Page 33 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

He lowers his voice. “What are you wearing?”

My mouth falls open. Sexy shivers flow over me. “What am Iwearing?” Everything seems too wild, suddenly. In a good way.

He lowers his voice yet another octave, which I might not have thought was possible, and which I can report is even hotter. In this lower and more delicious new octave, he says, “Tell me.”

My skin feels too tight. “Yeah, I don’t think so. I don’t think I’m going totell you what I’m wearing.”I look down at my sleep set. Silky pants, white with tiny pink flowers.

Silky matching top.

Nipples hard enough to cut glass.

Umm…

“I think you want to tell me, though.”

My pulse races. Because I do. “I’m wearing something beautiful.” Like a madwoman, I slide a finger over my belly, and just that light feather of a touch unleashes tidal waves of sensation. I could get off so easy right now. “More beautiful than you can even imagine.”

I slide my hand over my shoulder. I’m officially going insane.

“Tell me,” he says. “Now.”

“You think I take orders from an asshole like you?”

“I think you’d enjoy taking orders from an asshole like me.”

“Dream on,” I say. “In the words of Michael Jackson, U can’t touch this.”

“That was MC Hammer who said that. You need to take a little more care in terms of precision…Operator Seven.”

“Oh, excuse me, Professor Wonderbrain,” I say, enjoying the way he said my fake name.

“Tell me what you’re wearing.”

A glowy warmth spreads through me. “Why do guys always want to know that?”

“I don’t know why other guys would want to know that. But personally, I like my woman to have a little bit of clothes on her, so that I have something to rip off of her. That’s why I asked. Because I need to know what exactly I’m visualizing myself ripping off you.”

I imagine Mr. Drummond hovering over me, savagely ripping off my clothes.

“I’m imagining you in something girly,” he continues. “Extra points for pink.”

I swallow, mind reeling.

“Have you ever had a man rip off your clothes?”

I think about the guys I’ve been with. Nobody ripped off my clothes, though Mason once made one of my buttons pop off. “It depends on what qualifies as ‘ripping off.’”

“Oh, Seven,” he breathes, “if you have to ask what qualifies as a man ripping off your clothes, then a man has never ripped off your clothes. A man has never been so desperate to get at your beautiful tits and your sweet pink pussy that he goes crazy, just taking the fabric in his fists and tearing it off you like a brute, blind with need…” He pauses, as if to catch his breath. “Insane from the need to sate himself with you,” he continues as I slide my hand on down my belly. “If you have to ask that, then I promise you, a man has never ripped off your clothes.”

I swallow, stunned that Mr. Drummond’s talking to me like this. Stunned that he’s talking toanyonelike this!

Also, I can’t believe how hot it is.

“You’re right about one thing, though,” he says. “I am an asshole. And trust me, I could make it so hot.”

My breath speeds. I dimly recall having some sort of goal with this phone call, but it’s disintegrated into a thousand little bits. Vaporized. Transmogrified into stardust.

I try to keep my voice steady. “If nothing else, you’re getting an A for confidence. Or maybe an A minus.”

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