Authors: Vesper Vaughn
Tags: #bad boy, #billionaire bad boy sex baby child twins tattoos NFL football sports romance rich money millionaire reality TV virgin first time steamy oral public sex voyeur, #Sports, #wealthy, #New Adult, #Contemporary Romance
BABY LOVE: A BILLIONAIRE BAD BOY ROMANCE
BY VESPER VAUGHN
© 2016 VESPER VAUGHN
I brought my feet down from off of my desk. “You are to tell absolutely no one of our deal.” She swallowed hard at this. I knew it caused her discomfort.
She signed the papers and handed the leather folio back to me. “Now I’ll be known as the woman who was bought and paid for, even if they don’t know about the deal we made.” She smiled grimly at me.
I walked around the desk and put my hands on either side of her. She was breathing heavily already. “Let’s get started, then.”
“Now?” she asked, glancing back at the door to my office.
I reached down to kiss her neck. She trembled at my touch. “Why wait?” I asked. She moaned slightly beneath my lips.
“I just – I didn’t think that we would. Here?” But soon her eyes were closed and she was moaning. I unbuttoned her blouse and traced my fingers across the tops of her ample, creamy breasts. She was wearing the same white lacy bra that I’d purchased for her.
Her hands found my cheeks and she brought my lips to hers. It was pure electricity in the air between us, hot waves of energy connecting our skin to each other. She ran her fingers through my hair and lifted her up by her ass.
I needed her now. I wanted to devour her.
The city of Chicago sprawled out beneath my feet. I pushed my bare toes against the glass and leaned my forehead on the floor-to-ceiling window. If I closed my eyes and opened them, I’d feel like I was falling. Anything that would wake me up and make me feel alive would be much fucking appreciated.
“Zane!” called two sexy feminine voices from behind me. “Come back out here. We have a surprise for you.”
I turned around against my better judgment. Standing there were the world’s two most famous supermodels, naked and hugging each other in the doorway of my bedroom. I stepped over empty beer cans and bottles from the night before. If it weren’t for the sun in the sky, I would have no idea what time it was.
“It’s fuck o’clock,” I said to both of them. They giggled and walked over to me, pulling down my boxers. I sighed as they ran their thin, tanned, manicured fingers down my tattoos on their way to sucking me off.
What did I
have to complain about, anyway?
The doorbell rang just as they finished. They took each other’s hands and giggled that they’d be in the shower. I pulled on a pair of relatively clean boxers and wandered through my trashed apartment. There were half-naked women everywhere, some entangled with one another, some sleeping alone. I stepped over a mountain of lacy lingerie. I vaguely recalled a rousing tournament of strip poker from the night before as I opened the front door.
Roger Morehouse, my best friend in the world, stood in the doorway in a ten-thousand-dollar suit. His green eyes looked over my shoulder to the mess behind me. “Looks like I was late to the party,” he said, holding up a bottle of wine with a smirk.
I rubbed my hands through my curly hair and yawned. “Come inside, asshole,” I snapped. “And bring that wine bottle over here.”
The ringing of the doorbell had stirred awake most of my guests. They stumbled over each other and I heard some of them say they were going for a rooftop swim in my private pool. “No drowning,” I yelled. They laughed. Someone else turned the music back on, and a few of the women started dancing their way back to a mostly-clothed state of dress.
Roger loosened his tie and took off his suit jacket, hanging it gingerly on the arm of my bar chairs. “Is there a non-sticky surface I could sit on somewhere in this shithole?”
“Sit anywhere and I’ll pay for your suit cleaning,” I promised. “You know I’m good for it.”
“That you are,” Roger replied, pulling large rectangles of paper towels off the roll and lining a chair with them before sitting down.
I pulled out a wine glass and a corkscrew. I looked at the label and laughed. “You’re blowing a fifty-thousand-dollar bottle on me at nine in the morning? Not that I object, but this must mean you want something from me.” I pulled the cork out of the neck of the bottle with a loud
and breathed in the dab of wine. “Jesus fuck this is great wine,” I said appreciatively, filling up my glass with a grand swirl of deep red vino.
Roger leaned back in the chair. “You forgot, didn’t you?” he asked me, disappointment dripping in his voice.
I knocked back half the glass in one gulp. “Forgot what?” I asked. Someone turned up the volume of the speakers.
Roger looked annoyed but didn’t say anything. “I scheduled someone from the mayor’s office to come here to talk with you this morning.
We talked about this.
Three days ago. It’s why I’m dressed up. I was hoping you’d remember when you saw the wine bottle. That's your payment.”
I squinted my eyes at him, trying to remember. “Oh, yeah. That sort of rings a bell.” The two supermodels came out of the bathroom wrapped in fluffy white towels. “Breakfast?” I asked them, ignoring Roger. I knew it would piss him off the longer I didn’t get my shit together. I liked this game. I picked up my phone and dialed downstairs. “Yeah, I’m going to need whatever you’ve got. For about-“ I looked out the window at the women splashing in the pool and counted heads. “Twenty people. Eggs, Danishes, donuts, the works. Leftover pizza – I don’t give a fuck. Just bring it all.” The supermodels smiled and bounced off toward the pool hand in hand. “You’re no fun today,” I said to Roger, who had a fixed look of tension plastered to his face.
“Man, I never ask you for anything, and here you go fucking this up too,” he said as the doorbell rang. He gave my half-naked body a once-over. “You’re not even getting dressed, are you?”
I shook my head and grinned, finishing off the glass of wine. “Nope!”
Roger answered the door, shoving the detritus of last night’s party aside with his feet to clear a path. He came back a moment later with a nervous-looking man in a suit. He was short and portly and looked like somebody’s accountant. “I’m Jim Smithson,” he said, giving my tattooed, ripped torso a nervous glance. I clocked him as the type of guy who always used his first and last name together. His wife probably called out
as one word when they were in bed together.
they were ever in bed together. “Should I come back later, Mr. Reid? I thought we had an appointment.”
I shook my head. “Nah, just clear a space and sit anywhere. Wine?”
“It’s nine thirty in the morning,” he replied, obviously not sure if I was joking or not.
“Your loss,” I shrugged, pouring another glass for me. “What brings you here today, Jim Smithson?” I asked easily, leaning back on the countertop and gazing at him. I loved making people uncomfortable like this; using my power and fuck-you attitude to remain in control.
“I thought that Mr. Morehouse explained-“
Roger cut him off. “I did. He’s choosing not to remember,” Roger hissed bitterly.
A splash and loud, raucous laughter echoed through the glass. Jim Smithson’s eyes nearly fell out of his head when he saw the skinny-dipping women. “If you make it quick, I’m sure you could persuade some of them to come inside and entertain all of us,” I said slowly.
Roger rolled his eyes. “Cut the shit,” he hissed at me. “Jim, I’m really sorry about this. Just cut to the chase and I can get you out of here.”
Jim Smithson was breaking out in a cold sweat. I could actually see the beads of moisture forming on his balding pate. “I – I came here on behalf of the mayor’s office. You know how beloved you are to this entire city, Mr. Reid. We were hoping that you could do something for us. We’re having a hard time. The city’s image is in the toilet. The citizens need a morale boost; something to bring the spotlight back on Chicago as the Third Coast that it once was,” he explained.
I stared at him in silence. He looked like he was going to pass out. “You mean you need tax revenue and for the rest of the country to
that Chicago isn’t the unequal city it is.” I put the pieces together, looking from him to Roger. “So you want me to do Roger’s fucking TV show. Is that it?”
Jim Smithson nodded, looking relieved that he wasn’t going to have to explain himself any further to me.
“Mm,” I said, putting down my wine glass. “Let me get this straight. I add my name as an executive producer and I show up to film a few episodes as Chicago’s Golden Boy. Then I distract the country from this city’s stunning segregation and inequality, and that’s all you need?” I shook my head and laughed. “I’ll do it, because why the fuck not, but I’m not sure that people connect me
much with Chicago.”
Jim Smithson glanced nervously at Roger, who cleared his throat to speak up. “Stop being an asshole, Zane. You know what they want. They want us to move the show here to Chicago to film it.”
I shrugged amiably. “Here, L.A. What’s the difference to me? Makes it a shorter commute. But I’m guessing you need funding, because the city wants the
. You don’t have a tax break to offer the network somewhere in the mayor’s corrupt coffers do you? So you need my money?” I stared at him with an intense look. I found myself wondering if it was possible for a man to melt into a puddle from sheer embarrassment and discomfort alone. If anyone was going to do it, it would be Jim Smithson. I kept him waiting like that for a full minute before speaking again. “Fine. I’ll fund the show. We’ll move it to Chicago. When do we start filming?”
Five minutes later, Jim Smithson rejected my offer of breakfast and lap dances. He twirled the worn gold band that creased his pudgy ring finger as he ran for the exits.
“You’re a real dick, you know that?” Roger said to me with a laugh. He took off his tie and unbuttoned the top of his shirt, rolling up the sleeves. He poured himself a glass of water as room service finally arrived and set up a buffet on my cluttered dining room table.
“I’m not a dick, Roger,” I retorted. I held my arms out. “I’m the Golden Boy of the City. I’m beloved by all because I know how to catch a goddamned football.
I pay more to this town in taxes annually than ninety-nine percent of Chicagoans will make in a lifetime. I’m the only fucking billionaire in history to not hide my money in tax shelters.”
“I still don’t know why you haven’t fled to warmer pastures,” Roger said through a mouthful of Danish.
“I hate your place in the Bahamas,” I replied. “Shacking up in a cozy community with a hundred other billionaires so I can hide my money is not my idea of a good time.”
“We get it, asshole. You’re better than the rest of us,” he said. His cheeks were turning red, from staring at the women everywhere, which I knew was a great sign. He tilted back the rest of his water and slammed it on the table. “Fuck I miss alcohol. But anyway…it’s party time, I’d say,” he said with a smile. “Ladies!” he called onto the balcony.