Romancing the Billionaire (Billionaire Boys Club #5)(44)
Author: Jessica Clare

She was gorgeous.

She was torturing him.

Violet gave him a brilliant smile as he walked toward her. “There you are. I’m positively starving.” Her hands went to her stomach, and of course his gaze was drawn to the cle**age practically spilling out of her top. “I need something in my mouth right now.”

Definitely torture.

When they sat down to dinner, instead of their regular table, Violet insisted on a booth. And when he sat down at the booth, she slid in next to him. “I figure I can peek over your shoulder while you do some more research online about wheels in Santorini. I’m sure we’ll eventually hit on the connection.”

He stared down at her, trying to keep his face impassive. Violet was short, her head only coming up to his shoulder when she stood. He liked that she was tiny, but tonight he both loved and hated it, because whenever he looked over at her, he had a bird’s-eye view of what might be the best cle**age in all of the Mediterranean.

And he had to act like he wasn’t affected, because they were supposed to be friends.

Jonathan pulled out his tablet and tried to focus his gaze on it and only it. Looking over at Violet would just mean more staring at her magnificent torso. And he couldn’t stare if he was her friend, because nothing about that pair of br**sts screamed friend to him. They screamed for attention, for his mouth, for touching, for hours of attention to be lavished upon them.

When the waitress put a glass of water down in front of him, he grabbed it and sucked it down, trying to ignore the fact that his arm brushed Violet’s breast. Goddamn it.

“Can you pull up the poem?” Violet asked him, her voice low. She leaned in close to read over his shoulder, and her br**sts brushed against his arm again.

“Of course,” he said, glad for the table surface that would hide his erection. He mentally willed it to go away even as he pulled up the all-too-familiar file and held the tablet out to her.

She didn’t take it, just leaned against his arm and read, her lips moving in a way that made him think of sex. Then again, everything she did made him think of sex.

After a moment, she shook her head. “I’ve still got nothing. You?”

How on earth could she possibly expect him to be able to concentrate when her thigh pressed against his in the booth and every movement made her magnificent br**sts rub up against him? “Nothing.”

She leaned a bit closer and pointed at the first paragraph of the poem that had them stumped. “‘Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud.’ It mentions fortune and wheels several times in there. You don’t think we need to look for a local fortune-teller, do you?”

“We can do whatever you like,” Jonathan said briskly, offering her the tablet again.

She ignored it and nudged his arm. “We’re supposed to solve this together.”

“I’m afraid I’m no help on this. I shall be the pockets, you can be the brain.”

Violet gazed at him with a frown on her pretty face, but she let it go.

They ate their dinner in silence, Violet picking at her food. He scarfed his own down as quickly as possible so he could get back to his room and jerk off. Sad how he was now needing to seek release for his body on a regular basis. Just being around Violet cranked his libido to the extreme.

Violet ordered a dessert. He declined, and since he didn’t want to seem rude and abandon her, got a coffee for himself. The dessert was a confection of whipped cream over cake, topped with a cherry, and it made him think of her br**sts again, how they were soft, pillowy mounds tipped by cherry-red ni**les, and . . .

And hell. He needed that cold shower as soon as possible.

She took a small spoonful of the dessert and lifted it to her lips. When she gave a small moan of pleasure, his entire body went rigid in response.

“Oh, my God, this is so good. Do you want a taste, Jonathan?”

He looked over at her—damn it, he needed to quit looking over, because now he had an eyeful of her deep cle**age, so creamy and looking far more delicious than any dessert. And even though he should have told her no, when she lifted the spoon toward him, he opened his mouth for it.

She fed him the bite, watching him expectantly. He tasted nothing, his mind full of Violet’s skin, Violet’s taste. “Good,” he said gruffly, and nearly groaned aloud when she licked her own lips again. He wanted to thank every deity in the world when she didn’t offer him another bite, and grimly drank his coffee, staring ahead at nothing.

It was the longest dinner in the world. By the time the check arrived and he paid, he’d ignored Violet as she moaned and chatted her way through her dessert, licking her fingers and lips with gusto. He paid, and he got the hell out of there.

As soon as he was back in his room, Jonathan practically ran for the damn shower. He turned it on—straight-up cold—and began to undress, ripping his clothing off. He’d jerk off a few times and then maybe he’d be able to concentrate on something other than Violet. He hoped. Christ, he was reaching for his c**k more often than a schoolboy lately.

A knock sounded at his door. Cursing, Jonathan zipped his pants again. When his c**k continued to jut out, a blatant sign of what he was about to do, he reached into his pants and adjusted himself, flattening the length and tucking the head of his c**k against his belt. It was painful, but f**k it. A little pain might distract him. With that, Jonathan headed for the door, shirtless.

A quick look through the peephole showed that it was Violet. Concerned, he unlatched the door and opened it. “Is everything all right?”

Her gaze went to his na**d chest, and then she looked up at him. He could have sworn her eyelashes fluttered a bit. “I do have a bit of a problem. Can we talk?”

“Of course.” He opened the door wider and gestured for her to enter. If Violet had a problem, it was his problem as well. His heart panged. He hoped she wasn’t asking to leave; he wasn’t ready to let her go yet. Even if her being here tortured him, it was the sweetest, most delicious torture he’d ever experienced, and he wasn’t about to give it up. He turned to face her, hating the slight frown marring her forehead. “What can I help you with?”

“I, well, it’s hard for me to say.” She twisted her hands and bit her lip, then began to pace in his room.

Damn it, she was going to ask to leave, wasn’t she? Fury and possessiveness swept through him, and he clenched his fists as he slammed the door to his room. “If you’re asking to go home, my answer is no. Not until we find whatever it is your father left us.”