Crushing On The Billionaire (Part 1) (6 page)

“I thought this was supposed to be a debate,” he said, his tone accusatory.

“That was my rebuttal,” I said, smiling as I licked my lips.

“Everything I said was true,” he told me, not taking his eyes off of my tongue as it slowly slipped back inside of my mouth.

“Everything you said was meaningless,” I retorted, looking at him through lowered lashes. “I don’t care what your age is. Shawn is my best friend, but he doesn’t factor into this. This feels like a second home to me, and it’s because I feel so close to you—romantically close. I don’t have daddy issues. I’m not looking for a daddy. What you felt at the bridge that morning, I felt it, too. I wanted you then, and I want you even more now. I think it would be a mistake not to pursue this, because I have real feelings for you, Patrick. This is the only life we get, and you’re the one I choose.”

That hand was back in my hair again, cupping the back of my head, pulling me forward into a kiss—hot this time, and sloppy. Another hand pressed against my back. I gave myself over to it and found myself straddling his lap, pressed up against his torso as his mouth bestowed wet kisses down my neck.

Our clothes seemed to divest themselves, and the hard body beneath his T-shirt and jeans reminded me of Patrick, the sea god, whom I’d witnessed leaving the pool all those years ago. I had to laugh.

“And just what in the hell is funny?” he asked, gruff, which made me laugh even harder.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just have to tell you…and this is embarrassing…but I’ve had a rotten crush on you ever since I saw you in the swimming pool that first time I came over with Shawn and some other kids to swim. I was just a freshman, and your body was…still is…incredible.”

“I remember that.” He resumed his kissing, cupping one breast and suckling on it until my nipple was hard and I was moaning. “Your attentions didn’t go unnoticed.”

It would’ve shamed me to know that he’d seen me looking at him, but it didn’t matter anymore. We were naked, in each other’s arms, grinding against every available surface, sprawled out on the floor. Of course we were attracted to each other. Of course we were.

Patrick reclined slightly, and I spread my legs, rubbing my pussy slowly against his trim waist, enjoying the dulled, warm pulses I got from that, the way he watched me pleasure myself in front of him. He urged me backward, and I pushed myself up, then slowly—very, very slowly—sank down, impaling myself inch by inch on his steely shaft.

It was a tight fit, and I had to breathe, just breathe, as my body adjusted to accommodate him. He’d told me that it had been a while for him, but it’d been a while for me, too. I didn’t like getting distracted from my photography, and it had been easy to watch Patrick from afar all these years so I’d been satisfied, in a way, to keep on going without this raw physicality.

Now, though, I was realizing how much I’d missed it. I’d missed this carnality, the brutal upward thrust as he pushed me onward, the pleasure-pain of my nipple rolled between his fingers.

We pushed and pulled at each other, clung to each other, hung on by threads at the pace we’d unwittingly set, breathless, unable to stop even if we had to.

“Loren, I’m not going to last,” he said hoarsely. “You have to slow down.”

“I can’t.” Something about that admission undid him, and Patrick threw his head back and howled at the ceiling, clutching my hips with bruising force, releasing into me.

I was there, right there, but his strength was flagging, and it didn’t matter. I’d loved watching him let himself go. It had been pure. I could get mine next time, maybe…

…and then I was upended, on my back, staring at the ceiling, dazed, and his mouth was on my clit, even as his own essence poured out of me, and he was sucking and lapping and tonguing, and it was all I could do to hold on to either side of his head as he feasted upon me—and I exploded.

I saw literal stars and streaks of color, as I came harder than I ever had in my life, even by my own hands. I gradually returned to myself, realizing that Patrick was spooning me tightly, snoring softly in my ear.

I turned in his arms to look at him, and my heart melted. He didn’t look his age when he was awake, but his face turned boyish in slumber. It was something I wished I could take a picture of…and something I didn’t dare to spoil.

“I should probably go,” I whispered in Patrick’s ear. He looked so peaceful sleeping that I didn’t want to disturb him, but I also didn’t want to just disappear. That would send the wrong message.

“I’ll take you,” he said, his eyes remaining closed.

“No. Sleep.”

“I’ll call a car.”

“No,” I said again, shaking my head, stroking his hair. “I want to savor this. I don’t want to share this moment with anyone else. I got myself here. I’ll get myself back to my apartment.”

He was too tired to protest, and so I pulled my clothes on and left, walking back to that lonely bus stop, sitting there with a fool’s grin spread across my face. I couldn’t believe that it had actually happened, but there it was. Patrick and I had made incredible love. We had feelings for each other. And this was just the beginning.

It was a long wait for the bus, and my grin faded away, bit by bit.

Everything was perfect, sure. Everything was great.

Now there was just the tiny task of telling my best friend that I’d had sex with his father.

There wasn’t a good time to confess it all to Shawn. He returned to school the following Monday energetic and eager after his trip to Sacramento.

“How did you know?” he demanded, seizing my shoulders and giving me a little shake.

“Know what?” I asked, nervous, casting around for some sort of excuse if Shawn had somehow caught wind of Patrick and me.

“Know that seeing my mom would give me the inspiration for the senior project?” Shawn pulled me in and kissed me all over my face with dramatic, smacking lips.

“Stop, Shawn—I said—stop it!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, still cheerful and not apologetic at all. I wiped slobber off my face and tried to smooth away my scowl. His father had been kissing all of that skin before him. Would that freak Shawn out to know? Most definitely.

“Seeing my mom was just what I needed to kick my ass into gear about the senior project,” he said, as we grabbed some lunch in the cafeteria.

“So, it was a good trip to Sacramento then,” I said, feeling a bit of relief that Shawn was too excited about his own weekend to try and pry into mine. I could just imagine how that conversation would go—
yes, Shawn, I had a great weekend. Slept with your dad. We have feelings for each other.
I couldn’t do that to him now. Not when he was feeling so empowered and confident in himself.

But I wouldn’t do it to him when he was down in the dumps, which usually followed an upswing like this. I had to catch him somewhere in the middle.

We sat outside; the heat wave had broken overnight, and it was cool and pleasant. Shawn launched into his sandwich, still talking excitedly around mouthfuls of food while I picked at my French fries.

“I guess I’m starting to realize why my dad always tells me I’m just like my mom,” Shawn was saying, washing his sandwich down with his drink. “I always thought it was kind of an insult, that I was wishy-washy or moody or whatever, but now I’m realizing it’s because she’s super creative. She likes to do crafts on her own time; she just guts these old books and makes them into something completely new. Have you ever heard of anything like that?”

“I think I’ve seen some pictures of that kind of thing before,” I said, nodding. “Kind of like reclaiming books?”

“Right,” he said, tearing off another hunk of his sandwich and chewing. “And when she was working on those, I had this vision. She was transforming one ordinary thing into something extraordinary, and I knew I wanted to do that for my senior project. I want to reimagine something that people see every day and make them see it differently.”

“That’s great, Shawn,” I said, smiling. “See? Now you’re ahead of me. You have a clear direction, and all I have are a million scattered ideas. So, are you going to transform books?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, almost gleeful. “That’s my mom’s thing, and I wouldn’t want to appropriate that. I’m going to transform people.”

“People?” I peered at him, not sure I understood the direction he was taking this.

“I’m going to paint people.”

“You’re going to paint portraits of people,” I clarified.

“Nope. I’m going to actually paint on people. Like they’re canvases.”

My interest was thoroughly piqued. “Really!”

“Yes, really,” he said, clapping his hands with unbridled excitement. “And here’s the other part. I want you to shoot photos of the models after they’re painted. Photos in the way you usually do. It’ll be a collaboration, and if you’re willing, it will be both of our senior projects.”

I grinned. “You just narrowed my senior project ideas down to one.”

“You’ll do it?”

“Of course I’ll do it. I’d love to do it. What an awesome idea, Shawn!”

Giddy, he hugged me tightly. I was so happy for him—and already itching to start shooting. For as much indecision that usually plagued him, Shawn was a gifted painter. I knew that his creations would be beautiful, and that my shooting the models displaying his art would be yet another masterpiece. It was a realization without ego; I knew it was going to be great. It was a great idea.

“The only thing is that we probably have to get permission,” he said. “I’ve never heard of anyone collaborating on a senior project before …”

“That’s probably because every art student here is too arrogant to want to collaborate with any of their peers,” I said, laughing.

“You’re probably right,” Shawn agreed, chuckling ruefully. “We are a stuck-up bunch. But I think we should ask permission from our advisers, anyway. Another hiccup is that we’re cross-pollinating—visual arts and photography.”

“The scandal!” I gasped, sarcastic. “Honestly, the biggest mantra of any of the professors here has always been urging students to think outside of the box, to challenge themselves, to not accept limitations.” I paused. Not accepting limitations—that was what had driven me to seek Patrick out, to demand answers, and to get them in a form I hadn’t quite expected, but that I had adored. I shook my head quickly. No need to think about that now.

“I think a collaboration that bridges the gap between visual arts and photography seniors in a culmination of our mutual educations here at the art institute is the perfect way to think outside of the box,” I finished, smiling. “They’re going to love it.”

“That’s exactly how you need to say it,” Shawn said, pointing at me excitedly. “Could you say that again, using the exact words that just came out of your mouth?”

“I…I think so.”

“Good.” He grabbed me by the hand and hauled me up. “Let’s go, then. Right now. We’ll meet with our advisers together.”

He was so gung ho that it was all I could do to grab my bag before being hustled across campus, our lunches forgotten. It was for the best; I didn’t really have an appetite before, when I was mulling over what to tell Shawn about my tryst with and my feelings for Patrick. Now, though, Shawn’s enthusiasm was catching, and I lacked an appetite for wholly different reasons. How could I be thinking about French fries and a foregone lunch when there was campus history to make and art to explore?

Two meetings later, Shawn and I were jumping up and down, squealing and hugging on the sidewalk in front of the photography studio. Mercedes had been just as intrigued and excited as we were at the announcement. Though outlines would have to be drawn up to ensure that both of us pulled equal weight throughout the project, we were instantly given approval and the planning could begin.

“Wait, wait!” I exclaimed, interrupting our impromptu celebration. “This is the beginning of the project. I already have to start documenting this.”

“What do you mean, documenting this?”

I whipped out my camera and squeezed off a couple of frames of our reflections in the tall windows of the photography studio. Then, I turned around and shot Shawn’s flushed, exhilarated face.

“I’m going to shoot the models you paint,” I told him, taking another picture. “But I also want to document the process. Just like Patrick says—the process is important.”

Shawn rolled his eyes. “Fine, the process is important,” he said. “Take one of both of us, then. Selfie time.”

I laughed at him but obliged, pressing my cheek to his and turning the camera around to capture our triumphant grins.

“That’s going to be the centerpiece of our exhibit,” Shawn declared. “I know it.” He kissed my cheek just as I pressed the shutter down—capturing his puckered lips and my wide-eyed expression. What was he doing? We were generally affectionate, but not like this. Could he possibly know about Patrick and me? Could he just be messing with me?

I went back to my apartment that night with a head full of ideas, good and bad, looking forward to starting our project. I could document everything—the process of selecting the models, buying the supplies, drafting the artwork designs, and actually shooting the act of Shawn painting the models before documenting the final project, which would be the photos that would go on display during our exhibition. All the rest, I could write thorough captions, and Shawn could write his thought process, and we could probably publish a hefty and detailed program to go along with the show. The professors would love it, and it would go above and beyond what we’d discussed with our respective advisers. Thinking outside of the box once again; they’d eat it up, and it would make our collaboration even more legitimate.

I was reaching for my phone to text Shawn my idea about the programs when it vibrated. Picking it up, I saw that it was Patrick, and my stomach contents fluttered.

Without making much of an effort to understand that peculiar feeling, I answered.

“Hey.”

“Hi, Loren. How are you?”

“Just fine.” I fidgeted. This was the first time we were talking after that night in the den. My own nervousness surprised me. I guessed I just didn’t want him to think that this was just another mistake. I didn’t want to have to convince him again that us being together was something worth pursuing.

Patrick paused a few seconds too long. “So…how was school today?”

I burst out laughing, and he soon joined me.

“How dare you small talk me?” I asked, giggling. “Why is this so awkward? It shouldn’t be awkward. We agreed that we had feelings for each other.”

“Yes, we did.”

“Tell me, then, oh wise one,” I said, grinning. “Why, after engaging in good sex—”

“—very good sex.”

“True. Okay. Why, after engaging in very good sex, do two people genuinely attracted to each other feel that they have to have awkward small talk in order to feel each other out?”

“Well,” Patrick began, and I could hear the smile in his voice, “from my wizened standpoint, it is polite for the male to contact the female following coitus to ensure that everything remains on friendly terms, and to hopefully secure future coitus in the process.”

We both laughed for a long time.

“All right, then, Patrick,” I said, wondering abstractly why it was so hard to stop smiling. “Why don’t we restart this conversation with those parameters in mind? Cut the small talk. Neither of us needs it.”

“Hi, Loren.”

“Hello, Patrick.”

“Sex was amazing the other night, wasn’t it?”

“You got that right.”

“I’d love to see you again soon.”

“I want that, too.”

“I would like for it to be as soon as possible. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“I think it would be great if we saw each other again soon.” I paused, touched my face. It was warm, and I just couldn’t get rid of this smile.

“Would it be too forward if we saw each other now?”

I liked this game. We were each saying what we really meant, ignoring the polite nothingness of small talk, the diplomacy of circling around and around what we both actually wanted to say.

“I don’t think that would be too forward,” I said. “I think it would be nice.”

I jumped at a light knock at my door and gasped. Patrick laughed, but this time, I could hear him right outside my apartment.

“You weren’t joking, were you?” I asked, pushing myself up off my couch and tossing a few discarded clothes into the hamper before answering the door.

“You were the one who wanted me to say what I meant,” he said, as I opened the door, his phone still held up to his ear.

“Goodbye, and hello,” I said, ending the call.

“Hello.” He slipped his phone into his pocket and kissed me—strong, sweet, everything. “Is it okay that I’m here?”

“It’s better than okay that you’re here.” I led him inside, shut the door, and turned around. For not the first time, however, I was insecure about how small and shabby my apartment was. Shawn had only been here once, for crying out loud, before insisting I join him at Patrick’s house at all times. Now that Patrick was here, would he judge me harshly based on my natural habitat? This was the kind of dwelling I was most comfortable in, the same caliber of abode my foster parents had raised me in.

I tried to head off anything disparaging he might say about it. “I know it’s not much, but it’s enough for just me,” I said, as he took in the surroundings. “It’s my first place on my own since I left home for school. And if I’d known you were coming here, I would’ve cleaned up better. Or lit a candle. Or cooked something. I don’t know. I think the fridge is empty—wait, no. Hold on.”

I ducked inside and emerged triumphant, holding a pair of Miller Lite cans.

“Can I offer you something to drink, sir?” I asked, affecting an accent that implied these cheap beers were something to be savored, and far finer than they actually were.

“I haven’t had one of those in years,” Patrick said, taking one cold can from me.

“How can you avoid drinking a Miller Lite for years?” I asked, puzzled. “It’s not like there’s a shortage.”

“There can be when somebody tells you fifteen years ago that you should start supporting local craft beers,” he said, opening the can with a hiss. He took a drink and exhaled heavily. “I…I can’t put into words how much I missed that. Just…it’s just beer. Just beer.”

I laughed at his wonderment and opened my own can, feeling more at ease now. Patrick might be able to flummox me with a fleet of cars, a fine house, and an indoor pool, but if I could strike him speechless with a single can of regular beer, I didn’t have anything to worry about.