Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance) (33 page)

Gloriel does the dishes while I package the leftovers, and all the while, she’s giving me a lecture on the importance of friendships and trust. She’s more motherly than my own mother had been. Not that Mom treated me horribly prior to Dad’s demise. Mom did everything a mother was supposed to do, if not in a clinical sort of way. But she also gave me free reign to do whatever I wanted. Back then, I could get away with murder—if murder was what I was about, of course. Fortunately, for her, I was all about Amex cards, glamour, sex, and terrorizing, seducing and blackmailing older men.

Gloriel, on the other hand? She sees
and
comments on
everything
.

Throughout her lecture, I spy on Qwesie’s and Noah’s silhouettes out on the balcony, laughing and drinking from whiskey glasses.

Once we’re through, I thank Gloriel and retreat to my bedroom under the pretext of a headache.

U plan on telling me what U know about my ex?

That’s the text message I sent to Muscles fifteen minutes later after I’ve changed into sleepwear and am lying bored in bed. I tried calling him numerous times today, desperate to know what he knows about Andrew, but he’s been sending me to voicemail, not surprisingly. He knows I’m not calling for escort anywhere, because Noah is home today. He knows he’s not risking anything by ignoring my calls.

Some eight minutes later when I’ve moved on to skimming through mind-numbing essays as research for a paper that’s due in a three days, a reply comes in.

Busy.

I roll my eyes. As if I’m going to honor that. Doesn’t he know me by now?

Me:
That’s y I sent a text. No one’s ever too busy to send a text. So, send me a text.

Muscles:
A text.

Me:
Yo, if u don’t cooperate, I’ll kiss u the next time I see u. And we both know how much u haaaaate that.

Muscles:
I gave you this phone to use in case of emergency. Stop texting me. I’m busy. 

Me:
U saw me calling u today?

Muscles:
Yes.

Me:
Why didn’t u answer?

Muscles:
I was busy then too.

Me:
Liar.

My other phone—Noah’s phone—buzzes on the nightstand. Feeling full and lazy, I halfheartedly reach across and pluck it up. On the screen sits a text message from none other than Noah himself.

Noah:
Hey.

Me:
Hey.

(((Ping)))

Muscles:
What do you want, Lots?

Me:
Lots? Is that my new nickname? Oooh, me likey.

<<>>

Noah:
Better not be touching yourself.

Me:
Y r u texting me? We’re in the same house.

Noah:
Saying farewell to Mom now. Q’s staying over.

(((Ping)))

Muscles:
Stop. Just stop. This is how you operate? Going around flirting with & kissing people? What’s it, some kind of game to you?

Me:
No, u stop. I kissed U first. U told me not to. Now u r acting like a jealous teenager. U shouldn’t be. Snooze, u lose.

<<>>

Noah:
I’m not sleepy. Wanna watch something with me?

Me:
What TVD? hahaha.

Noah:
Nah. Been over that since the 4th episode. Damon’s constant eyebrow waggling annoys me to shit. Q recommended Graceland. Says it’s good. We can check it out together.

Me:
Oooh, I’ve heard about that one! Def wanna check it out.

Noah:
Pulling up On Demand now. Come on.

Closing out of the boring PDF documents, I set my laptop on the nightstand.

Muscles hasn’t replied to my last text. Just imagine, I messaged him to find out what he knows about Andrew and only end up pissing him off further. Only I can do that.

Grabbing a pillow from the bed, I leave both phones and head out.

As I approach the living area, I stop short, eyebrows kissing my hairline. Q is stretched out in the big couch, on his back, his shirt unbuttoned and baring his hard abs, his belt buckle undone and his fingers pulling down the zipper, and wide grin on his face.

Noah—and this is the part that stops me—is fully dressed but curved over Q, one hand hidden beneath the too-pretty-to-be-male man stretched out beneath him, and the other hand braced against the couch handle, a menacing scowl on his face—a face too close to Qwesie’s for comfort.

“Uhhh,” I begin, “am I interrupting something?”

“Quite so, luv,” comes Qwesie’s voice, smooth and seductive as he reaches a hand up and curls it around the back of Noah’s neck, forcing Noah’s face closer. “But, you’re orally welcome to join u—” 

Noah jerks, and it seems like he’s struggling to remove his hand from under Qwesie. Unsuccessful, he then uses his other hand that had been braced on the arm of the couch to smack Qwesie on the side of his head. “Q, get the hell off my hand, or so help me.”

Laughing, Qwesie removes his hand from Noah’s neck and sits up, freeing Noah’s other hand, which comes up with the television remote. “All-bloody-right. No need to show off in front of your new chit. Don’t act like we don’t fondle each other’s bell-ends all the time.”

Noah straightens up, and then looks at me. “You’ll learn soon to ignore this fool. He’s a child in a man’s body.”

With a nod, I begin moving again. “So…he was trying to
seduce
you?”

“Nope.” He turns and points the remote at the television. “That show was just for you. He likes to entertain.”

Pillow hugged to my chest, I shoot Qwesie an annoyed glance. “Don’t you have a fairytale bartender to go stalk or something?”

Pushing to his feet, Qwesie stretches his arms over his head. “Negative. Wife-to-be is off on God’s day. So you sorry sods are stuck with me. On a
Graceland
marathon.”

Like hell!
“Noooo,” I drag out, “
we
are watching
Graceland
.
You
are gonna find a bedroom, jack-off under the sheets, say your prayers, and go to sleep.”

Qwesie glances at Noah, expecting him to have his back on this, but Noah folds his lips, and keeps them folded.

“You’re no fun,” Qwesie grumbles with a mock glare. He then, right where he stands, shrugs out of his shirt, drops his pants, kicks out of them, and then saunters out of the room.

“Is he always such man-child?” I ask Noah, kicking Qwesie’s discarded clothes aside before collapsing backward onto the couch.

“Only about ninety-three percent of the time.”

“And the other seven percent of the time?”

“He’s a serious businessman.”

“Why is he staying over anyway?” My voice lowers as I ask this. “He’s a billionaire. Doesn’t he have his own playboy mansion or something?”  

As Noah selects the pilot for Graceland, he falls to the couch beside me. He hesitates, as if deciding whether he should answer. He casts a brief glance in the direction Qwesie went.

“Don’t…” He sighs, and his voice is hushed when he tries again, “Don’t say stuff like that in front of him, alright? Or at least don’t be so mean about it. As his confidant, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Q’s monophobic. Before you moved in, he would stay over two to three nights a week.”

“Uh, oh, I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” Guilt showers me like inconvenient rain.

He waves me off. “Just get used to him being around often. He’s been staying away because you’re here, but I guess he’s comfortable with you now, so…” As if wanting to be done with this conversation, he gestures the remote at the television. “Press play?”

“Turn out the lights first,” I order, kicking off my bed-slippers and curling up on the couch, fluffing my pillow, getting comfortable.

“My housemaid says to me,” Noah grumbles as he reluctantly gets up and goes to turn out the light. “Anything else, Miss Cooley?” The question is asked sardonically and is obviously rhetorical, because he’s sitting right back down as he asks it. 

I chew my lip, as if thinking about it. “Yes, actually. I have a question.”

He makes an expression that says “go on.”

I go on. “Earlier, you said my orgasm belongs to you.”

Heat floods his eyes. He nods once to confirm this.

“So, does that mean yours belong to me? Considering I’m the one who got you hard?”

His gaze falls to my lips. “How are you so sure you’re the one who got me hard?”

Incredulous, I blink at him. “Because you were rubbing up on
me
. Kissing
me
.”

“Yeah. But I could’ve been thinking about Amber Heard for all you know.”

Pushing up on my elbow, I glower at him. “You called
my
name. Lotty. And even if you had been thinking of
Amber Heard
, what are the chances that you chose to think of someone who could practically pass as my
twin
?”

White teeth sink into his bottom lip as he studies me, then, as if unable to deny me further, he turns to the television, presses play, and murmurs, “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes to what?”

“Yes to what you asked.”

With a satisfactory smile, I lie back down, getting comfortable again. “Yes.”
His orgasm belongs to me
. And the anticipation just got even more intense.

We watch the pilot in silence. Riveting silence, I might add. Halfway through, I’m hooked. Less for the plot, and more for one of the main characters who is
deeeelish
!

“Whoo boy,” I all but breathe out as the credits roll. “That Briggs guy is
fine
. Next episode, please!”

Noah slides me a side-glance. “Maybe we should watch something else.”

“What? Why?” Then I notice his sullen expression, and smile. “Aw, is my Abercrombie jealous?”

Setting the remote aside, he reaches out and wraps his fingers around my ankles, yanking my legs out and apart so they’re scissoring him. He leans over, one hand between my waist and the cushion, the other braced on the arm of the couch, face hovering over mine. He searches my face, a contemplative glint to his concentrated gaze, a longing warmth to his breath.

“What if…” he begins before trailing off. His eyes flick briefly to the television, where the credits still roll. Eyes coming back on me, he starts again, “What if I give you what you want. What if I give you
anything
you want. Would I be enough for you?”

I’m blasted off kilter with this question. Definitely not what I was expecting. And truthfully, I don’t know how to even answer it. 

He doesn’t give me a chance to think, though, as he continues on, “You told me the other night that you no longer wanted just sex from me. That you want
me
. It’s what I wanted to hear. You don’t how much. But at the same time, you flirt with anyone who’s even mildly attractive and…” he trails off again, flexing his arm between my waist and the cushion. “You asked me this morning if I was being hesitant because of Mom. The answer is no. I’m hesitant because, well, I’ve been burned before and…Christ, I’m almost thirty-one, and I can’t even articulate myself properly.”

He pauses, sighs out a long breath, and soldiers on. “The thing is, if I wanted to have fun with you, I would’ve had fun with you. If I wanted to try with you, I would’ve tried. But I don’t want to have fun and I don’t want to try. I want to be with you. I’m
sure
about wanting to be with you. But you’re so young, and you have all these urges and impulses, you’re overtly flirtatious, you’re unsettled, undecided, and I just…I can’t see me being be enough for you.”  On a noisy exhale, he voices it, voices what his disjointed roundabout rambling adds up to: “I just don’t want a repeat of Sienna.”

And I just might be. That’s the hideous, unacceptable truth. I like to flirt. A lot. It’s a part of my personality. A part of me that was stifled and suppressed during my last relationship because Andrew would knock me unconscious if I so much as blinked at another man.

While it doesn’t necessarily mean I want to bone with every man I flirt with, I’m also not emotionally in a place where I can guarantee Noah anything. There’s nothing at all in my life right now that I can even say I’m certain of, let alone to be considering embarking on something serious with someone. He hit the nail right on the head: I’m unsettled and undecided. I have no foundation. Nothing real, solid, or substantial. I’m emptier than a plastic bag drifting in the wind.

He can do so much better than me. So much better.

Fiddling with the hem of my camisole, I avert my gaze from Noah’s hopeful one and transfer it to the ceiling. “I…I don’t know what to tell you, Noah. I mean, I’m here, now, working as your housemaid, and in a few months, when I have enough saved up, I’ll be in Brazil, starting over. So, honestly, I don’t think it will even get to a point where you’ll have a repeat of Sienna.”