“That’s why I didn’t want you in the suitcase. I didn’t want you to see your present. I couldn’t wrap it because of customs. They think that just because I’m a billionaire I’m trying to smuggle gold bars or something into the US.”
“Little did they know you had your most expensive asset hidden in your pants,” I said, sneaking my hand down because, well what was the point of sleeping with a hot billionaire if you couldn’t cop a feel when you wanted?
Grayson sat up, slowly cradling me in his arms.
“You might want to take a bath,” he hinted.
“If I smell weird, it’s because you were drinking too much coffee and your cum smells weird and got all over me,” I informed him.
Grayson gave me a horrified look.
“My roommate is kind of a sexpert.”
“Is this the elderly woman who gives hand jobs for wine?”
“That’s the one! If I’m ever out of town, I’ll send her by to keep you well taken care of.” I waggled my eyebrows.
“Please God, spare me.”
I climbed off of him, my legs only trembling a little bit, and padded into the bathroom.
It wasn’t like the cramped porta potty of a bathroom in the studio apartment. This one had its own floor-to-ceiling window.
“Manhattan, I am no longer a virgin,” I declared in front of the window as the steaming water filled the tub.
The bathroom was legit larger than the studio apartment. Could use some plants and some art though.
I was slipping under the hot water when Grayson came back upstairs.
“All the way from Paris,” he said tossing a small pink ball into the giant tub.
I clapped my hands in delight when it started to bubble and fizz up.
“This is not from Marshalls. This is a fancy bath bomb.”
“Champagne?” Grayson handed me a glass.
“Oui!”
“And,” he said, handing me a slightly smashed croissant and a wedge of soft cheese, “this is from the most popular bakery in town. I was there first thing, and the old lady working there said I was hot and gave me two.”
“Of course she did!” I snapped the waistband of the silky black boxer briefs he was wearing.
“Gimme!” I took a big bite of the croissant. “You really gave me a workout; I’m starving.”
Gizzy, the smell of food awakening him from his nap, scuttled out of the shower and jumped into the tub with a splash.
“You brought your iguana?” Grayson practically yelled.
“I needed moral support,” I argued. “I didn’t know what I was walking into.”
I held the plate and a flute of champagne over my head.
“Gizzy, down,” I told the iguana as he climbed on me for the food then fell into the tub with a splash.
Grayson scooped Gizzy out of the water.
“It’s okay. Iguanas can swim.”
