Kitty Valentine dates a Billionaire Page 2

  Also, a bag bulging with liquor bottles isn’t usually a standard meet-cute accessory.

  “You know what? I think I’m okay.” Once I have the front door unlocked, I spin in place and take the bag back. “But thank you.”

  He takes this mini rejection well, turning his attention to the contents of the bag. There go my cheeks, flushing hotter than ever.

  “Having a party?” he asks, still good-natured.

  “Sure am. A party of one.” I somehow manage to smile in the face of my disappointment.

  He doesn’t need to know the sordid details of my depressing life. Though I guess when a person buys this much liquor all at once and admits they’re the only one drinking it, the message comes through.

  “Well, I’m Matt. It’s a shame it took this long for us to introduce ourselves.” He thrusts out his hand for a shake. “But I’m glad we finally had the chance.”

  “Me too. And I’m Kitty.” It’s not easy to keep from giggling when those eyes of his are locked on mine, and my hand is in his much larger, much stronger one.

  He’s going to have a truly wonderful idea of me once this is all over, isn’t he? It’ll be another year before he dares to talk to me again.

  Again, he eyes the liquor. “You can’t drink that all alone, you know.”

  “No?”

  “No. You’ll die. And in a few days, you’ll start to stink. And I’ll have to go in with the police to identify your body, and is that how you want me to remember you? In your bed?”

  Gulp. Yes, in fact, I would like him to remember me in bed. Preferably above me with the muscles of his shoulders flexing and bunching as he holds himself up. Or when he reaches down to stroke my cheek, to kiss me for the thousandth time.

  “Naked?” I blurt out.

  His eyes go wide. “Pardon?”

  “Would I be naked in this scenario?”

  “Uh, I think the bigger problem here is you being dead. Naked or otherwise.”

  “I’ll have to remember to keep my clothes on then.”

  He’s smiling again, though maybe it’s because he feels sorry for me and wonders if it’s safe for me to live alone.

  “Or you could not drink too much at once. Seriously, I’d hate to have to identify your body, no matter how much you’ve got on.”

  I can’t decide if he’s making fun of me, flirting with me, being neighborly, or feeling legitimately concerned that I might be the sort of person who’d drink all this alcohol at once.

  “Thanks. I won’t,” I mutter, reaching behind me to turn the knob and backing up just far enough to get into the apartment so he won’t see anything that might embarrass me. I’ve embarrassed myself enough. “See ya.”

  I then lean against the closed door with a sigh. I’m such an idiot. He was bound to find out sometime.

  That’s enough of that for today anyway. I have much bigger fish to fry than the matter of the hottie from across the hall. Such as how I’m supposed to write a really filthy, on-trend romance.

  Which means taking the liquor to the kitchen and deciding who to start the party with. “Will it be you, Mr. Jack Daniel’s?” I ask, tapping the top of the bottle with my nails. “Or you, Mr. Stoli? Ooh, Mr. Patrón. We haven’t gotten together in far too long.”

  Tequila it is.

  After a single shot, I get the heck out of my fancy work clothes and into my regular work clothes—a T-shirt, plaid pajama pants, and fuzzy slippers. After a second shot, I’m feeling slightly better about this business of dirty-writing. It can’t be that hard, can it? I’ve written best-sellers, for Pete’s sake. I can do this.

  So, I go to my office, which would be the bedroom just off the living room if I had a roommate. The apartment isn’t anywhere near huge, but it’s perfect for me—and it’s close enough to Central Park that I can take a walk there when I’m good and stuck in my work.

  I’m not stuck now, sitting behind my laptop and cracking my knuckles. Mind over matter. It’s all about attitude. I’ll start with a sexy scene to get the juices flowing … so to speak.

  Funny thing, but the notion of dirty sex is easier to manage so soon after talking with Matt. Maybe not so funny. Maybe I need to do more talking with him if the mere sight of his gorgeous face and body is enough to get me thinking along these lines.

  He caressed the petals of her silky folds.

  I type roughly half a page into the scene before he moves on top of her, sinking his …

  “Oh no,” I groan, rolling my eyes at myself. Missionary again.

  I must not have drunk enough.

  I take the laptop to the kitchen and pour another shot. There’s gotta be a way to do this that’ll be better for my liver, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And I’m desperate.

  By the time I take the fourth shot, I’m ready to go again. Only here’s the problem—well, two problems.

  For one thing, I just drank four shots, and they’re starting to hit me.

  For the other thing, missionary sex is just where my mind goes. Have I honestly only ever had sex in that one single position? I think back with a frown. Twenty-five years old, and I can only remember doing it that way—and once when we were both on our sides. So, two positions.

  No, three! I hold up a fist in triumph.

  There was that one time in college where he was behind me. Yeah, that’s something to be proud of.

  What I don’t need is alcohol. What I need is research.

  Short of having a guy handcuffed to my bed, there’s not much I can do besides ask the closest man in the vicinity. Which means taking one more shot for courage then darting across the hall before I can talk myself out of it.

  My knock inspires a fresh round of frantic barking, and I cringe in preparation for a golden retriever attack. Except Phoebe doesn’t come charging when the door opens. In fact, her barking and scratching at the door are quickly replaced by a softer whining noise.

  When the door opens, my jaw hits the floor. At least, that’s how it feels. Mr. Matt is now shirtless, a little out of breath, and just a bit sweaty, like he was in the middle of a workout. It takes real effort on my part not to think about the sort of workout I’d like to give him, especially when my eyes are naturally led down, down his defined chest and abs to the delicious, sharp V of muscle leading into his pants.

  Hot. Damn.

  If he notices my ogling, he has the decency not to call me on it. “Sorry it took me a minute to answer.” He grins. “I had to put Phoebe in her kennel, so she wouldn’t jump on you. What’s up?”

  What’s up? I can hardly remember why I came over here. “Uh … oh, right. What’s your favorite position?”

  “My favorite …” he mutters with a frown. “Are we talking politics? Or sex?”

  “Sex.” Please say missionary. Please prove me right.

  “Hmm.” He’s trying to look serious, but it’s not working. “I’d have to show you.”

  Now’s not the time to be sexy and adorable, particularly when I’m drunk and feeling vulnerable to his charm. “Please, tell me. This is important research.”

  “Research? In that case …” He taps a finger to his lips, smirking, and turns his eyes up toward the ceiling. “If I absolutely had to choose to only have sex in one position for the rest of my life, it would be reverse cowgirl.”

  “Really?” It’s not easy, trying to look serious and professional at a time like this. “That’s fascinating.”

  “Indeed.” He lowers his hands, placing them sideways in front of his hips like he’s holding on to something. Or someone. “I’m a butt man; what can I say? I like watching it bounce up and down when she’s riding me.”

  Jeez Louise. My mouth is suddenly bone dry. “Uh.” That’s all I manage to say. And I’m a writer.

  He shrugs. “What exactly is this research for, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Rather than come up with an answer—like, the truth for instance—my good friend Patrón gives me an idea. “You’re a nice-looking guy. I bet yo
u have a lot of sex. With all the girls you bring home on the nights you don’t get in until four in the morning.”

  He’s not smiling anymore. “You know when I come home?” he asks, taking a backward step to put more space between himself and the serial killer from across the hall, who’s been studying his habits. At least, that’s how I’d feel in his shoes.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Do you go out much?”

  “I’m the one asking questions right now,” I remind him, shaking a finger in his face. He’s starting to go a little blurry, truth be told. “And if you need to know, I work late at night. I’m usually awake until all hours.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a writer.” Right, and I’m holding my laptop to prove it. I thrust it his way. “Ta-da.”

  Of course, I sort of forgot what I was writing before I made this little trek across the hall. This might not have been the best time to present my work.

  It’s too late though since he has already taken the computer from me and is now reading. Aloud. “He caressed the petals of her silky folds? What do you write about? Flowers?”

  “No. Romance. How would you say that in a dirty way?”

  “It depends on what it means. What silky folds?”

  I roll my eyes. “Down there,” I whisper, pointing. “Her vagina.”

  His mouth twitches like he’s trying to hold back a laugh. “Oh. I see. If you write romance, don’t you know how to dirty it up on your own?”

  I have to sigh. I’ve been holding that sigh back all day, ever since the meeting with Maggie, and it feels good to let it out. “No. My books are sweet and wholesome. They focus on relationships, not on gratuitous sex. Think lovemaking instead. Only that’s not what’s selling right now, which is why I’m drinking. I need to get myself loosened up, so I can write what my editor wants to read. I have to learn how to write dirty sex.”

  “Now, it’s all coming together—no pun intended.” He winks.

  I’m a little too tipsy to figure out what that’s supposed to mean, so I only smile. “Right. So, what do I say? He shoved his big, hardened sex—no, manhood. No, his dick. Hmm. He shoved his big, hard dick?”

  He winces, wrinkling his nose like he just smelled something putrid. “Why don’t you say, He shoved his big, hard cock?”

  “Yes!” I squeal, clapping like mad. “This is the help I need! He shoved his big, hard cock into her … um … silky, moist … no. No, that’s not good. Her silky vagina that was all … wait! I know! Juicy for him. Huh?” I ask, feeling pretty proud.

  Until his nose wrinkles again, that is.

  “No offense, but that’s awful. Moist? Silky? How about, He shoved his hard cock into her sweet, wet pussy?”

  Gulp. Is it just the tequila, or is he not joking anymore? “That’s perfect,” I whisper. “Thanks. I’ll be going home now.” Except when I try to grab for the laptop, I can’t figure out which of the three in front of me to reach for. “I’m dizzy.”

  The last thing I remember is falling into a pair of strong arms.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The sun is rude.

  That’s the first thought to bubble to the surface of my dehydrated, hungover brain on waking up. How dare the sun shine in my face this way. Well, the sun was all the way on the other side of the world when I drank too much. It doesn’t know any better than to rudely awaken me.

  Drank too much.

  This isn’t my bed. The sheets are way too fancy.

  What happened?

  I have to pry open one eye to look around, sun or no sun. What did I do last night?

  The sight of a naked shoulder next to me is enough to inspire a screech of surprise and horror.

  Which inspires a dog to start barking, which inspires my head to pound harder than it already was.

  The shoulder flexes, moves, and suddenly, the person beside me is rolling over to give me a smile. I know that smile. Oh crap.

  “How are you feeling?” Matt asks with a knowing look.

  “Um … I’m not sure.” Because clearly, he doesn’t want the laundry list of everything running through my head. How did I end up in bed with him? Did we do it? If so, how could I possibly forget having sex with this beautiful man?

  Then again, it’s all a blank after a certain point. My memory’s a total wash.

  “You were kind of messed up last night,” he explains, sympathetic. “You passed out in my arms actually.”

  Okay, so that pretty much makes me want to die of embarrassment. “What then?” I ask in barely a whisper. I’m not even sure I want to know.

  “And then I laid you down on my couch, out in the living room. I made sure you were still breathing okay. No offense, but I couldn’t stop thinking about that bag of liquor bottles from yesterday. I was afraid you might really have alcohol poisoning. I almost took you to the hospital. But you finally came to and said you only had four or maybe five shots of tequila. Painful, but it didn’t seem like that would kill you.”

  “So, how did I end up in your bed?” I can’t believe I have to ask this, but that’s what happens when a girl who doesn’t normally drink that much at once just so happened to forget to eat anything beforehand. I don’t think I’ve ever been so humiliated.

  Oh, wait, things can always get worse.

  I sit up, facing away from Matt because I’m too embarrassed to look at him, and throw back the blankets. The cool morning air hits my skin. All of my skin. Like, my entire body.

  “I’m naked!” I shriek, covering myself up again. “Oh my God! Did we—”

  “No!” Matt laughs, and for a second there, I’m wondering if he finds the idea of sexing me truly hilarious. He’s certainly laughing hard enough. “No, you stripped your clothes off. Actually, you got partway—your pants—before you fell down and threw up all over yourself.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did. And on my rug. Anyway, you wanted to get into bed, and I figured that was safer than letting you fall down again and actually hurting yourself. Only I wasn’t about to let you get into bed with puke on your clothes. Don’t worry,” he adds when I just about faint. “I was a good boy and didn’t peek. Notice how bundled up you were. We weren’t even sharing a blanket.”

  He’s right about that. I was pretty much a burrito in my blanket while he’s still covered in another one. That bodes well.

  Even so, I have no choice but to put my hand over my face and shake my head. I can barely take a peek at him from between my fingers.

  Though I do take a peek, and what I see almost makes me forget how bad my head feels and how I wish I hadn’t had so much to drink. I dated in college, but they were just boys.

  Matt? He’s all man. His brown hair’s a little mussed. His cheeks are covered in scruff that only makes him harder to resist. His eyes, I notice, aren’t brown like I thought they were. They’re hazel, and in my writer’s mind, I imagine them changing color depending on the light and what he’s wearing.

  Has a man ever looked better in the morning? Especially shirtless, which definitely works in his favor.

  It only makes me feel worse, to be honest. “I’m so embarrassed.”

  He’s got it all together, and he looks great while I’m the messy chick from across the hall who threw up all over his apartment.

  “You don’t have to be. This sort of thing happens. If anything, I’m glad we hung out, and I finally know what you do for a living. I’ve gotta be honest. I thought you were either a flight attendant or a stripper.”

  “A stripper?”

  “Don’t worry; your performance last night would’ve killed that theory even if you hadn’t already told me you’re a writer.” He snickers, but he’s not being mean. Playful, if anything. “You have really odd hours. I’ve noticed things about you too. You’re not the only one who pays attention.”

  I don’t know if that’s a compliment or what.

  “And you’ve been a good neighbor on one account, for sure.”


  “What’s that?”

  “You order a lot of Chinese food. It’s gotten to the point where if you order, the restaurant calls me to see if I want anything too. And they waive my delivery fee.”

  “No fair!” It’s really not either since those fees can add up.

  He shrugs. “Next time you order lunch, maybe we could eat together. I work from home, same as you. It’s lonely sometimes.”

  “Ha!” I blurt. “You’re lonely? I’ve heard you going in and out at night. You’ve got quite the healthy social life going on. I can even smell your cologne sometimes. It’s not hang-out-at-home-alone cologne. Let’s not even get started on how my office is on the other side of this wall.” I point to the wall in question. “And some of the girls you bring home aren’t exactly quiet.”

  “Forget being a writer.” He smirks. “You should be a detective.”

  “Funny.” I smirk right back with a roll of my eyes. “And now that I’m thinking more clearly, why are you shirtless?” I wrap myself a little tighter in my—no, his—blanket and try to look as dignified as I can.

  He looks down at himself, like he didn’t know he was shirtless until just this second. “Oh, that. You puked on my shirt too. The one I put on after you passed out but before you decided to treat me to a clumsy striptease. I figured skin was easier to clean, so I’d better stay shirtless until I knew for sure you weren’t going to spew again.”

  With that, he sits up and throws his legs over the side of the bed. Phoebe must hear the movement of the springs because she lets out a bark in response. “I’ve gotta go take Phoebe for her run. Don’t forget to drink plenty of water today, okay?”

  I don’t have the chance to respond before he stands.

  Oh boy. I wasn’t prepared for this. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts that leave little to the imagination.

  And I’m a writer. I have a very good imagination. So good of an imagination in fact that I have to turn my back before the sight of Matt doing something as innocent as putting his clothes on makes my blood simmer dangerously.