Page 242 of The Billionaires

I empty my mind and just picture anonymous boobs and butts.

Nope.

The face they’re attached to is Jane’s.

Shit. I also realize that I might’ve lied to Jane when I said I was celibate. Does choking the chicken make you not celibate?

Whatever. Even my epistemological musings are related to Jane.

Must think of disembodied boobs. And butts.

I fail yet again because an image of Jane’s oh-so-kissable lips invades my mind—and they are wrapped tightly around my cock.

And just like that, I come.

CHAPTER 15

JANE

I wake up groggy—and pretty certain I dreamed of Adrian painting me naked while I was covered in whipped cream. Or was it that he drew on me with whipped cream? No, I got it. He made a statue of me… out of marshmallows.

What could that possibly signify? I guess that depends on whether he ate the statue afterward or turned it into smores.

“Wake up!” Mary shouts and knocks on my door. “You’ve got to see this!”

“Go away!” I shout back.

“It’s crazy,” she says. “Come on.”

“Fine.” I get dressed and stumble out of my room.

“Living room,” Mary says.

I let her lead me downstairs, where I greet Mom—and almost trip over a vase full of flowers.

Wait a second. There are vases with flowers everywhere: on the kitchen table, on the floor, even inside the microwave.

“What the hell?” I ask.

Mom beams at me. “Seems like now that your courtship isn’t secret anymore, Adrian has sent you all the flowers he always meant to send you, in one shot.”

Yeah. Turns out the living room is just the tip of the flower iceberg. Our whole driveway is littered with the stuff.

“Can you give some of these away to the neighbors?” I ask. “I don’t think we can fit them indoors, even if we covered every inch of the space.”

“Yeah,” Mom says. “He must not realize how small our place is. But if you invited him here…”

There’d have to be an arctic chill in hell.

“I’m going to go brush my teeth,” I announce. “If someone could free my chair and a plate’s worth of space on the table, I would be much obliged.”

I do as I said and wash my face as well.

Over breakfast, Mom peppers me with questions about Adrian, the answers to which I don’t know.

Just as I’m finishing up, my phone rings.

“Is it him?” Mom demands.

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