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Ever since I met him when he showed up on my doorstep to take Bridget to Denver I’d been insanely aroused and obsessed with him. Which was a big problem.
I should have been excited about flying on a private jet.
A private jet.
Who had access to something like that?
He did. He was a billionaire. The youngest of the James brothers. He may not run the family business–the Fortune Whatever James Corporation–but he was loaded. Enough spare cash to have a plane.
I bought a new shade of lipstick or a pair of shoes with my spare cash.
We had nothing in common.
So what if I did a little ménage à moi and got myself off while whispering–no, screaming–his name even though I gave him a serious brush off in Denver.
Even after that, when I’d been really cranky, the guy still wanted to have dinner with me. Me!
Like the crazy person I was, I pretty much told him off via vegetables and walked away. Why did I resist the man who had a bank account equivalent to the GDP of a few small countries? Why did I resist a guy who was six-two, two hundred-plus pounds of solid muscle? Who had chocolate colored hair that needed a trim and a jaw that always had a five o’clock shadow? Who smelled like expensive soap and the rugged outdoors? Whose smile made my panties melt and his remarkably dark eyes seemed to follow me whenever we were together? Who called me sugar and made me want to do all kinds of dirty things with him like stick my hand down the front of his jeans and feel how big and amazing his squa–dick was instead of just imagining it?
Yeah, him.
Because he was twenty-seven years old.
I was thirty-five. These days, I tweaked my neck just sleeping weird. I tried so hard to find the One. Mr. Right. It irked me that Dex was an eager puppy–maybe a Rottweiler puppy–and into me when he was Mr. Wrong.
Not a local. Meaning he wasn’t sticking around.
He didn’t seem to have any kind of job or ambition, wandering between Colorado and Montana checking out waterfalls.
He didn’t appreciate how hard it was to earn a living.
He was young. Thinking of having sex with him, let alone actually doing it, was like robbing the cradle. Hot as hell, but he was too young.
At his age, his stamina had to be impressive. God, he could probably go a second round without any recovery time. And he’d be eager to please like that Rottweiler puppy, I was sure.
I didn’t want a puppy though. I wanted someone who knew what the hell he was doing and knew what I needed–like a mind (or body) reader–and gave it to me. Multiple times.
Like a spanking bent over the kiwis.
Gah!
Stamina, youth, vigor–all of that was irrelevant because what guy his age wanted to settle down and immediately work on making babies? I knew what I wanted, and I wasn’t going to waste time on fucking even the hottest man on the planet if it didn’t lead to marriage and kids.
Dex was forward. Direct. Bold about what he wanted and that appeared to be me. So I had to shield myself. Push him and his squash away.
My vagina didn’t agree because it was crying right now in the checkout line. My panties were soaked. They had been ever since the squash/dick conversation ten minutes ago. I was thankful I’d made a shopping list because my brain was only thinking about getting in Dex’s pants, not picking out ketchup and tampons.
“Have dinner with me.”
I turned as I was putting that box of tampons–which only reminded me I wasn’t pregnant or getting that way any time soon–on the conveyor belt.
Dex stood in line behind me. He eyed the box, then me, without even a blink.
“Dinner?” I questioned.
“We’ll put your squash with my chicken,” –he held up a package of poultry thighs– “and make something hot.”
Because he had a huge grin on his face, I couldn’t help but smile at him. Total puppy. “We don’t need to have dinner together because our siblings are dating.”
