Page 49 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

I t’s ridiculous how fast I’m ready for him again. It’s like we have to make up for all the years that we didn’t know each other(’s bodies) yet.

One second I’m yawning into his chest, the next I’m grinding against him, my body already waking up in ways the rest of me hasn't yet. Ben doesn’t hesitate—just kisses my forehead once, then flips me onto my stomach, puts on a condom, and drives his dick inside me like he’s trying to hammer the memory of this into both of us.

“We have ten minutes,” I say between thrusts. “I need to get to work.”

Ben growls. “I only need five. And seeing you like this,” he squeezes my bare ass and slaps it, “even five is a stretch.”

I look over my shoulder, half-flattered, half-incredulous that I have this effect on him.

It’s quick, dirty, and somehow still reverent.

There’s no time for finesse—just raw need, and flushed skin, and tangled sheets.

His hand is over my mouth when he makes me come, and if we had the time, I’d bite it to earn myself a proper spanking.

Instead, this time, I cry his name into his palm and plead for him to finish inside me, already dreading the moment it ends.

Afterwards, we’re both glowing as we scramble to get washed up and dressed.

Like our schedule dictates, he takes me to work, and I think about him all day.

I guess that part just happens without anyone telling me to do it.

It just happens naturally. And it’s annoying, to be honest. I keep catching myself smiling at nothing while I’m rinsing pigment from my brushes or washing my hands.

My fingers hesitate every time they’re following the outlines of the oil painting before me, like they’d rather be tracing Ben’s collarbone or, you know, his other bone.

The museum is chaos in the best possible way.

Elaine decided to rearrange things without getting permission from the moneybags on the board, instead hoping for their forgiveness.

So there are contractors everywhere—moving sculptures, adjusting lights, mounting paintings.

My boss is somehow in the center of it all, clipboard in hand, singing directions and handing out homemade cookies she must have gotten up at 4 AM to bake.

My lab allows me to work in peace, but my brain somehow won’t shut up.

I’m not used to this—the warmth that lingers in my stomach when I think of him.

The knowledge that he’ll pick me up after.

That I’ll get to kiss him again. I’m still sad about my grandpa, still mourning that our time was cut shorter than either of us would’ve liked, but I think know he would be happy for me too.

He wouldn’t want me to be swallowed by melancholy and self-pity.

“You’ve been smiling all day,” Elaine says, appearing out of thin air like a judgmental fairy godmother. She shoves a brownie in my mouth. “It’s deeply concerning.”

I blink up at her, noticing how easily that brownie disappeared in my mouth, because, yes, I might have been smiling. “I’m not smiling,” I claim, trying to uphold my long curated reputation of being a lone grump that is best not spoken to. “Stop trying to insult me.”

“No, no. You’re clearly doing that thing where your mouth turns upward.

It’s adorable. Unless… should I call an ambulance?

It might be a stroke. Women have different symptoms when having a stroke, you know.

” She comes closer, inspecting my face. Then she lifts my arm and lets it fall.

“Your face is drooping upside down, your arm is surprisingly weak, and you are slurring your speech a little.”

“No, I’m not,” I mumble, mouth full of brownie.

“Right, and sudden confusion is a sign more often seen in women too. Are you also feeling nauseous? Like fainting? Generally weak? Did you recently experience hiccups or chest pain? Any seizures?”

I chew through the treat and swallow. “Not having a stroke just yet,” I assure her, although I do feel sort of weak whenever I think of Ben. “But I promise to let you know once I display all the symptoms. Now, if you’d excuse me.” I gesture at the painting next to me. “Lots to do.”

Elaine puts a small box of brownies on my desk. They’re actually pretty good today and remind me of a recipe that my dad used to make for my birthday.

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it. It’s nice seeing you like this. For what it’s worth, I think you two make a great couple.” She gives my shoulder a quick squeeze, winks at me, and struts off, clipboard swinging like it’s dancing.

Of course she knows. She might be right though. We do make a pretty cute couple.

When Ben pulls up outside the museum later that day, I’m already waiting, flushed with anticipation, a big grin on my face —and, for some reason, I don’t even mind. I might have even left work a little early because I couldn’t wait to see him again.

Was that one of the symptoms?

Sudden loss of decorum?

Should I get checked out?

He’s leaning on the steering wheel with that crooked smile of his. Not the one that makes people trust him right before he steals their expensive art collection—but the one that’s just reserved for me.

I open the passenger door and slide in. “Hey, quick question. Do we have time for a quick quickie before we go meet the buyer for the painting?”

It’s only after the words leave my mouth that I realize we’re not alone.

Alexei whistles. Robyn, Guy, and Paige all lean forward in their seats to get a better view. Only Earnest, Paige’s husband, crosses his arms and shakes his head.

Oh, god.

Paige adjusts her glasses and clears her throat. “Helena, darling. Never be ashamed of your libido.”

“Or your poor timing,” Robyn teases, flinging a scarf over her shoulder, accidentally whipping Guy right in the face.

“It’s really more a lack of spatial awareness, it seems,” Earnest chimes in, now both his thick brows raised.

Sienna just smirks from the seat beside Paige, as she accepts a butterscotch candy from her.

“Hey, guys,” I mumble, my face as red as a Georgia O’Keeffe flower painting that just realized what it looks like. Then I turn to Ben and whisper, “Why are there this many people here?”

Ben shrugs, clearly delighted. “They insisted on coming along. It’s kind of their thing.”

Robyn pats my shoulder. “We’re a collective, dear. A co-op of chaos. Think Robin Hood—but sexier.”

“Sexier than a bunch of men in tights?” Guy throws in quietly.

“That’s…” I remember those weird plans I saw in her apartment. “Wait, do you guys actually rob banks?”

Sienna shakes her head. “Banks have good security. Not worth it. Besides, our missions are a lot more… eclectic. Karmic, if you will. We’re not just thieves.”

Earnest leans forward as well now. “But what if we were just thieves? Would that be a problem?” His eyes narrow in on me. “What do you think of the current state of the world and the secret cabal of lizards governing it?”

I stare at him, not sure what to say.

Luckily, Robyn comes to my rescue a second later. “Hey, that’s basically my granddaughter-in-law you’re talking about. Lay off, will you?”

Earnest leans back in his seat. “Just need to make sure she’s one of us.”

“Well, I hate the lizards as much as the next guy,” I say carefully. “Besides, I literally stole that.” I point to the bag Sienna is holding in her lap.

“And she’s banging Ben,” Guy adds in a short moment of silence. “He has great taste in friends. So he’ll have great taste in partners too. Isn’t that right, buddy?”

“Okaaay,” Ben turns around after having tried to stifle his laugh for a while now, “how about we focus on the job at hand, shall we?”

I catch Ben glancing at me for a second, his eyes crinkling when they meet mine.

The job site today is an estate. A big one.

It looks like someone took Versailles, mated it with a bunker, and then hired an entire kindergarten for the paint job.

Golden lions flank the driveway, purple accents drip from the roof, and the front door is at least double the normal height—presumably to fit the owner’s ego.

I tug at the hem of my blazer, feeling slightly ridiculous. Not so much because of the outfit—classic black, well tailored—but because of the auburn bob wig with blunt bangs perched on my head. Robyn shoved it at me the second we parked the car.

“Best to be careful. That way they won’t recognize you if you ever run into them again,” she’d said, adjusting it like she was styling a Barbie. “Also, it brings out your cheekbones beautifully.”

“Okay,” I mutter as we—Alexei, Ben, and I—walk up the steps, heels clicking, nerves racing. “Remind me again why I’m letting the embodiment of nouveau riche buy a painting that should be in a museum?”

Ben glances at me sideways, brushing his fingers against mine. “Because we don’t want your eye to look like their roof again.” He makes a face. “Plus, the artist was a raging racist, misogynist, all the -ists, and the painting’s been wasting away in a climate-controlled coffin anyway.”

“I know, I know.” I sigh.

“It’s for a good cause,” Alexei says dryly from behind us.

Ben smirks. “Besides, if it helps—these people are awful. You’ll hate them instantly. And they deserve to spend too much money on terrible art.”

He’s not wrong.

Waylon Grift meets us at the door in a purple velvet smoking jacket and no discernible shame.

He kisses the air near my cheek in a way that makes me want to cleanse my aura (and I don’t even believe in stuff like that).

Isabella, his wife, trails behind him with a martini in one hand and a leash in the other.

Her tiny dog is wearing a diamond necklace that probably cost more than the kindergarten kids were paid for the paint job.

“You must be the art wrangler. Lena Steinbeck?” Waylon mentions the alias Alex told him, giving me a once-over that makes me want to take a shower in turpentine. “And you must be the lucky owner of a John D. Swift,” he adds in Ben’s direction with a chuckle.