Page 75 of Return Billionaire to Sender

Underneath the tablecloth, light fingertips settle onto my thigh.

My heart pounds like crazy.

“Is it multitasking if I just set my hand here?” he rumbles.

“I think it is,” I breathe.

My mouth goes dry as he settles the entirety of his hand onto my thigh. His large, capable, unpredictable hand. It feels deliciously dangerous.

He squeezes gently and I nearly explode in a multi-layered orgasm—just from that—that’s how wound up I am. “What do you think about the way I’m multitasking now? What do you think? Is this an acceptable form of multitasking?”

“Maybe,” I whisper.

The video plays. It’s not actually the great bicycle rack debate; it’s a reenactment of it. Jada is running out of footage, so there have been some reenactments. In this reenactment, Tabitha has extra sparkles on. Francine put on her big eyelashes. Jeremy from the first floor, who ultimately lost the bike rack argument last summer, is way more jovial.

Malcolm moves his hand another quarter inch up my thigh.

I suck in a tiny breath. “You’re not paying attention,” I say.

“Lest you forget, I’m a CEO,” he rumbles. “I’m a master multitasker. You’re the one not paying attention. But maybe you’ve seen it before. Have you?”

I don’t know how to answer that. It doesn’t feel important. His hand moves nearer to the apex of my thighs. My belly fills with butterflies, excited, eager, fluttery.

“Do you watch these things ahead of time?” he asks.

“That’s proprietary,” I say.

“Whether you watch them ahead of time is proprietary?” he asks, moving his hand up, up, nearer my sex.

“Yes,” I breathe. “Yes.”

His hand reaches my pussy and he cups me through my pants. I gasp as the bright pressure of his touch flows through me, promising wonderful things.

Into my ear, he whispers, “Undo your slacks.”

I exhale through my nose, a breathy snort. “I can’t.”

“Go ahead.”

I cast a glance at the open doorway. Those two faraway diners are still bent over their table under the two-story plate glass window.

“Even if somebody came in,” he says, following the train of my thoughts in his usual uncanny way, “the tablecloth is there, isn’t it? Nobody sees. Nobody would know. This, for instance.” He presses just one finger to my core now, sending ripples of pleasure through me—the feeling is so powerfully good, I nearly choke on my own tongue. “They would never see this.”

“I’m not undoing my slacks for you,” I say.

“Then undo you slacks for yourself,” he breathes. “Take something for once. Take this one little thing for yourself. You work so hard, but you never take anything for yourself, do you? Always behind the scenes.”

I swallow. How did he know to say that? It’s true. I never even take up too much space. But then, that’s what an executive coach is. A person who supports another person to shine and excel.

And now his finger is stroking my clit through my slacks and it’s not enough. I need more.

“What does it matter?” he whispers.

“Because I’m your coach,” I say.

“I’ll still do the work. You know I need those ticks. But you can’t be my coach twenty-four seven. What are you the rest of the time, country mouse?” He kisses the side of my mouth. “What do you want to be the rest of the time?”

Something dark seizes my mind. What do I want to be? What do I want? The video rolls on in the vague distance, and I can’t even with it.

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