Banking Her: A Billionaire Bad Boys Novella (Book 2.5) (Bad Boy Billionaires) (5 page)

He slept while I thought, an endless loop of unavoidable realities trickling through my mind.

Over the next six months, I’d be traveling all over the place, filling up my schedule with enough photo shoots to supply a year’s time. It was insane, but it was a means to an end. A way to fulfill all of my obligations and still have the freedom to take a minimum of four months off for maternity leave, six months if I was lucky.

Finances weren’t my motivation for the crazy work schedule. I was fortunate that money wasn’t an issue for me or my future child. My soon-to-be husband had more money than he knew what to do with, and my photography career had padded my savings nicely, even allowing for a hefty chunk of cash to be invested.

When I found out I was pregnant, my first thought had been, “
Holy shit, that idiot knocked me up!”
followed by a pregnancy test bouncing off of Thatch’s big head. My second thought, having occurred when he fell to his knees and pressed his lips to my belly, was
“I love him and his Supercock for giving me the greatest gift I’ve ever been given.”
And the third thought had occurred a few days later, during a photo shoot for one of the most elusively picky magazines in the country:
“I want to be able to have both, a family and my career.”

It was that third thought that had driven me to reschedule the photo shoots I would end up missing when I went on maternity leave. It would have been easier to let them go, not to worry about missed opportunities or what-ifs, but when I really thought about it, I knew I didn’t want to lose what I had worked so hard to achieve.

But now, lying in our bed, with Thatch sound asleep beside me, I was wondering if this ridiculous work schedule was the right choice. I’d already been traveling more, knowing I needed to front-load the extra work as much as possible, because the bigger I got, the harder everything became. But the more time I spent away from Thatch, the more I hated being away from him.

Hated
. It.

Lonely nights spent in hotels without his big body wrapped around me like a second skin while his head utilized my boobs as pillows were getting old real quick. He was my rock, the one person I could trust with everything. The man who could fuck me senseless and pleasure my puss-ay in ways I never knew were possible. The man who let me get all kinds of filthy in the bedroom—but never failed to treat me like a fucking princess.

It was hard being away—for days on end—from that kind of man.

Nearly impossible, to be honest.

I ran my fingers through his thick hair, and he moaned softly in his sleep. His eyelashes fluttered ever so slightly, as if he might stir and wake up, but sleep still kept its hold over him.

It was these moments, the quiet, peaceful moments in the middle of the night, that I’d find myself watching him like a creepy little stalker and just savoring him.
My
man. My best friend. The giant who’d managed to fill all the voids I hadn’t even known were there until he barreled his way into my life. The man who’d managed to knock down all of my walls and love me for me.

God, I fucking loved him.

I loved him—and our tiny little baby—more than I had ever loved anything in my entire life.

Emotion filled my eyes, and I brushed a few rogue tears off my cheeks. For fuck’s sake, I felt like I was always crying. Or about to cry. Or thinking about crying. Or yelling at Thatch for making me cry, even though he had most likely done nothing wrong.

Pregnancy not only made me horny, but it also made me insanely sensitive.

Lately, I’d been a fucking mess over anything and everything. It was exasperating, and sometimes, there wasn’t any rhyme or reason for the tears. I mean, all it would take was one Folgers’s “Coming Home” commercial, and I’d be two hiccupping breaths away from doing my best impression of that time Kim Kardashian lost her diamond earring in the ocean.

My stomach growled into the still apartment, damn near echoing off the walls, and I glanced over at the clock. Right on schedule, the numbers 1:00 a.m. glowed bright into the darkness of our bedroom. About a week after I found out I was pregnant, every night between the hours of midnight and two, my body had to let its hunger be known.

Word to the wise, pregnancy hunger is on another level of hungry.

Imagine a long workday where you haven’t had time for lunch, and by the time three o’clock hits, you’re five seconds away from either reenacting The Walking Dead and gnawing your own arm off or considering rummaging through the breakroom fridge without giving a single fuck about eating someone else’s food. Now, take that scenario and go into it without eating for about three days. Yes, my friends, that is pregnancy hunger.

A starving pregnant woman should be considered a danger to national security because fuck only knows what we’re liable to do if someone doesn’t keep us well fed with our outrageous cravings. But we should also be given a free pass because we’re the miracle of life, goddammit.

Add some virginity and the baby Jesus and take away my propensity for using the word fuck and I might as well be the Virgin Mary right now.

Literally, the miracle of fucking life.

My stomach rumbled and grumbled again, and I groaned. The last thing I felt like doing was participating in actual movement. While I stared up at the ceiling, perturbed and contemplating how I could teleport a plateful of peanut butter crackers and a glass of strawberry milk into my lap, Thatch shifted his arm from around me, wordlessly got out of bed, and shuffled into the hallway in nothing but his underwear.

I wasn’t even sure if he was awake, but I’d wait until I heard anything alarming to send out a search party. And by search party, I meant our mini-pig, Phil.

Five minutes later, Thatch walked back into the bedroom and set a large glass of strawberry milk and a plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on my nightstand. He slid back into bed beside me, kissed my forehead, my lips, and the top swells of each breast that peeked out from my nightshirt, and then adjusted his head on my boobs and whispered, “Love you, honey,” as he closed his eyes.

I stared down at him in awe.

Tears pricked my eyes again as I ate my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Goddamn him for being so perfect.

More tears filled my eyes and forced a steady stream to slip down my cheeks and onto the side of Thatch’s face. And then the sobs took hold, forcing a hiccupping breath and a mouth full of sticky bread crumbs to land in his hair.

Thatch blinked awake and stared up at me, concerned. “Baby? Are you okay?”

I shook my head and didn’t even bother wiping away the tears—or the crumbs from my lips.

He sat up, took in my distraught face, and became instantly alarmed. “Cass? What’s wrong?”

“You,” I wailed.

“Me?”

I nodded. “Yeah. You’re too fucking swoony.”

He grinned at that. “You’re crying because I’m too swoony?”

I nodded again. “You’re stupid. And I’m stupid because I love you so goddamn much, you idiot.”

He took the plate out of my hands gently, turning just his upper body and setting it on the nightstand. When he shifted back, his hands gripped both of my cheeks and he leaned forward, rubbing his nose against mine. “I love you too, Crazy.”

It only made me cry harder.

He chuckled softly and kissed my tear-and-jelly-stained lips.

“I feel like I’ve turned into Georgia,” I whined. “All fudging emotional and fluffing ridiculous. Mother of marshmallows and soup, what is wrong with me?”

“You’re pregnant, honey.”

“Oh? That’s what this is?” I asked in a sarcastic tone and slapped his chest. He just laughed and rolled onto his back, pulling me with him. “I’m pregnant? Well, son of a sausage biscuit, when did that happen?”

He pressed a soft kiss to my lips, and his warm gaze searched mine. “You’re so beautiful, Cass. You take my breath away.”

My tear ducts made their presence known and forced more tears to spill from my eyes. “This isn’t a game! Stop saying shi-
sneakers
like that to make me cry!”

“Sneakers?”

“Shut your fucking mouth. I’ve yet to find a good replacement for shit.”

He grinned and ran a hand through his hair, but his fingers only made it halfway before they got stuck in the strands coated in PB and J. “Is there food in my hair?”

I shrugged. “Probably.”

In true Thatch fashion, he just took it in stride, seemingly more concerned with how my shirt-covered boobs were now pressed against his bare chest than the fact that I had managed to shower him in spit and jelly.

“Goddamn, honeys, did you get bigger overnight?” he asked my tits. And then without warning, he flipped me onto my back and slid the top of my nightshirt down and grabbed both breasts with his big hands, squeezing and groaning his approval. “You did get bigger, my beautiful ladies. You got bigger and softer and, fuck, you’re gorgeous.” He licked across the top of one and then softly sucked my nipple into his mouth.

I couldn’t hide my moan, and he smirked in satisfaction. The conversations he held with my breasts were absurd and insane, but I secretly got off on them in a big way. Especially since they usually ended like this.

His devious tongue moved across to the other nipple and showed it the same appreciation.

My pussy throbbed and my nipples hardened, and I fought the urge to slide my hand into his boxer briefs. “Aren’t you tired?” I asked, hiding the breathiness in my voice. “It’s like two in the morning. We should probably get some sleep.”

“We both know you don’t want to sleep right now.” He grinned up at me as one big hand skimmed down my belly and into my underwear. His thick finger slid through my arousal until it made its way inside of me. “What time is your flight tomorrow?” His thumb brushed against my clit, and my hips jerked in response.

“Huh?”

He pumped his finger into me deeper. “Your flight? What time is it?”

Flight?
He had to be talking about flying his Supercock into my tunnel.

I moaned and started rotating my hips against his hand. “Yes. Put your cock inside me. Fantastic idea.”

He smirked. “That’s not what I asked, Crazy.”

I could have sworn he did, but if he said he didn’t, I’d have to take his word for it—and let him know to fucking get where I needed him to go quicker. “Obviously, you’re asking the wrong questions.”

“You want my cock?” His thumb circled my clit again and applied the perfect amount of pressure to make my toes curl.

My eyes rolled back in my head. “Why are your boxers still on?”

“Are we in the same conversation right now?”

“One of us is having the right conversation. The other one is babbling.”

He didn’t let up with his magic hands. “Babbling?”

“Thatch,” I groaned in frustration, grinding myself against his hand. “Boxers off. Cock inside me.
Now
.”

He chuckled and flipped me over onto my belly. One hard slap to my ass urged a squeal from my lips. Before I could offer a snappy retort, he was pulling my panties off my legs and nipping at my ass with his teeth. “My dirty, dirty girl. You’ll wait until I’m ready.”

Yes. Yes. Yes.

His hands spread my ass cheeks apart as his perfect fucking mouth ate at my pussy from behind. Holy hell. His tongue, his lips, his teeth, he wasn’t holding anything back. He moaned against me, tasting every single inch he could reach, and I came hard and fast.

He didn’t give me time to come down from climax, flipping me onto my back and spreading my legs wide as he pushed his thick cock inside of me. “Fuck yes,” he groaned. “Goddamn, your pussy is gripping me tight.”

“Don’t stop,” I whimpered. “Don’t ever fucking stop fucking me, or I swear I will fucking strangle you.”

He stopped his momentum and grinned down at me. “And here I thought you had that whole cursing habit kicked.”

“Thatch.” I glared at him.

“What?” he asked, ironically feigning innocence at the same time my pussy was cradling his dick.

“I swear to God—” I started to say, but my ability to speak coherently came to a quick halt when Thatch kneeled on the bed and lifted me onto his lap, impaling me on his hard and ready Supercock. I straddled his muscular thighs while his big hands gripped my ass.

He thrust his hips up, fast and deep. “This what you want, honey?”

I wanted to mock him by saying no, but my mouth refused to form any words other than, “God, yes.”

Stars danced behind my eyelids as he smirked and started a punishing rhythm. “I think you mean,
Thatch, yes
, honey.”

Normally, I would’ve snapped back a sarcastic response, but I was too busy coming all over his cock.

My brain wanted my heart to be angry, but much like in the early stages of our relationship, she completely disagreed.

I love him.

Six, as in six o’fucking clock, came way too early the next morning, and I groaned my disapproval as the alarm blared its annoying reminder that I couldn’t let the ungodly hour pass peacefully during REM sleep. Still, old habits die hard.

After I hit snooze for the third time, and blind avoidance was no longer an option, I was lifted out of bed and carried into the bathroom.