Page 23 of Billionaire Romance

She means the chat room, and now I do sprint to the desk across the room to grab my laptop. Like a superhero I manage to open my computer and pull up the page all while diving onto the bed. In an instant, with just five words from Weaver, I feel like a new man.

When I log onto Sugar Girl, I message Weaver immediately.

I’m sorry. I was an asshole this morning. Forgive me.

Just as I hit send, a message from her pops up.

I overreacted this morning. I’m sorry.

I’m flooded with relief. I realize we still have loads of baggage to work through, but at least we’re talking, at least she seems to want to do this together.

Now that the cat’s out of the bag, I hit the video icon on the top of the screen. I see my image in the laptop. I turn on the lamp by the bedside, and the hotel bed and me, in only my boxers, comes in focus.

“Hey,” I say. “This may be a better way to talk, don’t you think?”

A second later my image is replaced with Weaver’s. My relief from earlier turns to joy, because when I see her, sitting on her bed, in her tank top and PJ pants, her hair piled on top of her head messily, I think to myself, “There’s my girl.”

“Hi,” she whispers, leaning close to the computer. “Kate’s sleeping in the other room. I don’t want to wake her.”

We stare at each other. It’s the first time ever we’ve both been on screen. I’ve seen Weaver like this dozens of times. The headboard, the bedding, the mirror on the wall behind her, it’s all familiar. But there’s something different tonight, and it takes me a while, but I realize the shot doesn’t look staged, it looks more natural. I see her pillows are a little haphazard behind her, and there’s a magazine splayed out by her foot. I realize this is the first time we’re chatting as Chris and Weaver, not WildCaptain and Echo. She’d been holding back a bit.

“Did you guys have fun today?” I ask, remembering she and Kate had a date on Staten Island.

“Yeah,” she laughs. “We picked up right where we’d left off. I told her about you…about…this,” she waves her hand around vaguely. I guess she’s talking about the Sugar Girl site.

“What did she say? Was it as awful as you expected it would be?” I ask, really hoping her friend was kind to her. I don’t want to see her hurt.

“It wasn’t anything a few bottles of cheap chianti couldn’t smooth over. We had a good talk. I really needed that. It was great.” She leans in closer to the screen and I see her creamy tit down her tank top. “And no one got sick on the ferry coming home. So bonus!”

She sits back, planting the soles of her feet against each other, and God forgive me, my eyes shoot straight to the spot between her legs, wondering if she’s wearing panties, wondering if I’ll see a damp spot spread as we continue to talk. A minute ago, I was just desperate to see her, now I’m shifting on my bed because my erection is starting to ache.

“And you?” she says, laughing. “Hello! Where’d you go? I asked you what you did today.”

I shake my head, make sure to look at her eyes, nowhere below her shoulders. Although I notice the hicky I left on her shoulder and moan softly.

“Shit day,” I finally say. “My brother came into town and twisted my arm to go out with him. We had a nice meal and then he harassed some nice ladies from Ohio. Typical Ryan bullshit. I don’t want to talk about it now. He’s a prick. Arrogant as hell.”

“Sorry about that,” she says. “Sounds like a nightmare.”

“I’m used to it. Anyway, I’m fine now. More than fine. Thank you for texting me.” I say this with feeling. I want her to know how much it means to me that she’s willing to talk to me and give me another chance. “I guess I was a little arrogant this morning, bringing up the money in such a cavalier way with you. Maybe I’m more like my brother than I realize.”

“Don’t do that,” she says. “I told you I overreacted. I meant it. I’m overly-sensitive about money. That’s on me. I know you. I know you’re kind. I don’t know your brother, so I’ll take your word he’s an arrogant prick, but I can tell you I wouldn’t ever describe you that way.”

“How would you describe me?” I ask, curious.

“That’s not easy to answer. Has anyone ever told you that you’re complicated?” she deadpans. She takes the laptop and lies back with it, so that her face is filling the frame. “Sexy. That’s the first thing I noticed, if I was being honest. You’re kind. I notice small things you do when you don’t think anyone’s watching. You can be bossy…”

“Hey now,” I say, objecting. “I take exception to that.”

“Then you’re delusional, too. Anyway, I like you when you’re bossy. When you tell me what to do when we’re chatting.”

“Well that’s not real life,” I say. “That’s just play.”

“These bruises on my hip seem pretty real, Chris,” she says. The laptop shifts and now I see her whole body, laid out on the bed. She rolls the waist of her pajamas down an inch, and I see five small bruises on her hip. My fingerprints.

“Do they hurt?” I ask, my voice has dropped an octave.

“Not at all,” she says, her voice lower, too. “In fact, when I was showering the other day, I saw those marks and…well, I liked them.”

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