Page 111 of The Billion Heirs Boxed Set
Holy. Shit.
My mouth opens slightly and I reach out and set my beer on the bar, not taking my eyes off her. I pull her in close so I can whisper in her ear. I’m a big guy so even when I’m leaning against the stool, we’re at eye level.
“You’re not wearing any panties right now?” I whisper.
My dick is completely hard and I shift on the stool to get more comfortable.
She shakes her head and whispers back, “No.”
Fuck me.
I pull back, meet her eyes. Her irises are almost all black. Her cheeks are flushed. She licks her lips.
“You drunk?” I ask.
I’m not doing this with a woman who’s trashed. What she’s asking might be a silly bachelorette party game, but when panties are involved, I like consent every step of the way. No matter what a trashed woman says, there isn’t any consent, in my mind.
She shakes her head. “One glass of wine. I have to work tomorrow.”
Good.
“So tell me, Sober Sadie. Wouldn’t it be a shame to give me your panties and not get anything out of it?”
A little frown forms on her brow. “Oh?”
“You might as well get an orgasm. Right? I mean, you’re not wearing any panties. I can just lift that skirt and sink my fingers into your pussy. I bet you’re wet, aren’t you?”
She hasn’t slapped me yet, so I keep on going. I could get into this. My burger is getting cold, but the woman before me is getting hot. I can feel her warmth against my palm. See it with my eyes. If the place weren’t potently scented with beer and greasy fries, I could probably even pick up the aroma of her heady arousal.
“Oh my God.”
I set my other hand on her waist and pull her in even closer so our centers touch. She can’t miss my hard length in my jeans and I can’t miss her scalding heat. My pinky fingers curl and lift the back of her skirt an inch or so.
“I’ll take those panties,” I say, “but I’m a giver. Want to come on my fingers in return?”
2
SADIE
“I don’t even know your name,” I tell him, not able to tear my eyes away.
He’s gorgeous. And direct. And wants to give me an orgasm.
“Miles.”
His sandy colored hair has a slight curl and because it’s a little long on top, it falls over his forehead. His eyes are also fair, but still piercing. He’s tan as if he’s been in the sun, but he’s not a California surfer or a farmer, and he’s definitely not a Stetson-wearing cowboy like most of the men around here. Not with his dark denim and snug T-shirt. None of that hides his height—even sitting down—or his sturdy build. A few tattoos circle his well-defined biceps, but it’s the motorcycle helmet on the stool beside him that indicates he might be a bit of a bad boy.
In my line of work, I put those kinds behind bars. Profiling? Hell, yes. Especially when the guy offers to finger me for pleasure. At a bar.
Maybe I should flash him the badge I have in my purse. Or tell him to fuck off with his cheesy, over-the-top shit that guys usually spew with the hope of getting laid.
He doesn’t mention his dick coming out though. Only that he wants to put his hand up my skirt.
Am I thinking about his offer?
Yes. Is it stupid?
Maybe.
