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

15. You Say "Limo," I say "Rolling Sex Tube"

Good news: Crispin arrived promptly at five without landing a helicopter or space shuttle or any other aerial transport on the roof of my building.

Bad news: He came in something even more ostentatious—a black stretch limo about the length of Dolce and Gabbana's runway at Paris Fashion Week.

Usually, I refer to grandiose cars as "mobile compensation units," but in Crispin's case, I saw that bulge in his sweatpants and must admit, unless he stuffed Bigfoot's sock into his crotch, the guy does not need to compensate for anything. Just the thought of Crispin's bulge makes my tongue loll like an overheated dog's.

I sashay down the sidewalk, my new Chanel dress fluttering seductively in the breeze, making my way toward Crispin's shiny black limo. The street buzzes with end-of-semester excitement and chaos—students with suitcases on lawns trying (and failing) to disguise hangovers from anxious parents; cars double-parked with their trunks hanging open like hungry maws; recycling cans overflowing with beer bottles and pizza boxes—remnants of parties past.

The limo is double-parked in front of a frat house with its engine purring. (The limo, not the frat house. Frat houses only purr during their annual 'Sexy Kittens and Cocky Cats' block party.)  As I approach, a group of frat boys whoops and hollers, and a few bros visibly drool. I did not know frat boys loved Chanel as much as I do!

The limo door swings open as I approach, held open by a bespoke-suited arm. "Hey," I say brightly, excited about my first limo ride.

"Good afternoon, Miss Jones. I appreciate your promptness," comes Crispin's baritone. He scoots over to the opposite side of the car, allowing me space on the slick leather bench seat. I slide in and pull hard on the door handle. It seals us in with a heavy thud.

The privacy screen is up, which means I'm alone in a hermetically sealed space with the hottest billionaire alive! His "Eau de Crispin - long walks on the beach under a full moon" scent wafts over me, encompasses me. I breathe in long deep breaths. Do not pant. Do not pant, I remind myself. My Chanel dress has hiked up, exposing a long expanse of bare thigh. Hmmm. I should've applied self-tanner because the glowy paleness is practically blinding.

My internal goddess does a cartwheel displaying a pair of super tan legs. This isn't a competition! I remind her.

She replies by sticking out her tongue. So mature! My goddess then flips me the bird.

Some goddesses are so low rent.

"Miss Jones. Miss Jones. Earth to Miss Jones," Crispin shouts in my ear.

"There's no need to yell," I say, wriggling on the seat as I attempt to pull down the hem of my dress.

"You weren't responding. I had to make sure you were conscious this time, unlike last night."

My face heats despite the blast of air conditioning, and I pretend to search for the seat belt to cover my embarrassment. I'm going to have to have words with my internal goddess later about her continual distractions and blatant cries for attention. "Wow, throwing that minor transgression in my face right away is not very gentlemanly," I snap.

"No one has ever accused me of being a gentleman."

Why does this make my insides quiver and melt like a warm crème caramel? I clear the lump in my throat. "Even though you're a member of a secret gentleman's club?"

Crispin smirks as if I've fallen into a trap of some kind. Bear, mouse, or fly, I'm not sure. "About that. I see you are a hard one to restrain with ropes and have a bad habit of becoming unconscious when you're about to be interrogated. But I have a new plan to get you to talk." He takes my hand and runs his perfectly manicured fingernails from the tip of my middle finger to my wrist, the touch sparking a fiery lust within my loins. After my broken date with Buzz earlier, I can barely control my ... um ... animal urges.