Tapping The Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires #1) by Max Monroe Page B

can believe I’m late,” she rambled. “Just not this late. This is a new low for me.”
    “You’re always late?” I asked, trying to distract her from the late arrival and learn more about her instead.
    “Yes. Every day of my life. Well, to everything other than meetings with you.” She winced again. “The work you, at least.”
    “Don’t worry,” I promised with a grin. “Kline won’t say anything to Mr. Brooks.”
    “What’ll you have?” the bartender asked, tossing a napkin up on the bar for the anticipated glass.
    Georgia looked to me in question.
    “No.” I waved her off and lifted my glass. “I’m good. Just got one. You go ahead.”
    I glanced down the line of her back as she leaned over the bar. Wide straps criss-crossed to form cut-outs in the fabric of the back as well, and smooth material hugged the curve of her hips and ass. Her body petite but curvy, I wanted to run my hands all over that fabric.
    God, she looked gorgeous. It was almost unreal.
    She turned to me, holding a glass of wine she had obviously ordered at some point during my ogling.
    “Sorry,” I apologized through a tight throat. “I was…”
    She raised an eyebrow pointedly, a knowing grin on her face. “Staring at my ass.”
    “Yeah.” I nodded. “That’s exactly what I was doing.”
    She laughed.
    “It’s a really fine ass, though. And your hair…”
    She grabbed a strand of it self-consciously, twisting it around her finger. “Oh. Yeah. I have a thing for dyeing my hair. I’m not sure why, but I tend to change it like a hobby. Red or blonde or sometimes—”
    “Georgia?”
    She finally took a breath. “Yeah?”
    “I meant what I said. You look beautiful. Own it.”
    “Thank you,” she whispered, but her face relaxed.
    From there on out, she seemed herself: funny, sometimes awkward, but mostly at ease.
    We worked the room, schmoozing all of the people who needed it and small-talking with the others. Unable to help myself, I kept a hand on Georgia all night.
    Her hand in mine, my palm at the small of her back, a set of my flexing fingers on her perfect hip. Anything to touch her. Anything to keep her in close proximity.
    Finally done with my obligations, I asked her something that’d been on my mind all night.
    “Would you like to dance?”
    She seemed surprised. “You dance?”
    “With you, yes.”
    “I swear,” she whispered with a shake of her head. “Do you secretly have one of those things on your wrist that Coca-Cola wears?”
    I grinned in confusion.
    Her eyes searched mine like I held all the power, a sheen of fear coating them with moisture.
    Only then did I realize she meant the quarterback’s playbook cheat sheet.
    I took her cheek in my palm, smoothing a thumb over the apple of it softly.
    Apparently, when it came to Georgia Cummings and tonight, I’d been doing just fine.
    “Come on,” I coaxed, setting my drink down on a nearby table, pulling her onto the dance floor with me, and pressing her body right to mine.
    Hands clasped together, I pulled them into my chest and wrapped my other arm tightly around the curve of her hip.
    Her eyes followed mine and mine followed hers, a closed loop of exploration into each other. The moment picked up speed as the band played a sweet and melodic tune, and the rest of the room faded completely away.
    My chest felt tight with anticipation of what was to come—right now, in this moment, and beyond, as I gave myself over to getting to know this amazing woman.
    Our weight shifted from foot to foot and our hips swayed, very much moving but, at the same time, fighting with everything we had to stay stagnantly lost in that moment.
    Without thought or delay, I leaned in, touching my lips to hers for a full second before I felt the tension leave her body and her eyes fluttered closed.
    Tentative but bold, her lips began to move under mine, exploring on their own rather than waiting for my invitation.
    I abandoned her hand at my chest immediately and sought