Free Banking the Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires Book 2) by Max Monroe Page B

Because, let’s be honest, I was finding an awful lot of enjoyment out of bugging the hell out of him.
    I grabbed my phone off the counter and typed out a text as I headed into his closet.
     
    Me: Do you have a maid?
     
    Thatch: Rita is a very nice lady who comes to my apartment twice a week.
     
    Me: I knew there was no way a single guy kept his shit this clean. The shower clued me in.
     
    Thatch: You’re in my shower?
     
    Me: Not anymore, Numbnuts. Right now, I’m in your closet.
     
    Thatch: My closet?
     
    Me: Um. Yeah. That’s where the clothes are. I needed something to wear.
     
    Thatch: Do NOT steal my favorite shirt.
     
    I didn’t even have to ask to know he was referring to his “Single and Ready to Mingle” shirt.
     
    Me: You can calm the fuck down because I found an even better one.
     
    Thatch: Which one?
     
    I walked over to his freshly made bed— see, I was a good houseguest —and laid the shirt in question out, then snapped a quick picture and sent it to him.
     
    Thatch: What in the fuck did you do to my shirt?
     
    Me: It was too big.
     
    Obviously, I’d had no other option but to put my amateur seamstress skills to good use. His T-shirt could’ve easily been a dress, and I was talking more muumuu than stylish maxi. Lucky for me, I only had to cut off a few inches, utilize some needle and thread, and boom , Thatch’s old shirt was now an adorable crop top.
     
    Thatch: Wait…why isn’t that shirt on you? Are you naked in my bedroom right now?
     
    Me: No. As a matter of fact, I have on a pair of tighty whities. Which, I gotta say, that’s real cute, Thatch. I love that you actually wear these.
     
    Thatch: I have to when I play rugby, smartass.
     
    Me: Better support for your Supercock?
     
    Thatch: Yes, and speaking of my Supercock (perfect nickname), he wants to FaceTime your tits. Put them on the phone, please.
     
    Me: Meh. You should have texted me sooner. I already rubbed one out.
     
    Thatch: In my shower???
     
    Me: No way. I prefer to masturbate in a bed, Thatcher.
     
    Thatch: So what you’re saying is you’ve just been lying around in my bed all day (during breaks from snooping through my place), rubbing your pussy all over my sheets?
     
    Me: Is that a problem?
     
    Thatch: Hell no, but my apartment has rules.
     
    Me: Rules?
     
    Thatch: If I’m not there to witness, then you have to record it for my viewing pleasure.
     
    Me: Put your boner away, Thatcher.
     
    Thatch: Pretty sure you started this, Crazy. I’m not the one hanging out at your apartment, swinging my dick around and jizzing all over your sheets.
     
    Me: Okay. I’ll give you that.
     
    Thatch: I’ll be done with this meeting at 1:30. Prep those gorgeous tits for FaceTime with my Supercock.
     
    Me: Sorry to disappoint, but I’ve got lunch with Georgie.
     
    Thatch: You owe me.
     
    Me: I owe you nothing.
     
    Thatch: Once the details of last night become clear in that pretty little head of yours, you’ll realize you actually do. Enjoy your lunch, honey.
     
    What was that supposed to mean?
    We fucked, we came, we fell asleep. Pretty sure none of those things constituted an IOU on my part. I didn’t bother trying to read between the lines, figuring it was just Thatch being Thatch more than anything else, and finished getting ready. Even though I had to borrow a pair of his underwear and alter one of his shirts, I was thankful to find a knee-length black, knit skirt inside my purse. And it was clean. Jackpot.

    I walked into Georgia’s office forty-five minutes later to find her sitting behind her desk, staring at her computer and shaking her head. “The answer is no,” she said. I ruled out any possibility of a business-related FaceTime because she was grinning like a loon. The coast seemed clear to slide in for a closer investigation.
    Moving around her desk, I found Kline on the screen, smiling back at his wife.
    I met Kline’s eyes over her shoulder. “Hey, Big Dick, how’s it hanging? Am I