Body Worship: The Billionaire and the BBW: Body Heat Series Book 3 (4 page)

I
’m
like a cat on a hot tin roof the rest of the night. I sit in front of the television and try to watch the news, but I can’t stop drumming my fingers, tapping my feet, and bouncing my knees. I’m so full of energy I don’t know what to do with it. I knock my glass off of the coffee table and send the remote skittering before I give up and start pacing.

Hope is a powerful emotion. For the first time in a long time, I see a bright shining light at the end of a dark tunnel, and her name is Evelyn. I wish I had her phone number. Then again, maybe not. Because it’s been two hours since I’ve seen her and I doubt she’d appreciate me calling already.

Then again, maybe she would. I have a strong suspicion we’re both card-carrying members of the damaged people club. She’s saved me already and I want to return the favor. There can’t be that many floral shops in the city, right? I could probably narrow it down to a couple of possible options just by searching online. I could tap into my family’s vast resources, like checking with the firm that handles our security or the private investigation group my father keeps on retainer, but for now, I just want to keep her all to myself.

I grab a Heineken from the fridge, scoop my laptop from the charging station in the kitchen, and carry both items back to the sofa. I flip on the game everyone’s watching. The one I normally would follow with bated breath. This time, I hardly notice it.

Google is my friend. I start by generating a list of all the floral shops in the greater suburban area. Then I dig deeper, performing meticulous research on each shop. I sift through owner biographies on countless pages but come up empty. I cross reference her first name with business records, trade organizations, and news articles, but I strike out again. My work continues into the early morning hours but I’m undeterred. And my persistence is rewarded.

I’m like a kid on Christmas morning; I actually do a vigorous fist pump when I locate the small sophisticated shop she owns. I’m not familiar with the neighborhood, but it should be easy enough to find. My stomach sinks when I notice they’re closed on Sunday. That means I’ll have to wait until Monday morning, but I plan on being there as early as my dignity will allow.

The thought of waiting an entire week to see her makes my chest tighten in panic, but now I don’t have to worry. I slam my laptop closed, tip back the rest of my now-warm beer, and head upstairs to my bedroom. I take the steps two at a time as I undo the buttons of my dress shirt. I’m too geeked up to sleep, but I have another diversion in mind.

I peel off my shirt and toss it over the back of the upholstered chair next to my bed. My dress pants follow shortly after. Italian socks and my boxer briefs go directly into the hamper and then I crawl under the comforter. I hop back out when I realize what I’ve forgotten, and dig through the pockets of my dress pants until I find the sexy lace panties I swiped from the room tonight. I just couldn’t resist taking a little bit of Evelyn home with me.

I slide back into bed, stretch out on my back, and hold her balled up lingerie to my face. I nuzzle the soft lace and breathe deeply. I smell the notes of her perfume and soap, but the sweet tangy musk of her pussy is what has my cock tight against my belly in record time. I chuckle with delight as I slide my hand down and wrap my warm fist around my throbbing dick.

I try to go slow; to make it last. But I play back the scenes of her from earlier tonight and my hips thrust in a frenzied motion. The way her perfect tits jiggled as she bounced up and down. The way her plump glossy lips formed a perfect circle as she moaned. The way she thrashed in my arms, all soft skin and generous curves, when she came apart.

I kick the blanket off as I stroke myself into oblivion. Precum leaks from the swollen head of my cock and provides perfect lube. The room fills with a frenzied
thap thap thap
. I wish I had an extra hand, so I could cup my balls and play with them as I stroke myself off. Because there’s no way I’m moving the one that has her underthings clasped to my face. I tense my entire body, lift my hips off the bed, and ride the wave of pleasure that courses through me.

It lasts forever, but the shivers of ecstasy finally fade and I collapse back onto the mattress, a mass of tired sweaty muscles. I finally feel like myself again. Sexual. Masculine. Normal. I lie here and revel in the feeling until goose bumps rise on my arms and legs. I reach for the box of Kleenex on the nightstand, grab a tissue, and mop up the cum from my torso. I crinkle it up and toss it on the floor and then crawl back under the covers.

You think I’d be sick of thinking about her, but I’m not. Not even close.

I wonder how to impress her. None of the normal tokens of affection - flowers, chocolates, lingerie - would do the trick. I know that instantly. I’m going to need to work hard if I want to make her mine. I roll onto my side and start brainstorming my strategy for winning her over.

I have one last thought before I drift off to sleep: I can’t remember the last time a woman made me work this hard for it, but I have a feeling I’m going to love every last second of it.

T
here’s
a lot I love about owning my own flower shop. The best part, hands down, is the early morning delivery of fresh materials. I don’t mind the early hours. I don’t mind opening up the shop by myself. I don’t mind filling bucket after bucket of water and dragging them to the rear of the storeroom, near the loading dock. Because what comes after is always worth it.

When the flower wholesalers arrive with their deliveries, it’s like Christmas morning. I tear open the plain brown boxes to uncover the colorful blooms within. It’s not just their beauty that dazzles me; it’s the way so many of them trigger memories of happy times.

The ivory hydrangea blooms remind me of my sister’s wedding bouquet. Pink peonies remind me of my grandmother’s yard, of how the plant would bow under the weight of the vibrant blooms after a heavy rain. Then there are the fuzzy stalks of Liatris that used to grow next to the garage of my first apartment. And, of course, the roses that remind me of being in love, even if it has been a while.

There are dozens more, and I cherish each one. I sort through the hundreds of blooms with a practiced eye, discarding any that are discolored, wilting, or otherwise damaged. I can’t charge customers for them, but they still spread cheer once they’re delivered to the nursing home around the corner. The best part about flowers isn’t the flowers themselves; it’s the happiness they bring to someone once they find a home.

Once they’re sorted, I trim the stems in the industrial floral stem cutter that rests on the table. It reminds me of the guillotine paper cutter in my fifth grade art classroom, and I’m still worried I’ll lose a fingertip some day. The 18 inch steel blade cuts through fibrous stems like butter. Once the flowers have a fresh trim, they go into the buckets for a drink.

And then the fun really starts.

I grab the book with the day’s orders and start designing. And then the artist in me takes over. I survey our supply shelves and start with the perfect vase. Then comes the lush green foliage. It takes time to create a perfectly disordered backdrop for the color. Next, I add the showstopper flowers - the superstar blooms that are traffic stopping. I distribute them throughout the design and take great pains to keep them from looking too uniform. By this time, I’m in the zone. Finishing up with the accents is easy. A flowering vine here, a spray of baby’s breath there, and before I know it I’m finished with one order and on to the next. I’m lost in the quiet morning until a perky voice disturbs my reverie.

“Damn. You beat me in again.” I look up just in time to catch Jordan’s wink. She takes a long draw of her Starbucks iced coffee.

“What is that now? About 700 days in a row or so?” It’s a running joke between us. She’s never been a morning person, not since I met her during our freshman year, anyway. We bonded over our mutual love of Grey’s Anatomy, tater tots drenched in barbecue sauce, and the silver fox who taught Intro to Entrepreneurship. We’ve been inseparable ever since. She’s the night owl; I’m the early bird. It made things easy when we decided to go into business together after graduation.

“Good thing I-”

“Whoah, whoah whoah.” She holds her hand up like a crossing guard and I freeze in place. Her brow creases and I wonder what the hell I did wrong.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. She walks closer and looks me up and down.

“Girl, I know you aren’t going to try to play me like that.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ve known you for the better part of a decade. I can read you like my grandma’s cookbook, so tell me who he is.”

“Who he is?”

“That man who put that smile on your face and lit you up like a roman candle.” I shift my weight and rest on the edge of the stool nestled behind the work counter. I tip my head back and a throaty laugh escapes.

“Who is he?” she repeats.

“It’s less who he is and more what he did,” I say. “Although I suspect you’ll find his identity interesting as well.”

“So your problem is-”

“A thing of the past.” She squeals and hugs me. I tap my feet in excitement.

“Thank God,” she says. “You were getting downright difficult to deal with.”

“It was almost a
year
. Of course I was getting a little cranky.”

“He must have some crazy skills.” She prods me with her elbow. “Does he have a brother?”

“We both know you wouldn’t leave Elijah for anything. I know I wouldn’t, if I could find a man who loved me like that.”

“I guess I’ll let him stay around a little while longer then.”

“He thinks the sun rises and sets with you.”

“That’s how it is when it’s real. I expect you’ll find that out soon enough, judging from the way you’re glowing like the morning sun.”

The turn of this conversation is making me uncomfortable, so I grab the schedule book and change topics.

“You think you could help me with a few arrangements?” I run my finger down the schedule. “I have a bridal consultation today and I think it’s going to take extra time.”

“A high maintenance bride? Color me shocked.” She looks at her watch and then checks her phone. “Unfortunately, Sarah called in sick today. Again. So I’m going to have to work the front of the shop unless I can sweet talk someone else into coming in on their day off.”

“No luck so far?”

“Nope.” She starts walking for the door that leads to the storefront. We open in ten minutes and lately we’ve been hopping busy right from the time we switch the bolt on the door and flip the sign to open.

“I’ll be up there, working my magic.” She looks at me over her shoulder. “And don’t think I’m done interrogating you just because I let you change the subject on me like that.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, babe.”