Page 21 of Billionaire Devil

I sit in the driver’s seat and turn on the engine. I’ve already got our route planned, the playlist organized and the GPS ready. Details I took care of while she was in the shower, to distract myself from visualizing rivulets of hot water gliding down her plush, naked body. Over her tight nipples. Down her stomach to her soft, sweet?—

Fuck. I said calm the fuck down, not spiral into fantasizing about how hot the sex with her is going to be.

So I focus on the sleek dashboard. This machine is growing on me. The windshield rounds the corners of the side of the bus to give better visibility and the two leather seats are what sold me on this RV—at 3 a.m., when one ofmy assistants (not Sloane, she was too wasted) finally got through to the owner of the dealership, who couldn’t believe I was willing to pay his asking price.

The driver and passenger seats are huge, leather, they recline all the way and they have every kind of gadget known to mankind, including a massage feature.

Won’t hurt to keep my girl nice and relaxed, I figured.

Would you listen to yourself? “Your” girl?

Yes. I made that decision last night. Around thirty seconds after meeting her. For one week, she’s mine. I’m going to awe her, charm her, teach her and show her the time of her life.

And then what? Let her go? Hand her over to the dipshit?

I have three thousand miles to figure that out.

“You ready?”

She’s back in the kitchen now, opening cupboards and the fridge, which is stuffed full of food, Moët and bottled water. “Did you get all this stuff?” she asks.

“Affirmative.”

“Can you stop saying ‘affirmative,’” she laughs, mimicking my deep voice as she says the word. “What are you, the Terminator?”

“You can call me whatever you want, baby girl.”

More laughter, and I’m even more beguiled by the sound than I was last night. “I can’t believe you got more champagne.”

“Hair of the dog, sweetheart. You’ll want one later, I guarantee it.”

“It would probably kill me at this point.”

“I doubt that. Come on. Get your sweet little ass up here and buckle up. I’ve never driven one of these things before. Safety first.”

Lila comes up to the front and takes her seat. The scent of her fruity shampoo makes me want to feast on her mouth, which is becoming a painful problem.

Especially when she smiles sort of insolently. “I’m going to ignore the ‘baby girl,’ ‘sweetheart’ and ‘sweet little ass’ comments, but only because you’re saving me from a very long, bumpy drive. My Toyota’s shock absorbers are totally shot.”

“That thing belongs in a museum. How are you feeling? Any better?”

“Yes. Much better. The shower and coffee helped. Thank you for the Americano, by the way. My electrolytes feel almost fully restored.”

“Glad to hear it, Sunshine.” The banter between us is so easy it feels like we’ve known each other a lot longer than twelve hours.

With Lila safely sitting down, buckled up and appearing to no longer be about to hurl, my first job is maneuvering the RV out of this narrow street and out onto the open road without flattening anything or anyone. A girl I used to know once told me there’s something very attractive about a man who’s a good driver, and of all the things women have told me, for some reason that one stuck. I have no idea why my numberone priority in life has become impressing the hungover little goddess next to me, but I have other things to worry about right now.

Gripping the wheel, I ease the RV backwards and forwards, attempting to get out of the space that suddenly feels way too small for the Goliath I somehow squeezed into it.

I murmur, more to myself than her, “This can’t be any harder than driving a Zamboni, am I right?”

“A Zamboni? When did you drive one of those?”

“In college once. Just as a prank. We got hold of one and drew a cock and balls on the ice one time as a joke.”

A sarcastic, “How hilarious.”

I smirk at her. “It was, actually.”

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