Before Her Billionaires Page 4

  Dr. Harr knew all of those facts.

  But she couldn’t feel Mike’s pain.

  And now, the dreams had changed, visions of a new woman implanted in his subconscious, the sense of Jill’s betrayal overwhelmed by soft curves, a sweet, hesitant voice, and moans of pleasure that whispered his name.

  “Damn it,” he whispered through tears he fought so hard to keep back. Anger was easier than pain.

  Pain was easier than heartbreak.

  “What did she lie about, Mike?” Dr. Harr leaned forward, her head tilted to the side slightly, her face encouraging, chin bobbing slightly as if to say yes. Yes. You’re safe here. You can say it.

  “She lied about who she was.”

  “And you learned the truth after her death?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this is the source of your anger.” The doctor said it as a statement. Not a question.

  “Yes.” He knew he should say more than just one word, but he couldn’t. He didn’t have any more words now. The words were sweating out of him, sticking to the surface of his skin, coming out in the clench of his muscles, the twitches in his calves, the pull of tendons and sinew against bone as his body sat in this chair.

  Dr. Harr paused, deep in thought, considering Mike like one would study a painting at the Museum of Fine Arts. Then she peered at him with eyes that pierced his soul and said:

  “Does knowing what you know change Jill herself? Is she a fundamentally different person?”

  In $2.2 billion ways, he thought. Mike closed his eyes and envisioned Jill. Opening a Christmas gift the first year the three of them lived together, Mike and Dylan so broke they went in on the set of audio CDs of the Harry Potter series she’d desperately wanted. Another memory: tent camping in West Virginia on parts of the Appalachian Trail, down to their last few dollars and supplementing with wild edibles just to have enough money for beer when they found a bar.

  How the ultra-chic apartment they’d moved into years ago had seemed so cheap. Jill collected the rent and told them she’d just handle the bills.

  Lies. All of it, lies.

  “She was an heiress,” he said softly, the memories turning around in his head, as if viewed through a kaleidoscope. His words marched out of his mouth in a neat, orderly line, as if reporting for duty. “She left me and Dylan a trust fund worth a combined $2.2 billion.”

  Dr. Harr’s eyes widened slightly but went back to normal so fast Mike almost didn’t catch the reaction.

  Almost.

  “And all those years we never knew. All those years she pretended to be someone she wasn’t. Who does that to a person? To two people? We were a threesome. She deceived me and Dylan,” Mike said with a choking sound at the end.

  Dr. Harr sniffed slightly, nodding to herself. Warm, bright brown eyes met his. “Someone who was deeply complicated.”

  “Conflicted, you mean,” Mike said. A deep weariness settled into his bones, making him feel like cement and steel in human form. The relief in him was clear: he’d finally told someone about Jill.

  Too bad he only had three more sessions covered by insurance.

  He clapped his palm against his forehead and began to laugh.

  “Mike?” Dr. Harr asked, brows knitted in curiosity.

  “I—insurance,” he said, gasping. “I was just thinking,” he said through a chuckle, “that insurance only covers four visits.”

  “I can submit for approval for...” Her voice dropped off. She got it.

  “Right.” He made a low, mirth-free laugh. “I don’t have to worry about it. Jill’s death changed my life in more ways than one. I can afford all the sessions I want, to talk about how everything I knew about her was a lie.”

  Dr. Harr inhaled slowly, biting her upper lip, clearly thinking through her next words.

  Then she nodded, her chin moving up and down like molasses, a rhythmic movement that mesmerized Mike.

  “It’s important for you to understand why Jill kept this information from you.” Her eyes remained focused on him.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  He let a puff of air escape and just shook his head sadly.

  “That, Dr. Harr, is what I don’t know.”

  “It’s why you’re here,” she said. Not asked -- said.

  “Yes.”

  Dr. Harr thought for a moment, then asked, “Her motivations can’t be known by anyone now that she’s gone.” It came out with a compassionate tone but Mike heard the warning in her words.

  “I know,” he said with bitterness. “But I’m stuck trying. Jill didn’t give me a choice.”

  “You always have a choice.”

  Mike really wished that were true.

  * * *

  Dr. Harr had listened to him rant about how Dylan pushed him to sign up for this stupid online dating site. While Dylan pulled a twenty-four-hour shift, Mike had the apartment to himself.

  It felt like an echo chamber, his own grief becoming a sound that pinged off the walls over and over, like a ricochet of agony.

  Yep. Dylan was right.

  He had to do something.

  With a resigned sigh, he opened the laptop and navigated to the dating site Dylan had shown him. Logged in.

  And discovered sixty-seven messages for him.

  What.

  The.

  Fuck?

  Sixty-seven messages of what?

  It only took reading three or four messages for Mike to figure it out. Dylan had submitted a profile for him without saying a word, and the messages were from women looking for someone to date.

  A few of the women were drop dead gorgeous. A little too beautiful to be true. Some were from other countries, clearly seeking a green card marriage. A few looked a little too much like his mom to be of interest.

  He read the messages with a strange sort of detachment, as if he were picking out the right cantaloupe at the store, assessing the perfect qualities before committing to one and taking it home, luscious and ripe.

  Not that he thought about women that way. Or men. Or human beings, period. His head hurt, suddenly, and his feet began to twitch. This was precisely why he hated Jill so much.

  Hated her for dying on him.

  The thought made him sit up in shock. He didn’t hate Jill.

  He loved Jill. Loved her with an intensity so strong it burned bright even now, a year and a half after he’d last heard her voice, kissed her warm lips, been looked at with so much love in those eyes that he felt complete.

  That’s what he missed. Being loved by her. Being able to love her. Having it all be so seamless. The thought of going out into the crazy dating scene and finding another woman made him go half-mad, because if hell is other people, then the devil has a lot of fun with dating profiles and awkward first dates.

  He closed the laptop. Later, when Dylan was home and rested, he’d chew him out. Right now, the entire process exhausted him. Thinking about being with another woman—any woman other than Jill—made his insides twist into a Möbius strip.

  Bed. He needed to sleep. The oblivion of it was a welcome balm, and as he faded out he was grateful for an empty mind and a resting body.

  At least the sorrow in his dreams didn’t follow him in real life.

  * * *

  Her heat was so soothing, the spread of silky skin along the length of his oversized body a blanket he could wear forever. She inhaled, then exhaled, a tiny sound of contentment coming from her, so cute it made him chuckle.

  The sun peeked its rays into the room as it cracked its eyes open and began its morning routine, sunrise beginning. In the strange morning half-light, he watched her hair glisten like honey mixed with cream. His arm was around her and she nestled her cheek into his pecs, the feel of soft, pliant flesh against his own marbled body such a welcome contrast that he needed to feel more.

  The steady march of his palm down her ribs, cupping her breast, made her sigh, a sound of encouragement all he needed. He moved his arm and pulled her onto him, her
thigh bending just so and then, with a pleasant twist, he was in her.

  Or, rather, she was on him. Straightening up, her eyes sleepy and unfocused, she placed her hands on his shoulders and sank down completely, the feeling of encasement by her warm core the closest he could ever come to nirvana.

  This unexpected morning delight gave him an unfettered view of her body, the heavy, round breasts with pert nipples, the loose, disheveled hair still tangled from last night’s lovemaking. Her mouth stretched into an O of concentration, her own orgasm closer than his. He watched her, feeling blessed that she would offer him this glimpse of her sexual soul.

  He began the slow, languid movement of his hips, thrusting up into her to find the sweet spot that would make her tighten, entice her to cry out, strip her of all control until she shuddered wildly. Each thrust up made her thighs clench his hips, and his hand reached up to take one nipple between his fingers, the other slipping between them as he—

  Mike awoke with a start, cock at full mast and his heart slapping his ribs so hard it was like being spanked, a sob in his throat as he looked around the room, frantically grabbing the sheets to see what had happened to her. She was just here. Just here. Where did she go?

  His head swiveled left and right, eyes adjusting in the early morning light , the sooty grey of the room too dim. Sweat covered him and he chilled instantly, gooseflesh exploding on every inch of exposed skin.

  Reality sank in.

  She wasn’t real.

  She was just a dream.

  No. Impossible. He could feel her on his skin. His cock was wet from her juices, his hand poking under the covers to touch it, finding only his own wetness there. He could still smell her, the scent fruity with a touch of cinnamon and musk, her hair in his eyes, chafing against his chest.

  No matter how hard he tried to make her real, though, the empty bedroom was testimony to the folly.

  Dreams were where he saw her. Not in his arms, but in his subconscious.

  Mike closed his eyes, willing himself to conjure her taste, her touch, how she looked, but the senses disappointed him as it all faded. Every bit of it, leaving only one final feeling:

  Despair.

  For a few shining moments in REM sleep he’d been blissfully wanted, stroked, tasted and loved.

  And the dream woman wasn’t Jill.

  Laura

  His eyes met hers and she melted inside, as if he’d sent heat through her with the specific purpose of making her bones soft and pliant, as warm as her flesh.

  Being asked to fuck a man made her heart pound in her ears so hard she wasn’t sure she heard him right. While both men could be dominant, and demanding in bed, the blonde one wasn’t the type to—

  Slam her against the shower wall and grab her with such force, fingers everywhere like tentacles, and kiss the breath out of her until her lips felt bruised and bitten, taken and defiled, leaving her heart and clit throbbing in unison, her hips dipping into his thigh, the sound of his ragged breath setting her on fire.

  He was everywhere suddenly, all flame and rush, eager need replacing intimate love for this moment. If this were all she had with him it would be too much and too little, too rough and too angry. But right this moment, with her mind like cotton and the tightening noose of fear making it harder and harder to pretend she remembered how to breathe, what she needed, and didn’t realize it was this.

  Animal.

  Pure sex.

  “Fuck me until I can’t think straight,” she whispered against the crush of muscle and bone, the play of fingers on her hip, gripping with the intensity of someone drowning. The scratch of day-old stubble on a cut jaw awakened a deeper primal sense in her as he dragged his face down her neck, over her breast, mouth making a trail—no, bulldozing a culvert—down her belly until his tongue burrowed to find her, fingers parting her lips, mouth sucking as she arched into the water’s spray.

  Her hips smashed into his face, ass encased by his palms, fingers clawing her like he was holding on for dear life.

  A nudge. A not-so-gentle push against her back and suddenly, she wasn’t just leaning against the tiled wall for support.

  The wall had become a man’s well-muscled chest. Dark hair, now wet and sleek, tickled her shoulder, her neck straining as she turned to see his face, but the steam in the shower obscured everything but touch.

  And taste.

  Firm, guiding hands bent her slightly, and down, the push of a rock-hard cock against the cleft of her ass sending delicious tingles up and down her body, all radiating out from her clit. Which was, currently, being teased and tortured by the other man’s mouth.

  “You’re so beautiful,” the dark-haired man said in a voice that could have been any man’s, but that spoke only to her. His hands moved under her, holding the fullness of one pendulous breast as he used one knee to push between her legs, encouraging her to widen them.

  Oh.

  Now she understood, the flush of heat and forbidden desire pushing all the blood in her body to her skin.

  He wanted...that.

  She did, too, as the climax that she’d held at bay took over her body from the mere thought of being entered from behind—of anal play—of risqué sensuality and the promise of openness without judgment took her over the edge. One, then two fingers slid inside her clenched, hot walls as the man behind her pulled back, stroking himself once, twice, the push of his movement against her ass confusing as she exploded into her own orgasm, realizing on the edge of sanity that he was lubricating what was about to come.

  At the moment, what was coming was her. The mere thought, though, of being entered by him took her—

  Beep! Beep! Beep!

  “ARGH!” she screamed, three cats sprinting off her bed in three different directions, her alarm clock wailing like a chaperone at a high school dance, forcing horny kids apart.

  Laura’s body trembled, the sheets slightly damp where her thighs rested against them, and if her clit throbbed any harder she could be a beacon for a lighthouse, renting out the little nub of skin along the eastern shore.

  Worst—her phone’s alarm clock function was particularly hard to turn off (probably designed by perfectly reasonable engineers who did that so you wouldn’t zonk back out again, but right now she wanted to kill those guys), so she spent a frustrating ninety seconds screaming at an impassive glass screen while her cats hissed and sphfffted and made a racket at the indignity of being chased off their comfortable bed by a madwoman.

  A madwoman who had an 8:30 a.m. staff meeting. Who in the hell scheduled staff meetings for 8:30 a.m. on a Monday?

  Laura’s boss. That’s who.

  She was still holding her phone in her hand, staring stupidly at the 6:11 a.m. on the display, when her phone buzzed with a text notification.

  Coming off shift and want something hot and sweet. Thought of you.

  She rolled her eyes and typed back:

  A coffee booty call? Seriously?

  While Laura’s half-smile and eye roll made her mood lighten slightly, her heart still pounded in her chest from her dream.

  This text wasn’t from a hot man, half of the duo she’d been sleeping with in her (wet) dreams. As Miss Daisy climbed back on the bed and gave Laura an aloof look, pawing her comforter to get it just right before settling into a curled lump of fur, Laura read the incoming text.

  I love you a latte, but not enough to sleep with you. Only if caffeine deprivation were critical.

  Ha ha. She smiled and typed back:

  Get over here and I’ll make a pot right now.

  One letter was the response:

  K

  Her best friend, Josie Mendham, was on her way, and that meant a morning of yappy-yap-yap talking, sarcasm so thick you needed a honey stirrer for it, and a series of complaints about Laura’s shyness when it came to dating. Josie worked weird nurse’s hours and often showed up as Laura was getting out of bed.

  Sometimes, weeks went by and this was the only time Laura saw her, so she was gra
teful for any time from Josie, especially since Ryan.

  Laura didn’t want to talk about Ryan. Didn’t want to think about Ryan. Wished a small building would be struck by lightning, crack in half, and fall on top of Ryan.

  Wow. She hadn’t really gotten over Ryan, now, had she?

  Throwing the covers off her, the shock of cold air made the slightly wet spot under her ass a lot more prominent. Those men. The men in her dream—now that is who she wanted to think about. Not the last guy she dated, the one who lied to her and turned out to be married....

  Guys in dreams were never married. They weren’t assholes. They didn’t stick you with the check for dinner because “I only have an American Express card and they take Visa here,” or give you a pained expression when you ordered the wrong wine, or put you down in tiny ways to make themselves feel better, or—

  Lie about being married.

  No. Men in dreams were all about you. The way life should be, right? As Laura dragged herself across her small apartment and set up the coffee machine, she yawned, stretching her tired arms to the ceiling, standing on tiptoe, body pulled like taffy toward the sky.

  “Meow.” Snuggles registered the latest complaint from The Feline Brigade.

  “You’re next,” Laura insisted, reaching for the cat food in the cupboard next to the sink. “As if you don’t know you’re my real bosses,” she added.

  Snuggles appeared to smile.

  “I’m talking to my cats,” Laura muttered. “Even if I ever find Mr. Right, he’ll think I’m crazy, because I talk to my cats. Hell—I am crazy. Crazy to think I’ll ever find a guy like...” She sighed.

  Like him.

  Which him?

  Laura laughed as she walked back into her bedroom and grabbed her bra and panties. Looking in her closet, she paused. What to wear? Her business wardrobe was about what you’d expect for a twentysomething financial analyst, which meant staid. Boring. Suits and shells and skirts with hose, modest heels. A look cultivated to be invisible but trustworthy.