Page 14 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

His kiss cut me off, unexpected in its clumsy, close-lipped sweetness.

“When do you want to see me?” he asked.

“How about, say, right now? Today?”

“I’d love to but”—a shadow deepened his eyes to gray—“it’s not possible. I have to work.”

Of course he did. Caspian’s life was nothing but work. I’d known that from the beginning. And while I was capable of immense feats of whininess, there was no way I was setting myself up in opposition to his job. Because if TV had taught me anything, that was how you got murdered: see Damages, see Luther, see Scandal. “Tomorrow?”

“It’s a deal. Now come on.” He nudged his nose gently against mine. “There’s just about time to shower.”

If it was an attempt to distract me, it totally worked. “There’s a shower?”

He nodded and led me off to the bathroom.

Where there really was a shower.

A shower.

On a private jet.

It wasn’t big enough for two, unfortunately, but the water pressure was way better than plenty of showers I’d taken in buildings on the ground.

I stood under the spray, wincing as the droplets stung my poor arse, but my muscles appreciated the attention. My knees were still wobbly, though, and my head felt light and stuffy at the same time, like my brain had been entirely replaced with candyfloss.

Happy, shiny candyfloss.

Oh wow.

Was this really my life?

And did Caspian really say all that stuff to me?

And if being fucked on a plane got me into the mile-high club, did being fucked on a plane with its own shower make me a platinum member?

I wasn’t sure how much water there was, so once I’d got over a fit of the giggles at the sheer impossibility of everything that had happened to me lately, I got out, toweled myself off carefully, and dressed. I didn’t remember Caspian bringing me my clothes but I was so well fucked and so well cared for I probably wouldn’t have remembered if a barbershop quartet had parachuted in and performed Bohemian Rhapsody. Mainly, I was relieved I didn’t have to wander his plane with my junk hanging out.

No sign of Caspian back in the cabin.

Just the indentations we had left on the sofa and what was clearly a splash of my dried come on the floor.

I stared at it in horror. Before rushing back to the bathroom to get warm water and a cloth.

I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing urgently, when Caspian strolled in, pulling a jumper—fresh but otherwise identical to the one he’d been wearing before—over his head.

It reminded me abruptly that, while I’d been about as naked as it was possible to be, he’d been fully clothed as usual. I’d found it hot at the time but now, watching his abs vanish behind a curtain of whisper-soft cashmere, I felt a little cheated. They were quite some abs and I wanted to make an ordinance survey of their valleys. With my tongue.

Caspian, however, was staring at me like I’d gone mad. “What on earth are you doing now?”

“Um. There’s…” I pointed.

“Leave it, Arden. Someone will see to it.”

“Omigod no.”

He looked a little startled at my vehemence.

“I’m working class,” I explained, rubbing away at the carpet. “Middle class if you push it. And I absolutely refuse to contribute to a universe where it’s someone’s job to clean up my come.”

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