Billionaires Dollar Series

“Anytime, Holland.”

It’s the last thing I hear for quite some time.

I wake up to a strong hand on my shoulder and something cold pressed to my lips. “Skye, I need you to swallow. Two pills, that’s all.”

The room is dark and I have to blink a few times for things to come into view. Cole is sitting beside me.

“Come on.”

I open my mouth like a toddler and he pops two pills in my mouth. I reach for the glass of water he hands me, and he helps support me as I drink. I’m breathless by the time I finish and collapse against the pillows again.

“Jesus Christ,” I say.

“Still Cole, last time I checked.”

I want to laugh, but all that comes out is a low wheeze. My throat hurts.

I try to roll over, but my jeans snag uncomfortably. I’m still in my work clothes. High-waisted pants.This is the property of Nô-velDrama.Org.

“Ugh. Off, off, off.” I toss back the covers and try to get the button undone. My fingers tremble with the effort.

“I’ll help you.” Cole’s hands are cool and strong around mine. He finds the button and zipper in seconds and helps pull the skintight jeans down my legs.

His hands stop at my ankles. “Socks on or off?”

“Off,” I groan. “I’m so warm.”

He tugs it all off and I feel about a thousand times better once they’re off my skin. I feel like laughing, seeing this large, well-dressed man at the edge of my messy bed, in my small bedroom, taking off clothes. It’s ridiculous. It must be another one of my fever-induced dreams.

A while later, I blink my eyes awake to another cold compress against my forehead. “Skye, is there someone you want me to call?”

I smile at the male voice. It really is a lovely voice, all deep and powerful. “Nope,” I say. “No one at all.”

“Your sister?”

Another wheezy laugh. “Noooo. She wouldn’t care.”

The beautiful voice is silent, and I snuggle into my pillow again. It’s fluffy like a cloud. My entire bed is. It’s the best bed in the world.

“I find that hard to believe,” the voice says, and I don’t know why or what it’s referring to.

“Your voice is lovely,” I mumble. “Great voice. Excellent.”

The next time I hear it, it sounds amused. I should know the person it belongs to, but I can’t for the life of me remember who it is.

“You’re delirious with fever.”

“And you don’t know how to take a compliment, Mr. Voice.”

“Maybe I’m just not very used to them from you.”

I open my eyes and peer to the other side of the bed, but I can’t make anything out in the darkness. “That’s stupid. I love to give compliments. I give them to my friends all the time.”

The bed dips, and then a large, cool hand curves around my forehead. I lean into it. “You have great hands, too.”

A masculine snort. “Yes, you definitely still have a fever. It should break soon.”

I don’t want to talk about fevers or sickness. I fumble blindly for his wrist and keep his hand glued to my forehead, to where his skin is cool and just a little rough. It feels like heaven.

“This is nice,” I breathe.

He snorts again. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

The voice is quiet again, and for much longer this time. Figuring he won’t answer, I content myself in stroking the skin of his wrist and relishing in the feel of his hand on my forehead.

“Well,” he says finally, “I’d like to be.”

“Me too,” I breathe. Having this voice in my life forever seems like a first-place prize.

He laughs, the voice washing over my feverish senses like a cool wave. “I wish you’d remember that when you’re no longer feverish.”

“Of course I will.” My hands claw up his arm, up his sleeve, until I find the very solid chest of the man the voice belongs to. It’s like steel beneath my hands. I feel too weak to explore it, which must be one of life’s cruel jokes. Deliver me a delicious man in bed and render me too weak to take advantage of him.

He lets me examine in silence, until finally, his hands capture mine. “Sleep, Skye.”

“Mhm. Okay.” It does feel good to relax against the pillows again, and darkness beckons. But there’s something I need to know first. A memory that flashed through my pounding head, clues that my tired brain puzzled together with the voice and the hard chest. “Hey. We’ve slept together, right?”

He gives a low, dark laugh, and I want to bottle it so I can have it on demand. “Yes, we have. Weeks ago.”

“Mhm. I remember.” I turn over so I’m closer to the voice. “I think about it aaaall the time.”

Brief silence. “You do?”

I don’t see why he seems surprised. Even in my fever-addled brain, I know the memory is one of my favorites to revisit.

“Best sex of my life,” I mumble.

A hand flits across my hair, smoothing. “You’ll really hate yourself for saying that later. And me, for being here to listen.”

I try to laugh and break into a cough instead. He’s there, pushing me up to sitting and handing me a glass of water. When I can breathe again, I collapse against the pillows in a worthless, energy-less heap.

His voice is the last thing I hear. “I think about it too,” he says quietly. “All the time.”

I blink my eyes open to faint sunlight streaming in through my curtains. My head feels like it’s made of lead bricks, my mouth cloudy. Ugh.

A cold compress slips from my head to the bed beside me. Something large moves and I startle in response.