures that mean so much to me don’t mean anything to you. You didn’t get to see the second half of the show? No big deal. You’ll get tickets for another performance. It doesn’t matter that regular people can’t get their hands on any. You can call somebody, and—poof—whatever you want is provided.”

  “What’s so wrong with that?”

  “What’s wrong with it is … well, you won’t get the chance to take me again. To sit with me and watch with me and hold my hand, the way you did at first. We were experiencing it together. That was better than box seats to any show imaginable. Being with you. Seeing it together. That mattered. Until it didn’t.”

  Until I didn’t. I won’t say it. I can’t say it. I’d never forgive myself for putting it all out there like that. For sounding needy and grasping and desperate.

  Even if I feel more than a little needy right now.

  “I hate to tell you this, but there’s a price for the sort of lifestyle you just described, and it goes beyond the monetary,” he mutters, looking out the window on his side of the car. “I told you that before. People think just because you’re supposedly set for life, there’s nothing else that needs to happen. You can sit right back and coast. That isn’t the case.”

  Right. Now, I remember what he told me before, about dating girls who don’t understand ambition and work ethic and whatever.

  “Is this what you meant? That you don’t like having somebody in your life who holds you accountable? Because I know what it means to work hard. I spend entire days in front of my computer. But I know there has to be balance too. Maybe it’s time to take a step back and see what can be handled by other people.”

  “Oh. Is that what you think?” He turns back toward me, and I wish he hadn’t since the hard look in his eyes makes me anything but comfortable. “I’m so glad to hear you have all the answers. Maybe you’re the one who should be in my place.”

  “Okay, okay,” I sigh.

  “No, really. I mean, I’ve only managed to amass a billion-dollar fortune on my own. At a young age. When everybody I met thought I was out of my mind for dreaming as big as I did. I’ve managed to grow my holdings every year. Every single one. But please, tell me what you know about business since your career as a romance writer has given you so much insight.”

>   It’s like pouring alcohol onto a paper cut. His words burn. His words and the tone behind them. The nastiness. Like the Blake I’m unfortunately falling for is one side of the coin, and this guy—hard, cold, sharp—is the other.

  “I want to go home,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around myself and turning away from him. “Now, please.”

  His sigh is heavy. Is it regretful? It should be, in my humble opinion, but that’s just me.

  “Don’t do that. I’m—”

  “You’re a jerk,” I whisper. It comes out thick, choked with tears, but I mean it. “And I want to go home. If you think this is gonna end well tonight, like I’ll forget how nasty you just were and fall into bed with you, you’re wrong.”

  He sighs again but taps against the privacy glass before touching a button to move it aside and give the driver new instructions.

  We don’t exchange another word the entire length of the ride, and he doesn’t walk me to my door. I don’t want him to. It wouldn’t matter if I never saw him again.

  This attitude lasts until morning, when the scent of roses reaches me the moment I step into the living room. There aren’t any flowers in the apartment, not anywhere. Am I having a stroke? No, roses aren’t one of the things people smell when that happens—at least, so I’ve been told.

  Why am I tiptoeing to the door? I have no idea. Something weird is going on, and people tiptoe when weird stuff happens.

  “You’re kidding,” I whisper once I open the door a crack and peer out into the hall.

  It looks like someone replaced the plain wood floor with flowers. Lush, fragrant red roses, to be specific.

  The hallway is full of them, bouquets and bouquets of the same enormous roses Blake gave me on our first date. They blanket the floor from wall to wall. There’s no card, no message, but I don’t need one.