Page 36 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

I t’s like I’ve been sent straight into one of Hieronymus Bosch’s paintings depicting some bizarre—and surprisingly horny—circle of hell.

Quickly, I withdraw my hand.

Ben's smirk deepens. “It’s okay. Luckily, the rules about touching the art aren’t as strict around here as they are at the museum.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to?—”

“Don’t worry about it, Panda. It was my pleasure.” Ben winks, sits back down, and continues to eat, mischief written all over his face.

Meanwhile, I am still embarrassed at what just happened, his cool expression making me burn even hotter. My only solace is that Ben seems to be more interested in my art skills than in humiliating me further. So, after dinner, he does the dishes, I get to work, and he joins me once he’s ready.

“So, how does one turn a 500-year-old masterpiece into a completely different 500-year-old masterpiece, then?” he asks, gently bumping into me.

I exhale and take a step away from him and the heat he’s exuding. It’s getting almost uncomfortably warm in here—not ideal conditions for the painting.

“Well, it’s a lot like plastic surgery,” I reply, rolling up my sleeves. “Except instead of fillers and scalpels, we use solvents and varnish. First, we need to prep the canvas—strip away the top layer of pigments without damaging the fibers underneath.”

Ben hums. “Sounds… delicate.”

I shoot him a look and move another step away from the bonfire he calls a body. “Which is why you will not be touching anything unless I say so.”

His hands go up in surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of interfering with the great Pan da Vinci. You’re the boss… at least when it comes to the art.”

There’s a lot that remains unsaid in that little addendum, but I choose to ignore it. I need to focus on my work. Who cares what—or who—he thinks he’s the boss of anyway. I’m just here to commit some good ol’ crime like I used to. Sort of.

So that’s what I do. Since the existing paint is too thick, too textured, I remove the top layer with some solvent and a scalpel, before carefully sanding it down to preserve the old gesso underneath.

Ben watches closely as I go along.

Once I’m done, I crack my knuckles. “Next, we’ll resize and stretch the canvas to fit the dimensions we need. That’s where you come in.”

“Finally,” Ben says with another smirk. “I was almost starting to feel useless just admiring you.”

He’s not, though. Useless, I mean. He handles the old wooden frame with surprising skill, helping me guide and stretch the canvas to match our intended dimensions. His fingers brush against mine more than once, and I pretend not to notice—even though my body betrays me with every stolen touch.

“So,” I say eventually, in an attempt to distract myself, “since you’ve already seen my boobs, I think I deserve a freebie.”

Ben’s hands are busy, luckily, or I’m sure he’d be halfway to unbuckling his belt again. Instead, his eyes just crinkle suggestively.

“A free secret, I mean. Our little game? Seems only fair you cough up something… big in return.”

Ben laughs, low and husky. It’s music to my ears. “Fair enough,” he says and leans back, looking up at the ceiling like he’s deciding which skeleton to pull from his closet. “Alright. Here’s one—and don’t make fun of me for it—but I’ve never been in a relationship.”

I pause mid-brushstroke. “Never?”

“Nope.”

I study him, waiting for him to turn it into a joke, but he doesn’t.

“Why not?”

Ben shrugs. “Well, I guess I’ve always been moving a lot. With my family when I was younger, and now with my job . Makes it hard to really get to know someone.”

It’s not the whole story. I can feel it in the space between his words, in the way his jaw tenses slightly. There’s something else there, something raw—but I don’t press. I know better than most that some wounds aren’t meant to be poked at.

“Well,” I say instead, turning back to the canvas, “maybe one day you’ll settle down.”

Ben laughs weakly. “You mean, like, in prison?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I guess, I wouldn’t be too surprised if you do end up in some sort of dungeon or another.”

He chuckles again, his eyes drifting from the remains of the frame in his hands to the crook of my neck. He swallows. “Tell me about that. Your time behind bars. I assume it was a lot less sexy than that suggestive joke?”

I huff. “Oh, yeah. Nothing sexy about using the bathroom next to someone you’re forced to bunk with.”

“Do you regret doing what you did?” he asks, serious now, his eyes searching mine.

“I regret it, yes. It was dumb. I mean, I do think the fucking St. Clairs needed to be taught a lesson—but maybe burning down their house was a step too far, you know?”

“Did anyone get hurt?” he asks carefully.

I sigh, the knot in my stomach that had loosened over the past couple of days tightening again.

“I made sure the house was empty. But their kid came home once the thing was already on fire. Apparently, he tried to put out the flames, got burned. Luckily, it wasn’t life-threatening.

But yeah. He didn’t deserve that. It’s the thing I feel by far the worst about.

I wrote letters, from prison, to apologize, but never heard back. Which is fair, I guess.”

The weight of my words lingers between us, reminding me of another reason why I don’t share stuff with other people. Because why would anyone want to be friends with someone capable of doing something like that?

“You must think I’m a monster,” I mutter when Ben doesn’t respond right away.

He shakes his head. “No, not at all. You were just a kid in an impossible situation. Losing your parents, your grandpa getting locked up, foster care. Honestly, I’m surprised you turned out this well-adjusted,” he says seriously.

“Ha!” I snort. “You mean with my obsessive need to adhere to my schedule? And my tragic work-life balance? And the fact that my only friend is my dead grandpa?”

“Hey now!” Ben pretends to be offended. “That’s not fair. You also have a dashing partner… in crime who is very much alive. I think that counts for something.”

I nod, a careful grin on my face. “Indeed. All the well-adjusted people have partners in crime these days.”

“Glad we agree on that,” he replies, and then starts cleaning up while I return to prepping the canvas.

We talk a little, work in comforting silence, and focus on our goal. At least that’s what I do… when I’m not distracted by his annoying smell, his soothing warmth, or the way he’s constantly just a little too close behind me.

“Our schedule says it’s time for bed,” he, eventually, whispers into my ear a little too seductively.

For a second, neither of us moves. The air between us goes electric, thick with something sharp and wanting. My eyes flick over my shoulder to his mouth, just for a second.

I swallow. “Right. Wouldn’t want to fall behind.”

I’m not sure what Ben is thinking at that moment, but rather than closing the distance, rather than turning the moment into something reckless and irreversible (like he does in my imagination), he steps back.

“Sleep well, Panda,” he says, his voice lower now, rougher. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

And then he’s gone. Which should feel like a relief. Instead, I just feel like I might combust spontaneously. Or I might orgasm spontaneously. Both seem like a distinct possibility right now.

But instead of wallowing in this torturous feeling, I get ready for bed.

And once I’m done, like the horny idiot I am, I don’t go to sleep—I go over to my window, from where I have a clear line of sight to Ben.

Ben, who’s moving around outside, running a hand through his hair, appearing restless.

Ben, who looks kind of adorable all riled up and frazzled. Ben, who turns—and spots me right away.

Oh.

Shit.

I duck, mortified. But it’s too late. He definitely saw me. Saw me watching him. So, with as much dignity as I can muster, I stand back up and give a tiny, tormented wave.

My partner in crime grins. In response, I shut the curtain so fast I nearly rip it off the rod.

Smooth, Helena. Real smooth.

A smooth criminal if I’ve ever seen one.

I groan and retreat to my bedroom, flopping onto the bed in defeat.

If embarrassment could kill, I’d be nothing more than a tragic cautionary tale by now.

Alas, I’m not dead. Just dead horny. And if I’m feeling this way already, I might as well get something out of it.

So I start searching for my magic wand in the mess of moving boxes stacked next to the bed.

Instead of pleasure, I find socks, a ton of books (he didn’t need to bring all of those), and an entire arsenal of toilet paper I had stored away in my bathroom (he definitely didn’t need to bring that).

I kick the cardboard box and discover another one just behind it. Inside is the little chest with toys I was looking for.

Thank fuck.

I flop back onto the bed, strip off my panties, turn on the magic wand, and groan loudly—when it won’t do anything. The battery is dead. Of course, it is.

I stare at the ceiling like it holds the answers to all my problems… or at least the location of the freaking charger, because it’s not in the damned chest.

Alright, seems like I have two options now: suffer in frustrated silence or take matters into my own hands. And since I’ve never been one to let a minor inconvenience stop me, my hand trails lower, brushing over my stomach, then slipping between my legs.

I start drawing gentle circles, spreading my wetness around.

Although to be fair, I am so wet I don’t really require any sort of spreading.

My fingers slide right in on the first try.

With my other hand, I give my nipples a little tug to help this thing along.

And it feels… adequate. All of this feels good.

My hands should be enough. They usually are.

But tonight, even after a solid twenty minutes of this, I’m having trouble finishing.

Tonight, my mind is annoyingly specific about what it wants.

And what it wants is the man currently sleeping outside to protect me.

It wants Ben. It wants Ben close. Not just Ben standing close, all cocky grins and suggestive winks and seductive whispers.

No. My mind wants him less charming con man, and more criminal with a cause and a hand around my throat.

I close my eyes, my fingers still working circles, and let my imagination take over.

He’d be hovering over me, pinning me down, that deceptively charming smile gone.

In its place would be something darker. Something hungry.

His voice would be a low growl in my ear, asking me just how long I was going to pretend I didn’t want this. Didn’t want him.

I bite my lip, my breath hitching as I picture his hands—those talented, thieving hands—gripping my wrists, holding me in place while his mouth trails lower.

A teasing scrape of teeth against my skin.

A wicked chuckle against my thigh. The slow, deliberate torture of him drawing it out, of him making me beg.

Because Ben? Ben would make me beg.

A sharp gasp escapes me, my body arching into my own touch.

My hips lift. My fingers press deeper, chasing the release I know is close.

My breath comes faster, my skin burning as the fantasy spirals into something rougher.

More desperate. Because I wouldn’t just let Ben take control—I’d make him work for it.

I’d push against him, feel the flex of his muscles as?—

A screeching noise makes me jolt upright in my bed.

It sounds like someone dragging their nails across a blackboard.

I freeze on the mattress, trying to calm my heavy breathing.

The hairs on my neck stand up, but this time not from arousal.

There’s someone outside. I swallow hard.

There it is again—the dragging noise, a little quicker now.

That isn’t Ben. Ben wouldn’t do that to me.

Somebody else must be here, must have slipped past him.

I rush to the kitchen and grab a knife. Then I remember the pepper spray and grab that too.

And then I’m standing in the middle of my apartment Ben’s safe house, listening for that sound, and trying to decide what to do.

Maybe I can make it past whoever is outside and run to Ben before?—

There it is again. Now farther away. I walk over to the door. It’s still locked.

I swallow again. “You should just leave,” I say, sounding weaker than I mean to. “I’m armed. And my… partner is outside. Smoking. He’ll be back any second now.”

I wait.

No response.

I wait some more and consider opening the door to take a look. But I have seen more than one horror movie in my life, and know that that never ends well. So instead, I take a chair and wedge it under the door handle.

Maybe it wasn’t them trying to intimidate me.

Maybe it was… just a ghost.

Or maybe it was my mind playing tricks on me.

It’s been going crazy all night anyway, what with all the dirty daydreams about Ben.

A few minutes later, I’m reasonably certain that there’s no one outside.

Peeking through the curtain, I spot Ben sleeping peacefully in his RV.

He’s balled up in his blanket, his head resting on a pillow against the door.

He looks comfortable, but he shouldn’t have to sleep like this.

I’ll ask him tomorrow if he wants to spend the night. On the couch, that is.

Knife and pepper spray still in hand, I return to bed. I put the knife on the little nightstand and the pepper spray under my pillow. Just in case. Then I roll onto my stomach and bury my face in it.

I’m tired.

Tired of thinking about Ben.

Tired of not getting off.

Tired of strange noises haunting me.

Tired of tight chests and torturous knots.

Tired of my grandpa’s face haunting me.

Tired of having to worry about bad decisions.

I yawn.

Maybe if I just suffocate myself here with this pillow, I won’t have to deal with any of this anymore. As I press my face deeper into the soft cushion, I feel myself drift off slowly. The scent of sweet pancakes pulling me under.