Page 39 of Pucking Billionaire

What are the chances he accepts that and leaves?

Apparently zero, because when I finish and stealthily open the door, there he is, looking so mouthwateringly hot that I’m tempted to go for round two.

Wait, am I insane?

“Are you stalking me by the bathroom now?” I snap, as angry at myself as I am at him.

“What?” he asks, frowning, then winces.

I should be glad he’s also suffering, but the opposite is the case. “Forget it.” I take a breath to clear my head. “I’d better go.” Before I somehow end up in his bed again, or on that mattress on the floor. Or on the carpet. Or the bare floor.

The temptation is shockingly strong.

“Wait.” He gestures toward said mattress. “Are you positive you’re okay?”

Is he mocking me? “Of course, I’m not okay,” I grit out. “I never should’ve slept with you, that’s for starters.” Understatement of the century. “I also shouldn’t have let you convince me to drink all that tequila.”

He does a double take. “I convinced you?”

“Whatever.” If I’m honest, maybe I played a bigger role in the tequila debacle than I’m willing to admit—and worse yet, maybe I used that as an excuse to end up in the exact situation we’re in. “I’m leaving now. Don’t you dare follow me.”

There. I stomp out, but a part of me—granted, that same insane part that wants more orgasms—hopes he doesn’t listen and chases me down.

But he doesn’t.

Which is good.

Right?

When I’m outside, I take out my phone and see a million texts from Richard.

Shit. Yet another blunder: after he gave us a ride to the stadium, I let Richard wait for us, then got drunk and forgot all about him.

I scan the messages guiltily. They start off being merely politely inquisitive, then slowly become more and more panicky.

I call him right away and spend a good fifteen minutes reassuring him that I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere, and that I could use a ride.

“I’ll be there in a minute,” he says, still sounding relieved that I’m not dead.

“A minute?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m still near the stadium.”

I’m the worst. “Did you sleep in the car?”

“Yeah, but it’s not a problem,” he says. “Just tell me that you are okay next time.”

Next time? There are walks of shame, but it seems I’ll have a ride of shame. “I’m so sorry,” I say earnestly.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he says again and hangs up.

There will not be a next time. If there’s any chance I might go out and get drunk, I’ll take an Uber.

Wait.

I did ride something I dubbed Uber last night.

A blush spreads over my whole body at the memory.

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