Shopping for a Billionaire 3 Page 5

  “Tell me,” he murmurs.

  “No—really.” The slow circles he traces in my most private flesh are like a language he’s transmitting through these maddening finger presses.

  “Tell me,” he says again in a voice that makes it clear I can’t escape.

  “It’s…my body.” As sunset descends, the shadows outside pass by like a crowd in motion, except we’re the ones moving. The limo glides left, then right, and Declan and I float with it, micro-movements sending waves of grinding want through me as the pressure of his fullness in me touches little fragmented spots that send my body thrills I didn’t know I could feel.

  “Your body is…” His voice drifts away as his eyes rake over me, methodical and appreciative. I’m not used to this. Sex is frantic groping in the dark, where I’m glad for the cover of the obscurity of darkness. What Steve or other lovers felt when they touched my skin was so much easier to handle than imagining them look at me. When they touched me under covers or in the grey night, I could just feel and enjoy.

  I’m watching Declan look at me and feel my self-consciousness melt away, like a layer of skin that sheds gently. His eyes are hooded, filled with craving, and as his gaze lands on my breasts I can almost feel him, his eyes like fingertips searching for truth and love.

  “Your body is beautiful,” he says gruffly, as if contradicting someone who said otherwise. And, actually, he is. All the voices who tell me I’m imperfect. The moments when Steve looked at rail-thin women in public, or the harumph of telling a store clerk I needed a size sixteen.

  The internalized, yappy-dog chatterer that has taken up residence behind my ear and that lets loose a steady stream of thoughts and feelings about my loose skin on my belly, the lush breasts that never fit quite right in my bra cups, the pants that don’t smooth neatly across my waistband, the thick, muscular calves that rub against the finely tailored wool of his pants.

  That voice.

  “Beautiful,” he says with a tender thrust upward, pulling me down for a kiss. His tongue slides between my lips and he’s telling me again how beautiful I am, except this time with the topography of his mouth. Yearning pours through me like molten lava and I’m fused to him, inside and out, as a wellspring of emotion overwhelms me.

  “Who told you otherwise?” The sad tone that escapes between his lips isn’t sad for me. Carrying a distinct sound of disapproval, he’s correcting the distant critic who put it out there, the one who planted the seed of inadequacy inside me.

  The guy who made me feel like I wasn’t enough – because I was a little too much.

  “They were wrong.” The emphasis on the last word makes me shudder.

  “Perfect and ripe and warm,” he whispers, making me melt more.

  The feel of his tanned skin under my own palms, how his eyes seem so interested and captivated, the play of his words on those lips as he misses me and says more that I can’t really understand because oh—oh!—now he moves in a pattern that takes me to places where words are mere formalities.

  Where sensation is the language of choice.

  One finger trails a line between my breasts and he plants a kiss in the valley. “You’re everything I want,” he whispers, tension in his voice stretching his words out as he begins his own tipping point. He takes one pebbled nipple in his mouth and the rush of warm wetness makes me clench, which in turn makes him groan.

  No words. The leather seat presses against my knees and he brushes my hair away from my face, tucking it behind an ear with such precision as he tongues my breast and makes me stop. Stop thinking, stop wiggling, stop the world—stop time, because I am everything and nothing in his arms.

  My own body moves in long, even strokes against his, and then without warning he’s above me, out of me, leaving me with a hollow ache that cries out for more. Declan’s arm wraps around my waist and he spins me effortlessly under him, the limo seat so wide we can fit comfortably, our thighs slick with sweat and more, his face filled with passion and a tantalizing seriousness that brings back a handful of words.

  “You’re beautiful, too,” I whisper, looking up at him as anticipation is poised between us in that timeless moment before we break through the invisible wall. The wall that separates every couple before they knowingly – willfully – breach it to connect two separate beings, making one flesh, one desire, one need.

  One climax. Giving yourself to another person is one thing. Truly letting go as you lose yourself in them is quite another.

  “I didn’t know there were men like you out there,” I add, reaching up to push a lock of hair out of his face. He’s so intense, so purely centered on me, eyes alive and fully in the moment. We’re on a threshold, and I have so much bursting inside me that I want to say.

  “You make me feel like it’s okay to be me, Declan. No one’s ever done that before.” Our breath mingles in the small space between us, my legs tightening around him, my body and heart wanting to be as close as possible. I’d have to crawl inside him to be any closer, and I’m shaking with an all-consuming force that is so much more than anything I’ve felt.

  “I wouldn’t want you to be anyone else, Shannon.”

  I smile wide as he drives home inside me, his face dipped down to kiss me, his mouth fire and ice as he thrusts, my body filled with a kind of madness that makes me seek release at the same time that I can’t help but cling to him.

  His hands rest on my waist as he tightens, his face hot over mine, our bodies half clothed. This feels so illicit, so naughty, and as the limo comes to a pause at a stoplight a massive plume of boldness blooms in me.

  This is who I am. Declan is who I want. His face shifts as he pushes over and over, my legs shaking and my hands seeking whatever skin he has exposed, the connection morphing into something so illicitly primal.

  And when he leans down, still in control, his hand between my legs and giving the slightest butterfly touch where I need it most, I utter his name in a fevered moan, my climax hitting without reservation, all restraint gone, my mouth full of whispers and groans, my fingers digging into his shoulders as he tells me to come, to come, to come.

  I do.

  He joins me, torso and chest tense and hands digging into the leather seat on either side of me, my legs wrapped around his waist, his murmurs in my ear as he bites the lobe and shudders like he’s captivated by a series of prayers to a god I can believe in. The air around us is hot and spicy, like woman and man mingling together, the scent of sex and sweat and perfume and cologne burning into my brain.

  This is the scent of mind-blowing sex. Yankee Candle needs to patent it.

  “You,” he says with a hiss, pulling out of me and turning around. He ties off the condom and throws it discreetly in a small trash can with a little swish lid that makes me laugh. I don’t know why. The giggles descend on me and I cannot stop.

  “That’s a first,” he says.

  “Sex in a limo?” I gasp between chuckles.

  He gets a surprisingly sheepish look on his face. “Uh, no,” he says slowly. But not apologetically.

  If this awkward turn of conversation is supposed to spoil the mood, it doesn’t. I just laugh even more. Absurdity makes me laugh. Having sex for the first time in a year makes me giggle. Fucking Declan in the back of a limo makes me sputter.

  “What’s a first, then?”

  “A woman overcome with giggles after sleeping with me. Most don’t find it so…comedic.”

  “I just had sex in a limo,” I explain.

  “You know what comes next?” he says as he pulls up his pants and snaps and zips up. I realize I am completely naked from the waist up and scramble to find my shirt, unable to think. Naked! In a limo! With Hot Guy! Laughing!

  “What?” I ask as I shove my arms into my sleeves and pull the shirt over my head. Wait. Where’s my bra? Oh. There it is. Hanging on the door handle, one strap wrapped around the gleaming metal, the other on the neck of a crystal decanter of something amber, lounging lazily.

  “Love in a hel
icopter.”

  Chapter Six

  “Is that a promise or a threat?” I ask as my head shoots through the neck of my shirt, my hair caught under it. I’m sweaty and feel like I’ve just climbed Mt. Declan, legs aching and body buzzing. But ahhh, the summit was damn nice, and the view…

  “Both.” He laughs and rides his hand up over my thigh.

  “I like both.” I close my eyes, trying not to cringe as I feel him brush against my decidedly not-smooth leg.

  He senses the change in me and caresses my jaw with his fingers, turning my eyes to him. “What is it?”

  This is the moment when every woman balances between saying “fine” and telling the truth. I’m sitting in a limousine with a man who holds more power than two hundred of me combined, and all I can think about are my stubbly shins.

  The divided mind turns me in two distinct directions:

  He’s different. Real and genuine. Go with it.

  and

  He’s about as interested in the truth as he is in going to CVS to buy you a pack of tampons.

  I go for the former, because the cocky grin he’s giving me right now is so authentic that it feels right to be honest and open, vulnerable and real, and to stop worrying about what I think he’s thinking.

  How about I try just saying what I think?

  Deep breath. Deep breath. The car lurches forward and his hand tightens on my thigh, his other arm snaking around me protectively. I nestle in and say:

  “I wasn’t exactly prepared for a date.” I run my own hand against my legs and say, “Skritch skritch skritch.” And then I close my eyes and wish for a tornado to appear and take me away so I can wake up and realize this is all a dream. Plus the ruby shoes would be a nice addition to my wardrobe.

  I can’t believe I just said that. Skritch? What am I, an animated character from Ice Age?

  “Sound effects?” His booming laugh fills the car. Bright lights dot the horizon as the sun nearly finishes setting, and I realize we’re at a small airport. “You’re giving me sound effects?”

  He runs his hand along my leg and up between my legs. A rush of heat, and yet more arousal fills me. How can I want more?

  “I like sound effects,” he adds, “but the ones you made a few minutes ago were far superior.”

  “I—” My lips turn to liquid, like he just shot me with ten times my weight in Novocaine.

  “If I want a smooth woman, I’ll put you in my clawfoot tub at home and shave you myself,” he says.

  Blink.

  “I’ll run you a hot bath, undress you with my own hands, soap you up and make you com—” He licks his lips and looks me up and down, then continues. “—fortable. And that’s a promise,” he adds, leaning down for a deep kiss. I can imagine the scene; his eyes show it to me.

  The car comes to a slow stop and the engine goes silent. I can’t speak. Can’t move. Can’t think. I’m one big, throbbing hormone.

  Declan pulls away and points out the window to a helicopter. A sleek black machine that looks like something out of a movie, like the insect version of a Transformer.

  “What are you, Batman?” I ask as words return to me, marveling at all this. A headphoned pilot is at the controls, and the blades aren’t moving. Lights blink and Declan steps out of the limo, waving to the driver, who climbs back in the front seat.

  I step out on legs that feel strong and well used. The copter blades start a slow circle and sound revs up.

  “I wish. But you’ll have to settle for plain old Declan,” he shouts.

  “You’re anything but ‘plain,’” I call back.

  Cupping a hand over his ear, he shakes his head. He didn’t hear me. That’s okay, though, because he doesn’t need to.

  The ground feels springy under my feet as I hold my hair in one hand to keep it from whipping around my face as the helicopter blades rotate faster. The wind the machine creates is magical, the contraption about to elevate us into the air, high above the city. I have no idea where Declan is taking me and I don’t care. My body throbs and I’m sore from that amazing encounter in the limo, but I get the distinct sense that that?

  That was only the beginning.

  Love in a helicopter? No way. The pilot gives me a sharp nod, the engines roaring so loud I can’t hear a thing. Declan offers me headphones and I put them on, muting the chuk chuk chuk sound.

  “Welcome aboard, Ms. Jacoby,” says a new-to-me voice. The pilot raises his hand with a wave.

  “That’s Joel,” Declan’s voice explains, crackling over a static-y connection. He points to a little knob on his own headset and I realize it’s the volume control. I fiddle with mine and get the sound to the right level. Speaking in a normal voice is all that’s needed.

  Joel speaks a bunch of Flight Language to some sort of tower personnel. He might as well be casting a spell or getting directions to Hogwarts. The words and numbers make no sense to me, but I’m in awe of it anyhow. That a human being can learn how to successfully navigate a machine like this, not only through space but through three-dimensional space, is amazing.

  Driving a car on the ground is hard enough, but to know which direction you’re going and to keep track of where you are vertically? It’s like rubbing your tummy, patting your head, and playing Farmville while singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” at the same time.

  And this is why I never became a pilot. That, and failing Physics 101. Pesky detail.

  Declan’s speaking in code with Joel, his hip digging deep into mine as we cram next to each other on the helicopter. He closes the door and the sound of the blades changes. It’s like someone shoved a feather pillow over them. The helicopter begins to jostle and I dig my fingers into his thigh.

  He smiles at me, all stubble and dimples and bright irises. A reassuring arm wraps around me. “Takeoff is always hardest,” he says.

  “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”

  Joel makes a snorting sound, then cuts his mic. Declan shoots him an annoyed look, but returns his attention to me. “I’ve never taken a woman in my chopper before. Not on a date.”

  “Is that what you call this?” I can’t stop touching him. My hand goes to the collar of his shirt, where a smattering of dark hair covers his collarbone. I want to lick him. Taste him. Nestle my cheek against his chest and hear his heartbeat. I want him in me again, the feel of his release, of his trust to give in to me.

  Divergence is turning my life into something unrecognizable. A few weeks ago I knew what to expect from your average day. No, I couldn’t plan it meticulously, no matter how hard I tried, but a certain contentment made each week pretty predictable. Settled. Relatively comfortable, if a bit lonely. Get up, have coffee, go to work, do mystery shops, prepare presentations, come home to Chuckles, hang with Amy and Amanda.

  Lather, rinse, repeat.

  Drive my junky car. Have dinner at Mom and Dad’s. Overthink and overplan everything, then obsess about my tendency to overthink and overplan.

  A billionaire player like Declan was, most definitely, not part of any plan. Not even part of my fantasies, which had taken a bizarre turn toward the superhero realm. If you can’t have a superman, you might as well get off on dreams of threesomes with Iron Man and Loki.

  My Batman joke really was just a joke, though.

  Declan is better than the Avengers and the X-Men combined. As I stroke the fine weave of his wool suit pants, his thigh shifts under my measured touch. Rippled steel bands react under my palm, the soft inner thigh flesh yielding the tiniest bit as I grasp him, feel his response. He inhales slowly and rests his chin on the top of my head, closing his eyes.

  He’s enjoying this. Letting me explore him, confirm he’s real and under my inventory. Here’s his forearm. There’s his biceps. And the chest is right here. The scruff on his cheek makes contact with my cheekbone and I soften into him. Our bodies fit beautifully together. We fit together.

  We.

  We can’t say a word to each other right now unless we want the pilot t
o hear, so we sit in silence. His hands mimic mine, soon finding my curves and valleys, swells and peaks. The way he touches me makes me feel desired. Appreciated. Not just wanted, because anyone can be wanted.

  He makes me feel cherished.

  “Check out the Red Sox game,” he says, pointing to the well-lit Fenway Park. It’s an early game for the season. Everyone seems so tiny, so insignificant, and yet thousands—tens of thousands—of people are all congregated to watch the game, to party, to be one with the energy of the crowd.

  For a split second, I wish Amanda were here. Sex in a limo with a near-billionaire! And a hot man who looks like a Men’s Health cover model. Watching a Red Sox game from above, flying over the gleaming city lights.

  Me—Shannon—with Declan McCormick.

  And then…my own mind does a 180-degree turn. Sometimes the clearest moments come when you least expect them, and this is one of those times.

  You can’t believe it because you won’t let yourself believe it. Let go of your own self as an obstacle and imagine how much more you could do and be.

  And be cherished.

  Tears threaten the inner corners of my eyes. My throat aches with a sickly, bitter taste. I lean in to Declan and press my ear against his heart, the fine cloth of his shirt cool until my face warms it. A tear mars the perfect whiteness of his shirt and I don’t care.

  Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Steady and strong, his heart continues at its regular pace. I wonder if he’s always like this. So calm, so confident. Without being smarmy or a blowhard, Declan manages to embody so many qualities I’ve wanted in a man, but thought were mythical.

  He’s nothing like my own father, who is a sweet, non-judgmental man. But Dad isn’t the dominant type. I’ve never seen him move through life making split-second decisions and assessments of character and behavior and filtering a person in or out based on their response. Dad doesn’t walk into a room with a feeling of command. He’s many wonderful things, but Jason Jacoby is anything but the leader of a pack.