Page 31 of The Billionaires

“Each other? I thought you knew all about me from your snooping.”

He shakes his head. “I know useless information, like your credit score. I need to know things a boyfriend would know… especially what Gram thinks a boyfriend would know.”

“Such as?”

He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling the thick strands in a strangely adorable way. “I don't know. I don’t do girlfriends.”

I grab another oyster. “So... I’m to teach you how to do a girlfriend?”

He frowns. “There is no doing you, contractually.” He pauses. “Having said that, Gram isn’t good with boundaries, so why don't we start there.” He looks me in the eyes. “What do you like?”

I flush, my mind returning to all my inappropriate fantasies. “Umm…” I know he doesn’t mean what it sounds like, but?—

“Sexually,” he clarifies.

I drop the oyster.

CHAPTER 13

LUCIUS

She’s again delightfully pink. Is she a prude? She didn’t seem like one until now. Either way, I need her to answer. For Gram, not for myself.

“What do you like?” I repeat. “In bed.”

“I guess…” She flushes brighter. “Kissing. Yeah, I like kissing.”

I wave my hand. “You and every other woman. What else?”

“Umm… massages.”

“Any specific types? Swedish, Shiatsu, Thai?”

“Foot,” she squeaks. Even the tips of her ears are delectably red now.

“Foot?” My own blood rushes to my face, then takes a swift southern turn. I’m pretty sure she did say ‘foot,’ and now I’m hard.

She holds her wine glass as if it were Captain America’s shield. “What’s wrong with foot massages?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “At all.”

“You’re not acting like it’s nothing.” She takes a careful sip of her wine.

Just in case, I hide my raging erection with a napkin. “It’s just a coincidence, that’s all.”

Oops. She spit-takes the wine. “You also like getting foot massages?”

The fucking napkin is tenting, so I banish the look of her glorious feet from my brain and keep my face dispassionate as I say, “Not getting… giving.”

Now her face turns even pinker, like a very girly flamingo.

This was clearly a bad idea. “I think we’ve covered this topic sufficiently. We?—”

I spot what’s-her-name with a tray and stop talking.

“Matcha panna cotta,” she announces and plops a tiny plate in front of each of us.

Juno is either happy about getting dessert, or—more likely—glad the get-to-know-what-you-like conversation is over.

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