Shopping for a Billionaire 3(16)
Author: Julia Kent

And a small table for two with candles in large crab buckets filled with seashells is the source of the incredible smell that makes my mouth water and my stomach beg for mercy.

Declan has that effect on me, too, but right now I am all about the meal. I need some calories. Sustenance. Protein, because one of those sofas is so big and covered with a small Matterhorn of pillows, and the entire room is like a woman’s idea of the perfect sex den.

Which it is.

His arm sweeping out in a welcoming gesture, he invites me to sit at the table. I see a plate full of chocolate-covered strawberries, cheese, and a bottle of white wine.

“You know me well.”

“I want to know you better.” Declan pulls out the chair and I sit, scooching in, my hand reaching for one of the strawberries without thinking. The bite is sweet and juicy, the chocolate smooth and creamy, and this time, there are no bees to ruin my mouthgasm.

Declan sits across from me and leans back, his hands at his navel, eyes piercing. “You come here often?” he asks. 

“Nice pickup line,” I mumble through a mouth full of awesome. I swallow and look right back at him. “But you should know I’m a sure thing.”

His throaty laugh makes me tingle in all the right places. Again? Again? Confession time: I’ve never had sex twice in one night with a guy. Given a b**w j*b and had sex? Yes. But actual sex sex twice in the same night? Nope. I’m at a loss here, frankly. We, um, did the deed. Now we’re eating dinner. This sumptuous room is designed for nothing but rolling in the sheets.

Or lack of sheets. Naked on that soft, velvety couch. Or the rug. Or just…naked. Anywhere. My eyes drift to the glass walls facing the ocean, the sound of waves lapping against the island’s shores like the blood pounding through me. Imagine making love while looking out into the expansiveness of—

“You’re deep in thought.” Declan’s pouring two glasses of wine and I didn’t even notice him stand and uncork the bottle. It’s getting hot in here. I finish my strawberry and smile at him, reaching for the wine.

Which I promptly drink in a series of gulps that would make any NBA player on a time-out proud.

“This is unbelievable, Declan,” I say, looking around. “How did you find this? Is it a restaurant? It doesn’t look like one.”

“It’s ours for tonight.”

“That’s it? C’mon. Explain.”

He smiles. “Okay. I donate money to a historical preservation society that works on buying and restoring lighthouses. This one isn’t in danger, but plenty of others are. I know someone who knows someone who sacrificed a few small animals to give me access to this place. It’s the only lighthouse within a short helicopter ride from Boston. I hired a few people to outfit the place to my specifications and…here we are.”

“I think that’s the most you’ve ever said to me in one breath.”

He shrugs. “You insisted.”

“Why?”

“Why did you insist?”

“No. I mean, why all this?” I throw my hands up. “This. You didn’t need to do this for me.”

“I didn’t need to. I want to.”

“Why?”

“For the same reason you’re here.”

Letting go of this nagging “why me” voice is harder than I thought. I imagine Chuckles looking at me with disapproval, shaking his head. The man just made love to me in a limo, for goodness’ sake. Of course he wants me. Of course he likes me. At the rate I’m going, I’ll ruin this, so—

Let

It

Go

Great. Now I have the theme song from Frozen stuck in my head forever. Yeah. Sure. Try making love with that pinging through your brain. Disney characters are only aphrodisiacs for people who troll FetLife.

Declan’s eyes have narrowed and he’s watching me. “You really do wear your emotions on your face.”

“And in my hands,” I add, flailing them. He’s been wearing his suit jacket this whole time—even when we were doing the nasty back in the limo—and now he slips out of it, stretching the fabric across the back of a cloth-covered dining chair that’s primly tied with a neat bow.

His shoulder muscles ripple with movement under his shirt and I realize I’ve never seen him naked. Never even seen him shirtless. My breath comes in sudden halts as it hits me that I’m really here. Mr. Grey Suit is in front of me in an intimate, romantic setting he created for me, and this is my real life.

He unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls them up. I’m hypnotized. I can’t stop watching as his deft fingers go through the motions like a performance, his eyes tilted down and watching what he’s doing, making himself comfortable.

He’s spent so much time thinking about my comfort. Focused on me. My eyes eat him up, enjoying not just the view but the intimacy of this moment. So simple. So ordinary. Just a man on a date in a new relationship, rolling up his sleeves after a long day at the office, waiting to sink into a lovely dinner and some nice sexy time.

Except he’s flown across countless time zones, interrupted my pseudo-date with my ignorant ex, had his way with me in a limo, flown me in a helicopter to a remote island, and now he has me (voluntarily) trapped on a remote island where anything could happen.

So not ordinary.

“Enjoying yourself?” His voice is warm milk and burnt sugar and rum-soaked ladyfingers with hot fudge sauce and an invitation to spend a weekend on Martha’s Vineyard on the beach without clothes or other people. 

“I really like what I see.” It helps that I just felt his abs underneath me and they roll like Ben Wa balls, sleek, sexy and hypnotically solid.

“Me, too.” He reaches for my hand and takes a long, slow sip of his wine. My own gulp earlier is kicking in, loosening me, making me want to run my legs against silk sheets and the soft strands of his leg hair, imagining his na**d body and his own happy trail leading down…

I don’t have to imagine it, though, do I? I’m about to live it.

Without comment or affect, Declan lifts the covers off our plates, revealing lobster and steak. “I hope you’re not allergic to shellfish,” he says dryly.

“No, thank God. I love lobster.” We smile at each other, and something’s different. I face it head on.

“Speaking of allergies, thank you. I didn’t know about your brother.”

“Of course you didn’t. But now you do.” He picks up his silverware with hands that are steady. Mine are shaking like a four-year-old with a pogo stick on Christmas morning.