Claiming Her V-Card (Alphalicious Billionaires Book 6)

by Lindsey Hart

  Okay, so it wasn’t her fault.

  He’d been screwing random women for a long time. Since high school, which was likely before Colette was even born. Not quite, but the thought still made him wince. He knew he was what other people called damaged goods when it came to the good old emotional, mental well-being. His family life at home had been shittier than shit. Just like everyone else, he had things he didn’t want to deal with. So he made sure that instead of using his brain, he was using other appendages. It worked out alright for him.

  Until it didn’t.

  The one woman he wanted to go on a date with, finally, after years of waiting and not asking her out, giving her a chance to find someone else, anyone else, giving himself a chance to try and get his shit together, waiting for the right time- the time when she was actually of legal age to drink, so he wouldn’t look so much like a perv- and he’d blown it.

  By being, surprise, surprise, a huge fucking asshole.

  Blaze gave his head a shake. He wished he could shake thoughts of Colette right out of it, but that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. He’d been trying to banish her apparition from his head for a long time. Unsuccessfully.

  He found himself opening up his laptop, which he truly only ever did use for work, since he wasn’t a piece of shit, at least he liked to pretend he wasn’t, and he was above anyone ever finding anything inappropriate on his machine should they ever happen to randomly break into his office and check his browsing history, which, by force of habit, he cleared every single night before he left. It could happen, and he always liked to be prepared. Life taught him that when someone hands you lemons, they’re usually an asshole about to squirt one in your eye. The point being, you can never really trust anyone, since most people have only bad intentions at the heart of them. Human nature and all that. He didn’t believe it was inherently good.

  He had himself as proof.

  After browsing through a couple of sites, trying to get an idea of how to make it up to Colette, he slammed his laptop down and sighed in disgust. He ran a hand through his hair, trying not to think about how she was out there, probably sitting tucked in her cubicle, warding off a thousand questions from her co-workers. She was probably pissed off. Scratch that. She was most definitely pissed off.

  He had all the money in the world and still, he was a useless shit.

  He couldn’t think of one single thing she’d like to do. He had no idea what she liked or didn’t like, other than the obvious, and getting her a new computer so she could do more coding was not going to cut it.

  He couldn’t even think of a single thing that would come close to serving as an apology. Short of flying her to somewhere like Vegas or LA or even New York, for a weekend of incredible shopping, dining, and maybe even a little fabulous sex- or a lot of it- hell he could hope- he came up with nothing.

  So much for being ultra-rich. What good was money when it couldn’t do a damn thing for you?

  Blaze rifled his hands through his hair again, mussing it all over the place. Normally, he liked to be put together. Immaculate. He liked to give his critics zero room for criticism. At the moment, he didn’t care. He didn’t care that his clothing was rumpled from where Colette grabbed onto it. All he saw when he looked down at his creased shirt was her hands, digging in, holding on, her huge, luminous eyes staring up at him. Her pouty lips parting in shock, her hair like a cascade around her shoulders. He’d wanted to bend his head and bruise her lips with a searing kiss. He wouldn’t have even minded if she’d bitten him back.

  That could wait.

  He’d make himself wait.

  He’d waited years. What were a few more days. Torture. That’s what they were. Sheer torture. He was on the verge of desperation and he didn’t do desperate. Ever.

  Thinking about Colette made him think about her sitting out there at her cubicle. How close she was, how easy it would be to go to her, throw her over his shoulder and cart her off to the privacy of some dark room. He’d rip her clothes off and take his time eating her.

  God. He could still taste her from the shortest sample in the back of the limo. He’d thought about nothing else all weekend. Her taste. Her scent. How amazing her virgin cunt would feel wrapped around his dick.

  Yeah. He never said he was a class act. People just thought he was, since he had ridiculous amounts of money. Like dollars in the bank equaled morals. Usually, in his experience at least, it was the opposite. He wasn’t an exception to the rule.

  After a few more minutes of thinking, he flipped open his laptop and did a quick search for unusual date ideas. He was definitely going to clear his browser. Now that everyone thought he was breaking his own code and dating, they wouldn’t be surprised, but Jesus, he had standards. Even putting the word, date, into the search bar nearly killed him.

  He touched on a few shitty ideas- god, he thought he was terrible at coming up with ways to help a woman have a good time, other than riding his dick. It turned out there was a hell of a lot worse out there. Which gave him an idea for an app. A date idea for every single day of the year. It would ping in the morning with the idea, and with two reminders throughout the day. He made a mental note to give the idea to the weakest links on the team. They’d either shit the bed or surprise him. Either way, it didn’t really matter. Dating wasn’t doing humanity any sort of favor. It was just a way to spend obscene amounts of money and waste time when all people truly needed ninety-nine percent of the time was a good screw.

  Ten minutes later, he had his email open and was trying to think of something only halfway obnoxious to put in the body of it. The title itself was bad enough.

  CANCEL THE DRESS

  All caps. Because he had a point to make. He sent Colette the instructions on what he wanted to do for tomorrow, and yes, she was totally calling in sick to work and so was he. He was taking her out. And by out, he really meant out. None of the halfway shit she expected.

  He was going to show her that he had a heart after all.

  Or at least, he had a brain. And for at least a small fraction of the day, he didn’t do all his thinking with his dick.

  She responded back. He hesitated a second before opening the email, since he didn’t want to appear desperate.

  The first thing he saw was an angry face emoji. The one with the swear bar across its face. Then, right underneath, she’d typed two lines.

  I don’t know what the hell quaffing is, but I’m not doing it. Come take your flowers back. They’re stinking up the department. I think Pam is allergic. She keeps sneezing.

  Quaffing?

  Blaze scrolled up and nearly punched himself in the face. What the hell was wrong with his auto-correct that it had changed quadding to quaffing?

  Jesus. He didn’t know what it was, and for once, he probably didn’t want to do it either. Okay. Maybe he’d give it a try. Never rule out trying new things. You don’t know when you just might find a new kink that’s halfway enjoyable.

  It was a motto he’d lived by.

  He fired off a reply before he could help himself.

  Honest to god, that was a mistake. Quadding. I’m going to take you quadding. I bet you’ve never been. You probably haven’t been out of the city. Ever. You’re stuck with the flowers just like you’re stuck with me. Sorry. Clause 89b of the contract.

  In less than a minute, her response came through.

  Tear up that stupid contract. It’s never going to happen. I was suffering from momentary insanity. It’s something I’ve since rectified. And I’m not going quadding. I have a job to do. Not calling in sick. My boss is a real prick. He’ll probably give me hell. Just saying.

  His response was less than savory, but he couldn’t help himself.

  I agree. Your boss can be an asshole. He wasn’t raised right. His parents set terrible examples. His mother thought he was hopeless. As for being a prick, I don’t know about that, but he definitely has a nice one. You’ll find out soon. Picking you up tomorrow morning at eight. Don’t wear a dress.


  This time, Colette’s email contained the vomit emoji and the emoji of the hand flipping him off. Nice. He’d come closer to confessing the truth to her than he ever had to anyone else. That was the thing about money. It could buy a person anything, including a fresh start. If only she knew. He’d disguised the truth in jest, the asshole kind of jest that he knew she’d never think about hard enough to get the underlying meaning.

  Don’t make me come over there and drag you out of that cubicle. I’m torn, at the moment, between punishing you and making good on what you asked me to do. And no, those things aren’t likely to be exclusive, just so we’re clear. Also, I get it. I’m a jerk. This is my attempt to not be a jerk. The only way I know how. Can I please pick you up tomorrow morning? I promise it will be the most fun you’ve ever had. You know. Because you haven’t slept with me yet.

  She responded quickly. Too quickly. Like she didn’t need time to think about it. He grinned when his eyes scanned over her response.

  Just to be clear, it’s never going to happen. If I go quadding with you tomorrow, and trust you not to kill me getting me there, and if it involves a certified instructor and separate quads, you have to promise me you’ll burn that contract and leave me alone. Make it clear that we are not dating. That it was some kind of stupid joke because you’re the world’s biggest narcissistic asswipe. BTW, I threw the flowers in the trash.

  Blaze leaned back in his chair and grinned like a motherfucker. He didn’t care that he wasn’t going to follow through on his end of the deal. By the end of the day, she’d be begging him to pop her cherry. Or something along those lines. Getting intimately acquainted with each other’s private areas using their mouths would be alright too. The cherry could wait.

  His fingers flew over the keys and he sent a response, half hoping she could picture his satisfied smirk and the dirty glean in his eyes.

  Deal.

  After all, he lived for the hunt.

  CHAPTER 10

  Colette

  In her thoughts about Mr. Sex, which she hated to admit she’d actually dubbed him, though it wasn’t a friendly kind of term and certainly wasn’t an endearment or any type of wishful thinking, she often pictured him gliding through the skies in his private jet.

  Because every billionaire had a private jet, right?

  Wrong.

  It turned out this billionaire didn’t. Or, if he did, he hadn’t chosen to impress her by flying her to Arizona into the middle of the desert. At least not in any kind of jet. He had instead flown her. Himself. In a little rickety antique looking plane that she very much doubted would even fly when it was sitting on the runway.

  It had taken Blaze a good twenty minutes to talk her into getting in it. When she realized he was the one flying it, she nearly bailed again. If she hadn’t been strapped in, she really would have. Unfortunately, she was as good as tied up and had to squeeze her eyes shut tight- like that would save her- and bear it.

  For a good few hours.

  Once they got up in the air, it wasn’t so bad. Not really. The plane bumped and bounced like it might fall out of the sky and by the time they touched down, she was nearly deaf from the roar of it, but they were still alive. That had to count for something.

  Colette inhaled a breath of relief when Blaze led them to the rental car agency and rented a shitty sedan, like everyone else. It was new, but Colette termed it shitty because it wasn’t some foreign make or model that had eight hundred horsepower and cost more than a mansion.

  Blaze navigated them out to the freeway, and after consulting his phone for a minute, they were moving in the right direction.

  At least, she thought they were.

  “You’re going to have to trust me on this one,” Blaze deadpanned, staring straight ahead. He pushed the sedan faster than it should go, considering it was a four door, not at all sporty model, and the engine screamed in protest.

  Colette moved her hand to the holy shit handle without even noticing she’d done it. Blaze noticed though. Because he turned to her with a shit-eating grin lighting up his far too handsome face.

  “What choice do I have? You put me on the plane and took off before I could get myself out. You trapped me in the air because I wasn’t going to bail at two thousand feet or whatever. Last time I checked, I’m not well versed on how to use a parachute. Now I’m stuck in the middle of the desert, in another state, in a moving vehicle. So, unless I’m going to jump from it at sixty miles an hour, which I’m not, what other option is there?”

  “Just checking. I wanted to hear you say it.”

  “Say what? That I trust you? I totally don’t.”

  Colette pressed her lips together in a firm line and stared straight ahead. The miles rolled by, the car eating up the road. She had to admit, she liked the scenery. It was different. The desert terrain was so barren it was the exact opposite of the high-rise buildings and bustle of the city. The red dirt hills, the strange plants, the occasional cactus- she had to admit it was pretty in a way she never considered that it would be.

  Arizona wasn’t exactly on her bucket list of places to visit.

  “I’m hurt, Office Baby.” There was a smirk in his voice and when her gaze swiveled to the side, there was one on his face to match.

  Colette tried really hard not to sit there and study Blaze, but she had no other choice. It was the first time she’d ever seen him in anything other than his immaculate, expensive office attire. No suit today. No dress shirt and dress pants. No. He wore a faded pair of jeans that were clearly well loved, given the way they cupped an ass that had clearly been carved of rock by someone who hated women. An ass like that just wasn’t fair. The denim looked soft to the touch and her fingertips practically vibrated with the need to touch it to see if it actually was.

  He had a tight t-shirt on, a plain black thing that shouldn’t have been so appealing. As it was, her mouth may have watered slightly when her eyes got a load of the way his biceps kept bulging and the way his forearms were all striated and veiny.

  No, she was not sitting there contemplating licking him. She didn’t want to know if his skin would be sweet or salty or maybe some strange, heady, spicy mixture like the scent of him currently filling up the car and making her head swim stupidly.

  Without thinking, Colette reached over and jacked up the button on the AC. Blaze turned to look at her, that evil smirk still in place and a knowing glint in his eyes.

  “Why the heck do you have one of those puddle jumping planes anyway?” she snapped, annoyed with her body’s response.

  She felt like she was burning up from the inside out, and Blaze was the bastard holding the gas can over the flames, banking the spark eating up her stomach into a full-on roaring bonfire. Not the good hotdog, marshmallow roasting kind either. The get away from here, burn down your house, shitty kind.

  “I wasn’t aware that there was anything wrong with it.”

  “There is. First of all, it looks like it’s a hundred years old. Secondly, it’s a death trap. For real. It kept rattling and knocking and sputtering like it was going to fall apart and die out at the same time. I was scared for my life. What’s wrong with having something new and nice and letting someone else pilot you around? Or are you not really that rich?”

  Blaze laughed, a good-humored chuckle that did things to her belly. Maybe to her panties as well. “I’m really that rich, but I fly enough for business on that kind of thing. Anyone can let someone else fly them around. Flying yourself, now that’s a different experience. And I happen to like classics. I have a few classic cars as well. Okay, maybe more than a few. I actually have a pretty good collection going. Old trucks. Cars. Wagons. All that kind of stuff.”

  “Wagons?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Like the horse and buggy kind?”

  “You bet.”

  “But why? It’s not like you’re going to use that anytime soon. Or were you planning on getting a horse for your mansion and driving your buggy to work? I think you’d
need a special parking stall for that. And some oats or something.”

  Blaze laughed and she hated to admit how much she liked the sound of it. It was rich and full and real. He was so different from how he was at work, even how he was on their so called dinner the other night, that she found it hard to believe it was the same man. Out of his suit, he looked relaxed. Casual. A little vulnerable. His hair wasn’t slicked back like it normally was. It hung loose and free and he hadn’t shaved that morning. A dark line of stubble shadowed his sharp jawline. It wasn’t fair how devastating the effect was. Nothing about him was fair. He had the kind of body that looked like he was a professional athlete and a face that said he was born to be on billboards. He was. Sometimes. Only, he wasn’t a model.

  Colette barely kept herself from telling him that if his company and investments ever tanked, he could definitely be a lifestyle influencer.

  Yup. Ridiculous things like that existed, thanks to the internet.

  “I don’t know. I like old things. Antiques were- I guess they always were a passion. When I was growing up, we had this old gramophone stand in my room. I don’t know where it came from. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t in my mom or dad’s family. It was, more likely, left at the house when we moved into it. Anyway, I used to hide my stuff in there. I’d pretend that it was a safe. I’d play all sorts of games. Once I…” Blaze’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Never mind.”

  The words were casual, but there was something underneath it that got her attention. No, it wasn’t just the words or his tone. It was the fact that, for a moment, Blaze was actually human. He thought. He felt. He liked freaking antiques.

  “I- I never thought you would like stuff like that. It seems a little old lady.”