The Billionaire's Favourite Mistake: Billionaires and Bridesmaids 4 (13 page)

He was all too happy to give her more.

By the time they called the kissing session for the night, Greer staggered back out to her car, dazed, and was shocked to see that only an hour and a half had passed since she’d first stepped into the hotel room.

My goodness. She sat in the car, staring ahead of her, keys in the ignition and all but forgotten.

Okay, so that was kissing. Real kissing. Greer touched her mouth in wonder. It felt swollen and just a little bit raw from all the kissing she’d done. And . . . it felt wonderful. More than wonderful, it felt sexy and powerful and needy at the same time. All of her was needy, actually. Between her thighs, she throbbed with heat, and her nipples felt like they’d turned to stone, they were so hard. Her entire body felt liquid and delicious . . . and aching.

If the night in the gardens had been like this . . .

It was confusing, too. After the marathon kissing session? Where Asher had done nothing but kiss the hell out of her and ask her if he was doing it right?

It was clear that the man knew how to kiss. It was clear that he hadn’t picked it all up from her printouts or from watching a romantic movie or two.

Greer might have been naïve, but she wasn’t stupid. It was obvious that Asher was pretending to need to “practice” with her . . . but to what end? That was the part she kept coming back to. Did he want to be friends again? Friends didn’t give friends scorching tongue kisses. Friends didn’t suck on the earlobes of other friends and ask them if they liked it or if they wanted more.

Friends sure didn’t ask friends to give them their mouth.

And friends didn’t shove themselves against other friends like wanton hussies and demand those kisses.

She pressed a hand to her flushed cheeks. She’d known the moment he’d started to nip at her earlobe that this was an experienced man. She should have pulled away and demanded answers. Instead, he’d come close to kissing her, demanded that she ask for more, and what had she done? Thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him.

So she was complicit in this.

She was so, so confused.

She put her seat belt on, started the rental car, and drove back to her father’s mansion, her mind replaying the evening over and over again.

Kissing
practice, of all things. More like an excuse to kiss her for the next few days. No, wait. The next week, and then they would move on—heaven help her—to more intense sessions. Her entire body prickled with awareness at the thought.

She should have been mad. She should have been furious that he’d clearly lied to her about his skill. Or rather, she’d told him he was terrible at it and he’d never corrected her. It had suited him to let her think that. But why get a month of sex practice out of her?

Out of
her
?

That was the part she kept coming back to. What was it about Greer that he wanted? She wasn’t so naïve that she thought he’d somehow fallen in love with her. And Vegas was full of women who would take their clothes off—or more—for the right amount of money. It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford sex. Heck, she doubted he’d even have to pay someone. He could just flash his charming smile at them and they’d fall into his arms, just like she did.

It had to be something with the baby, then. A surge of protectiveness shot through her. It was her baby. He didn’t deserve to be in their lives, not after that night in the gardens. But . . . if it was the baby, why had he agreed to give up all parental rights? She’d seen the contracts sent by his lawyer and had sent them on to hers to look over one last time before she signed. All was in motion, and they were both upholding their parts of the bargain.

Could it be that he really didn’t think he was good at sex?

She was so confused.

She was intrigued, too, as much as she hated to admit it to herself. Tonight’s kissing had set her body on fire. It had made her want more. It had made her wish desperately that she had a vibrator to let off some of the tension in her body. So as much as she was frustrated with Asher and didn’t trust him?

She was going back to his hotel room tomorrow night for the next session and not saying a thing about figuring out his plan. If she kept her mouth shut, she got a month of sex “practice” with him—practice that involved him doing his best to please her and make her feel pleasure.

What was the harm in that? It wasn’t as if he could get her pregnant.

It was just harmless sex . . . and she was honest enough to admit that she was looking forward to more of everything.

By the time she pulled up into the long, winding driveway of the Dutchman castle, she was feeling a bit more like herself. Greer smoothed her hair, adjusted her glasses, and then plucked her purse out of the passenger seat and headed in via the staff entrance.

“That you, Greer?” Marta called from the kitchen the moment Greer shut the door behind her.

She winced. Sometimes it was really frustrating having the staff entrance be right off the kitchens. Marta liked to know everything that was going on, and this was one particular thing she wouldn’t have minded keeping a secret. She hesitated, then took a few steps forward and peeked into one of the kitchen doors. “It’s me. Just heading up to my room.”

“Sit, sit,” Marta encouraged, gesturing at the near-empty kitchen. A fleet of cake pans was laid out on the main stainless steel table, and flour seemed to be everywhere.

There was no escaping. Steeling herself, Greer pasted an “everything’s totally fine and I wasn’t just making out with the guy that got me pregnant” smile on her face and headed in. “Working late?”

“The engagement party is tomorrow night,” Marta said, scraping a wooden spoon on one of the batter bowls. “I have to get these cakes ready for icing in the morning.” She set down the bowl and then bustled over to the refrigerator. “I made you some tarts, as well. You need to eat more.”

“I don’t want to bother you—”

The cook tsked and pulled out a foil-covered tray, unwrapping it and setting it in front of Greer. “You eat those and I’ll get you some milk. You need to feed that baby.”

The pile of apple tarts did look awfully appetizing. Each one was made with a distinctive flower-shape cut into the dough, and gooey frosting had been drizzled on the tops. She picked one up and took a bite—the crust melted into her mouth, and she wanted to moan with pleasure. Maybe she could steal Marta away from her father and drag her back to New York. “This is wonderful,” Greer told her, wiping away a mouthful of crumbs.

Marta placed a tall glass of milk in front of Greer, beaming. “Gotta figure out something to keep food down in that belly of yours.” As Greer began to drink, Marta patted her on the shoulder and then bustled back to her cake batter. “Once you’ve finished eating, maybe you can tell me what you’re doing sneaking in so late?”

Greer froze. She took another sip of milk, and pretended to keep drinking.

“Come on,
mamacita
. I know you better than your father does.” Scrape, scrape went the spoon. “Put down that milk and tell me who you’re seeing. You’ve got a guilty look in your eyes.”

She put down the glass and picked up another tart. “Would you believe me if I said it was nobody important? Just business?”

“I would,” Marta agreed, “If it wasn’t for the fact that you’ve got stubble burn all over your cheeks.”

Oh, mercy. Greer felt a flush heat her face. “Busted.”

“Busted indeed.” Marta put the bowl aside and picked up a round cake pan, tapping the side of it with the flat of her hand to get the bubbles out. “You need to think about that baby, Miss Greer. Your mother, god bless her, was not much of a thinker and you need to be different. That baby needs its mama.”

She knew. “I promise it’s no one important. Just . . .” Oh, goodness. How could she possibly explain?
It’s the father of the baby and we’re just practicing kissing together like two teenagers instead of grown adults.
That would not fly. “Just trust me when I say I have it all under control.”

“Mmm.”

Great, now she felt like a guilty kid. “I promise I’m being smart, Marta.”

The cook sighed and put the cake pan down. She shook her head at Greer, and for a moment looked so sad that it made Greer’s heart ache. “I know you’re smart, baby girl. I just . . . I worry. Since you arrived on the doorstep, eight years old and no mama, I worried about you. Your father . . .” She rolled her eyes and wiped her hands on her apron. “Your father is good with business and terrible with family.”

“I know.”

“I know you know. But that’s why I look out for you, Greer. I think of you like one of my daughters.”

Tears blurred Greer’s eyes. She got up from her seat and went to hug the cook. “I’m so stealing you when I go back to New York.”

“Pssssht.” Marta hugged her and patted Greer’s back. “Your father would riot if he didn’t have my pancakes every morning.”

“I’ll pay more than him.”

“It’s not always about money,” Marta said, beaming at Greer. She tucked a lock of hair behind Greer’s ear. “You’re not the only one I have to look after here.” For a moment, she looked sad. “Your father . . . he did not think about those three girls when he decided to put together this wedding.”

Guilt surged through Greer. The tabloids were not getting kinder with every day that passed. “You noticed?”

Marta shook her head. “Like I said, your father. Good with business, not good with family. He should be nicer to those girls. They adore him and he treats them . . . well, like they’re servants.” She raised an eyebrow at Greer. “Dirty servants, but still servants.”

“Now there’s a visual,” Greer murmured.

The cook patted her on the shoulder again. “I just don’t want you finding yourself making a mistake you can’t escape, Miss Greer. Look at those three girls. One of them is going to marry your father. The other two are going to . . . what? Have a career in porn once he’s done with them?”

Greer flinched. Her mother had done porn once she’d broken up with Stijn. It had not turned out well.

Marta clucked. “I didn’t mean it like that, baby girl. I’m just running my mouth. Go sit, eat.” She put her hands on Greer’s shoulders and turned her back toward the table. “I just like to worry over everyone under my roof.”

As Greer sat down and dutifully took a bite out of a third tart, Marta placed cake pans in the oven. She wasn’t wrong, though, Greer thought. One of those girls was going to marry her father and the other two would . . . what? End up the laughingstock of the Internet? Hide away until the furor went down? Start a life in porn like her mother did?

None of the options sounded like good ones to her. Maybe Marta was right to worry.

***

Asher: Morning, you there?

Greer: I was just about to start our daily wedding meeting. The triplets are here. Where are you?

Asher: That’s what I’m texting about. There was a work emergency & I had to fly back.

Greer: To NYC?

Asher: I’m afraid so. I’m hoping to be back in Vegas by the weekend.

Greer: But what about our deal?

Asher: Guess we’ll have to skip a few days in kissing week. Or should we extend our deal by a few days?

Greer: No! We said we would be done by the wedding and we need to stick to that.

Asher: You’re in charge. We’ll just skip some of the kissing lessons. I thought we did okay. What did you think?

Greer: Gotta go. When will you be back?

Asher: Friday or so. Maybe Saturday. So
 . . . kissing? Scale of one to ten?

Greer: I’m not rating you!

Asher: I’m going to take that as at least an 8 then. Maybe 8.5

Greer: Shouldn’t you be working?

Asher: Shouldn’t you?

Greer: I am warning you, I’m texting if something comes up that needs a Stijn decision.

Asher: Fair enough. I do need to go though. Meeting. Later.

Asher smiled down at his phone, then tossed it aside onto the empty spot in the hotel bed next to him. She didn’t rate him, but she didn’t disagree with his 8.5 or higher. That was a good sign. He’d noticed that when Greer got nervous, she tended to try to change the subject. He was learning all the little tells she had. Or rather, he was remembering them anew.

He relaxed and stared up at the ceiling. Now, what to do for the next three days? He hadn’t flown back to NYC like he’d told her. That was a lie. It was just that, after she’d staggered out of his room last night, he’d realized that he was moving too fast. He’d been hoping for the kissing to last several days. After last night’s heated make-out session? He’d have been lucky to go a week without bending her over the couch and nailing her.

The days away would give him a break. It’d give her time to think, too. He wanted to give her space. This little plan of his wasn’t about crowding her—it was about making her realize that she still wanted him after all. And if that meant he’d have to forego a few nights of kissing?

He’d just have to masturbate a hell of a lot to make up for it.

Or work. He supposed he could do that. He grabbed his laptop off his nightstand and logged into his email. Even though he’d recently hired a new CEO that was good at taking things off of his plate, he still needed to check in now and then.

And
then
he’d masturbate to thoughts of Greer.

***

Gretchen: So I’m thinking about wedding flowers. You busy?

Greer: Not too busy. What’s up?

Gretchen: Are roses for the wedding too cliche?

Greer: Not at all.

Gretchen: Oh, good. Because you know Hunter has a thing for roses. It would just make things pretty special for us.

Greer: Not a problem, we could do some nice arrangements.

Gretchen: Okay, so I was thinking of one particular rose.

Greer: Hey, so what do you think it means when you make out with a guy and he leaves town the next day?

Gretchen: The rose “Blue Girl” has a special meaning for us, so I was thinking that one.