Fifty Degrees of Shade - The Billionaire's Badass Mate - On hold for a bit!

4. Booty Walk

Crispin prowls through the dimly lit hallways like a predator, the muscles of his back rippling and flexing with each fluid stride. His fine ass strains against over-washed ripped tight Levi's. Holy bovine, he looks hot. Still, you'd think a billionaire could afford new jeans, but maybe all his money is tied up in investments. I mean, he can't even afford a shirt, poor guy.

Should I ask about how he intends to pay me or is that tacky for a first date? I mean first day.

No matter. I'm sure it'll work out. And I have better things to ponder than his finances. I'd rather fantasize about Crispin's other assets.

For example, I'd like to give his fine ass a closer inspection—perhaps on a cold metal veterinary exam table. My mouth waters as I imagine his hard glutes under my delicate, not overly long, lady fingers. But it turns out daydreaming about your new employer's ass while you're following close behind him is not wise, because when he suddenly stops, I slam into him.

And oops!

My hands somehow end up cupping his fine ass.

He spins, leaving my hands empty and bereft, his golden eyes blazing like twin moons. I bite my lip.

"Do not bite your lip," he scolds.

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me want to bite it instead," he says simply.

I gulp. "So that's what you're into? Biting?"

"You have no idea," he grins wickedly.

Oh my! A biter. "That's okay," I say calmly and encouragingly. "I've dealt with biters before. I think with some basic socialization training and repetitive positive reinforcement, we can "nip" that habit."

Crispin gives me the funniest look. Like maybe he thinks I'm some kind of crazy person who wandered unbiddenly into his lair.

"What?" I say, holding my hands out wide, palms flat, in a submissive position, proving I'm no threat. I mean, the biting thing could be interesting to explore, but I managed to apply my lipstick perfectly today and would hate to see it messed up.

"Nothing," Crispin says, at last, looking deeply into my eyes and rubbing his five-o-clock shadow. "You are very intriguing, Miss Jones."

"I've heard that before," I admit.

We've stopped beside an array of seven large rectangular paintings lining the hallway. I assume they must be expensive because from what I've heard, billionaires don't fuck around with cheap shit from Aaron Brothers. But I'm no expert. To me, the splotchy red paint on white canvases looks like blood splatters at a murder scene.

Mr. Shades notices me noticing his expensive art. "What do you think?" he asks, eyes solemn, as if he really cares about my opinion.

"Honestly?" I say.

"Of course."

"They look like something from a crime scene. And I mean that in only the nicest way," I amend my statement so as to not offend my future employer with the fine ass.

He gazes at me with those golden eyes again as if trying to dissect me and/or my art critique. "You have hidden depths, Miss Jones."

"Ani is fine," I croak. How does he know about my hidden depths? Are they sticking out? I check quickly, and nothing seems out of place. "But what do they mean? The paintings."

"They're a reminder," he says enigmatically and hotly. Then he steps closer to me, his auburn hair tickling against my clavicle, and takes a deep breath of my glossy brown hair.