Part II
Bonus: The Billionaire’s Temptation (Part 1)
Prologue
Adam
Author’s Note. This Book Contains the bonus story, The Billionaire’s Temptation (Part One of this two-part series. If your story opened here and you’ve already read Part One, use the table of contents to navigate back to The Billionaire’s Seduction.
My dad, the Wilhelm Frederick Gerome, called me into his corporate office.
“You bellowed,” I said when I walked into his office that day and, in hindsight, I probably should have shown a bit more respect. Dad had looked at me and pointed at a chair. I’d known this day was coming since my older brother had bailed me out of jail… again.
“Adam Garfield Gerome, explain this.”
I flinched when he added my hideous middle name, feeling six instead of my twenty-six years of age. I flinched even harder when I saw what he’d tossed on the desk between us. The Inside Inquisitor, in all its gossip glory had a full-color picture of me being hauled from a cop car in handcuffs on the front cover. The headline read: Billionaire Playboy Plays Too Rough. I flipped the gossip rag open to check the accuracy of the story and to buy myself another few moments from my father’s glower.
Damn.
Pretty darn accurate.
Whoever the ‘source’ was got it right for once. I’d been in a club, actually in the bathroom of a club, having sex with a hot brunette in a skimpy red dress. In the middle of the act, the bathroom door had burst open and I’d had a little scuffle with the girl’s boyfriend. Cops were called. We’d both gone to jail. Russell, the only brother I like, bailed me out.
If it had happened to anyone but me, it wouldn’t have garnered a mention. But I’m Adam ‘the Dick’ Gerome, fifth in line to the Gerome fortune. If I fart too loud, the audio goes viral.
“Now.”
The single word booming from my father’s chest had me snapping back to attention. I explained the fight, spinning it so it looked like I was defending the girl’s honor. Dad doesn’t need to know I was screwing her on the bathroom sink.
“So, the arrest wasn’t warranted at all,” I concluded. “The guy was a maniac, I had to protect the girl.” I looked him straight in the eye, doing my best to look truthful as I finished tweaking the story.
Wilhelm stared at me and I stared back, fully convinced I had won this battle. Then, dad pulled out another tabloid, then another, and another. Soon, he had quite the little stack piling up between us.
“Adam, I despair for you.”
I didn’t flinch, I’d heard the words before. I settle back in my chair, and cross an ankle over a knee. Might as well get comfortable for the lecture that was to come.
“I feel I’ve been patient, allowing you your early twenties to, uh, sow your oats. You’ve passed your early twenties and are on the downhill slope to thirty. At this point in time, I see no hint of a change in your behavior.”
I had opened my mouth to defend myself, but his raised hand and even more ominous glower stopped me cold.
“I feel your mother and I have failed you.” I sat up straighter in the chair, this line was new. “As the baby of the family, we haven’t been as diligent in training you effectively.”
Great. Now I’m a St. Bernard in need of training? “No, Dad. That’s not true at all. You and Mom have been great.”
He signed and steepled his fingers under his chin. “I’m sure it appears that way from your side of the story…but from ours, we see a spoiled brat who doesn’t know the meaning of work ethic and who spends money as if it grows on trees in our backyard and gets delivered inside on a silver platter.”
I barely had enough self-awareness and discretion to not say ‘platinum platter’, thinking of my AmEx. “That’s not true. I pay attention to my spending.”
“Really? How much was the Land Rover you purchased last month?”
Shit.
I’m going to have to guess.
“Sixty? Sixty-five thousand?”
Dad exhaled and rifled through a stack of papers. “Try ninety-five thousand, son.”
I stared at him. Is that bad? It’s a really awesome, but highly practical SUV. I needed another vehicle for icy New York weather or ski trips over at the Pocono Mountain resort in Pennsylvania. I probably shouldn’t tell him I’d also needed it to pull the boat I purchased in Oak Springs near the Poconos two days ago.
“Adam, do you know the cost of your monthly bills to simply live in your penthouse apartment?”
I stared at him again, this time really confused. “Isn’t it paid for?”
Dad slapped a hand across his forehead. ‘What?’ I want to ask him, but my intuition is screaming at me to shut the hell up.
“Son, you know I love you, don’t you?”
I nodded, feeling a big ‘but’ heading my way.
“I can no longer, in good conscience, allow you to piss your life away. Effective immediately, you will begin a life plan that will instill the necessary skills, direction and dedication to ensure you become a responsible adult.”
Holy shit. Did Dad have lunch with Dr. Phil again? “What do you mean, life plan?”
“You will take on a role of responsibility within one of my companies, be given a salary and expected to pay your own bills for a period of one year. If the company of my choosing breaks even at the end of that year, you’ll be given your inheritance, in full, and can go about your life.”
Shit. Another ‘but’ was zooming at me at supersonic speed.
“But, if the company does not break even, you’ll head said company for an additional five years, after which time you’ll inherit and be set free.”
I had stood up, so quickly I’d almost knocked my chair over. “Five years. That’s… that’s… blackmail. Extortion. Child labor…”
“Life, son,” my dad interrupted. “That’s called life. I suggest you choose wisely.”
I lifted my chin and began to pace the office, angrier than I’d ever been. Choose wisely my ass. “And if I decline your generous offer?”
Dad smiled. Smiled! Not a good sign. He rifled through his papers again and looked up at me. “You might want to sit down for this.”
He was right. By the time he was finished with me, my head was between my knees and I was fending off an attack of hyperventilation. Choice #2 was really no choice at all. If I didn’t do as my father instructed and run a company and grow the hell up, I would lose my inheritance, my apartment, my vehicles, and my credit cards. Oh, my boat too, he added that on as an almost after thought. Shit on a stick. He really did know everything.
“You… you can’t do this,” I sputtered. “Does Mom know?” Damn, I was six again.
“Yes. She had suggested we trade in your wardrobe for, oh, what was it? Old Navy.” I knew that last bit was a lie because the bastard’s lips twitched a bit.
“I don’t know anything about running a company.” There, a much more pertinent and grown-up question.
“Didn’t you take business classes at Columbia?” He wrinkled his nose at the school name. I’m sure it was because my two oldest siblings, George and Janine, had attended Yale while Diane and William had chosen Harvard. Me, I didn’t have the grades for either. In fact, I’d flunked out my sophomore year and had somehow convinced my parents I should study in the ‘school of life’ which equaled backpacking across a lot of the world. Looking back, I think they were just pleased to get rid of me for a while. Let’s just say I wasn’t their easiest child.
“Adam, you are a tremendous people person and, in leadership, that could be your most valuable tool. I’d suggest you hire people more experienced and smarter than you. Hire hard and manage easy, I always say.”
I looked at him as if he were speaking Chinese.
He sighed and added, “I’ll make sure you have support staff in which to turn to in the beginning. But, be warned, they are for support only. I fully expect you run the company. You will not be a figurehead.”
My sigh echoed h
is and I sat back in my chair. “Okay, it seems like you have this all thought out and you know I’ll choose plan a.”
“Excellent.”
I had scowled at him, but the bastard had had the nerve to smile. I ground my teeth together and bit out, “Which company did you have in mind?”
His smile grew broader, wider, he even showed a hint of teeth. He opened a drawer and pulled out a magazine, tossing it in my direction.
I dropped my head in my hands. A fashion magazine? He really wanted me to run a fashion magazine? With clothes and models and shit?
Chapter 1
Anna
One Week Later
“Nice shoes.”
Glancing over at the lovely blonde woman who stepped onto the elevator beside me, I smile and scan the other woman’s clothes for the prerequisite “thanks, love yours too”. Before I can say a word, the blonde adds, “Is mix and match the latest fad this season?”
Confused, I glance down and, for a moment, nothing seems out of place. I had dressed carefully, agonizing on what to wear for my first real-world interview. I had finally settled on a new Calvin Klein Crepe de Chine color-block dress. The mix of light and dark is striking and I hope I’ll stand out among all the suits I’ll be competing against.
I paired the dress with nude Stuart Weitzman pumps that go with just about everything in my wardrobe. To my growing horror, I realize the left shoe is indeed my favorite Weitzman, but on my right is—no, no, no—the L.K. Bennet’s my mom gave me as a graduation present just last week.
Panic pushes the adrenaline button in my brain and the hormone floods my system. I can’t believe I’d been so careless. Today was so important, a day I’d been working toward for the past four years. How could I be so stupid?
In the vast landscape of life, having mismatched shoes wouldn’t be a problem. I realize that. I really do. 99.9% of all human resource directors wouldn’t take the time to look down at my feet. They’d be too busy scanning my resume and asking “what are your strengths and weaknesses” questions.
The problem with this situation is I’m in New York City. I’m walking into the headquarters of one of the oldest, most well-respected fashion magazine in the world, and crap, I’m about to interview for a coveted editorial position. Worst of all I’m fresh out of college, so I’m already at a disadvantage. A fashion faux pas like this at Trendsetter Magazine will be considered the deadliest of sins.
Shit.
I wanted this job. I needed this job. Not for the paycheck, but for the independence it would give me. I can’t give Mom the satisfaction of being right about my career choices. I can’t bear the look of disappointment on my dad’s face.
Ding. The elevator stops and the door slides open and I’m still standing there, gaping at my shoes. I’d maintained a 4.0 average at the Columbia Journalism School. I was even on the debate team, for goodness sake. But right here, right now I’m dumbfounded, at a total loss as to what to do.
“Come with me,” the blonde says, breaking into my trance.
“But… but, this isn’t my floor.”
“It is now,” she says and gives me a smile and a wink. “If you want to borrow a matching pair of shoes.”
“Really?”
She smiles bigger this time. “Really. Only to borrow, you’ll have to bring them back.”
“Oh, I will. I promise. Thank you so much.”
Following her down the hallway, she stops in front of a door marked Closet.
“I’m Kelly, by the way.”
“I’m Anna,” I answer, holding out my hand to shake her. “Anna Nash, and again, I can’t thank you enough for helping me out.”
“Well, Anna Nash, I feel bad that I pointed them out and upset you. You really should have seen your face.”
I laugh. “I can only imagine, I felt like the breath had been knocked out of me. I can’t believe I was such an idiot. I’m always so organized and careful.”
Through the door, I’m sucker punched again, this time by row after row of couture. Chanel, Dior, Valentino and other classics as well as On Aura tu Vu and, gasp, Elie Saab. Kelly realizes I’m no longer following her and turns back, saying, “Hey, no drooling on the high fashion.”
I laugh and continue to follow her, but can’t help feeling like a moth being drawn to the flame of the beautiful clothing. My mom instilled a love of haute couture in me from the time I was a little girl, taking me to various fashion weeks. We’d always go to a tea room afterwards and pour over Vogue. I think she had despaired that I’d be a tomboy forever.
Back then, I’d have rather had a basketball in my hands or diving for a screaming line drive as my high school team’s short stop. I was more often found covered in dirt than in designs, although Mom had stuffed my closet with glorious clothes.
“Size seven?”
Kelly drew my attention again, yanking me away from the fantasy of a Vera Wang bridal gown. I nod, not trusting myself to speak and follow the other woman into another room, this one filled floor to ceiling with shoes.
“I can die now.”
“I remember feeling exactly the same way six years ago,” Kelly said, her blue eyes shining as she spoke. “I wanted to lie down and have someone cover me with shoes.”
“Ah, yes. There’s no better way to go.”
Turning a corner and walking past two rows of shoes, Kelly steps into an aisle and pulls down a pair of Louboutin skyscrapers. The tomboy in me shrieks inside at the height of the heel, but I can’t be choosey right now or show doubt in Kelly’s taste or instinct. One thing I learned from being dragged from fashion show to the next is that designers—and everyone connected to them—take their art seriously.
Kicking off my shoes, I slip the new pair on and find myself towering over Kelly. At five-seven, I’m already several inches taller than the other woman. Now I stand around six feet. A giraffe in stilettos, wobbly legs and all.
“Will those be okay?” Kelly asks, oblivious to my discomfort. “We need to get you upstairs for your interview.”
I glance at my watch. Holy shit. Only four minutes until my appointment. I clod after her, my ankles buckling in and out. “Please don’t fall. Please don’t fall” becomes my new quiet mantra.
By the time we’re back in the hallway, I’ve said “thank you” a dozen times, stuffing my mismatched shoes into my shoulder bag along the way. In the elevator, I’m nearly huffing from stress and exertion. Mom was right, I really should have paid more attention at the finishing school she forced me to attend.
“Are you going to be alright?” Kelly asks, a more compassionate smile flickering on her lips.
I inhale and think ‘no’ in my head.
Exhaling, I smile. “Yes, I think so, because of you. Thank you again, so much for saving me from that embarrassment.”
Kelly waves me off. “It’s no problem, really. As you could see, we aren’t lacking in shoes around here.”
As the elevator dings for our floor, I remember to ask, “How do I get these back to you?”
Kelly smiles. “Don’t worry. I’ll find you.”
Chapter 2
Adam
“Yeah. That’s perfect. Just like that.”
I lean back in my leather office chair, tuning out all thoughts except one. How do I keep my secretary from hearing me groan when I blast my release down this blonde’s very experienced throat? It’s a legitimate concern. I don’t usually need to stay muzzled.
The blonde—Melissa or Melanie, something with an M—bobs her head with more enthusiasm. I wrap my hand around the length of her ponytail and thrust harder into her mouth. Her throat spasms around my cock, but she doesn’t slow down, only drives me in and out of her sweet mouth harder and faster. The noises from her wet lips, the erotic slurping and sucking complete the trilogy of pleasure—touch, sight and sound.
A glance at the clock says I have ten minutes to finish.
“Hurry, sweetheart,” I urge her on.
Her hand grips me harder and her suction i
ncreases to Dyson level, almost painful, but not quite. When she cups my balls with her other hand and strokes her fingers across to my perineum, I’m lost. My cock swells and my balls tighten, preparing themselves to drive my come as far into her throat as possible.
My phone rings and I ignore it, probably just another person wanting another thing they think is urgent. Morons. This is a magazine, not war or brain surgery. The fact that florals were ‘so last season’ means nothing to me. It worries me about the state of the human race that people even care about this kind of shit.
I growl when the phone rings again and I glance over to check the caller ID.
Shit.
It’s my dad, the Wilhelm Frederick Gerome. He’s the only person in the world who could make me grow soft this close to orgasm. The very sight of his name has my testicles hugging each other in panic.
“Bummer,” Melissa-Melanie says and looks up at me, my now half-rigid cock in her hand. She tries again, licking up the shaft and sucking on the tip.
“Another time. Thanks anyway, sweetheart,” I say and reach for the phone.
“Hey, Dad.” I don’t even try to hide my annoyance, but clamp a hand over Melissa-Melanie’s mouth when she giggles. I’m not stupid. My father eats, breathes and lives for business. If he suspected for a second that I’m not taking this job seriously, my inheritance is out the window, and he has no qualms reminding me of that every fucking chance he gets.
“Good morning, Adam. How goes the fashion publishing business today?”
I watch Melissa-Melanie pull her dress up and back over her shoulders, covering those magnificent tits. She licks her lips and gives me a one-sided smile as she turns her back to me in a silent request to zip her up.
I sigh. “Going great, Dad. Just zipping up a few last minute details before the interviews begin.” The blonde turns and rolls her eyes. I stand and tuck my soft dick into my boxers before doing a little zipping of my own. Then I lean forward and kiss her on the forehead and mouth a silent “thank you”, pointing to the door.
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