I take a step back and clap my hands against each other to dust off the bark. Piece of cake. My muscles are aching with the exertion, but it’s a good kind of ache. The best kind.
Now for the car.
Thick black smoke is pouring up from beneath the hood. It mars the freshness of the winter air with its oily, cloying scent. Black smoke doesn’t bode well for this runaway bride’s future—or mine, if I don’t get us both out of here and away in time.
I climb on top of the hood of the car and squat down, leaning myself in through the freshly busted windshield. It’s all bent out to hell from that fucking tree.
I spit on my hands and rub them together. If I was a smarter man, I’d have my gloves on me, but time is of the essence—and she’s worth the risk of picking a little glass out of my palms later. I find a couple spots where the glass is completely knocked out and I pry the rest of the windshield open, enough to grab her by the arms.
I pull her out slowly, careful not to jostle her head too much. Even as I do it, I feel the hood of the car go hot with flames beneath me. I’m being torn between my need to make sure I don’t hurt her more than she’s already been hurt and the reality of the situation: if I don’t hurry the fuck up, we’re both going to end up dead.
I pull her against me, cradling her body to my chest to keep her away from the ragged bits of metal and shattered pieces of glass.
Unconscious still. Not a good sign. Beautiful as ever—I have to keep myself from staring at that lovely face just to keep myself in the right state of mind—and barefoot. Barefoot in this weather, with no fucking coat.
Her wedding dress is ripped down the front, and it doesn’t look like any car crash did that. No sir—that tear looks man-made. Makes my blood fucking boil at the thought of some man putting his grimy hands on this beautiful little angel and ripping her ridiculous little dress.
But this isn’t the time to get all pissed off at whatever hypothetical aggressor she might have been fleeing from. This is a time for action.
Don’t think. Act.
I take my coat off my own back and wrap it around her, sliding us both off the smoking car.
As I bundle her up in my arms, I hear something crackle nastily, then the smell of burning oil fills my nose.
That’s the point at which I just fucking run.
This little angel is covered in oil and gasoline, plus enough hairspray in that pretty blonde hair of hers that she’s not much more than a lovely little matchstick in my arms.
When this fucker blows, I need to have her as far away from it as possible.
We take flight back up the mountain, my big boots finding purchase on even the smallest of footholds. Seconds into our trek, the car erupts in flames. I turn back and see the bright yellow and orange embers escaping the sides and the big black cloud of smoke at the top.
That hot air traveling up with us feels good. It has me sweating harder and is making my smell stronger. I take in a big breath of it, easing my shoulders back with the satisfaction of a mission successfully completed... then, we really take off.
As fast as she tumbled down this mountain, my feet fly us back up the side. I traipse us through thorns and brambles that rip at the shins of my coveralls to do it. They could tear clear through and slice up my skin and I wouldn’t care.
The snow has started to fall down around us in tiny little ice crystals. They gather on her long, dark eyelashes and flutter down into her pale hair.
Up this way, once the snow starts falling, it doesn’t fucking stop. My brain is dead set on getting us back to my cabin as fast as possible, before the pretty little princess bride in my arms catches cold or before we find ourselves stranded in a fucking blizzard for the next five days.
The girl’s weight adds virtually nothing to me. I’ve carried deer heavier than this back up to my cabin. Suddenly I’m reminded of my fish I left cooking—the smell of it is still in my beard, although the snow has probably smothered out the fire and started to bury it by now.
It fuels me even harder to get back home. Once this fallen angel is somewhere safe and warm…dammit, I’m going back to get that fucking thing. A man does not waste a fish, especially not one caught with his bare hands.
It’s not long before my cabin is in sight. Not too far off the main road, but tucked away down a side path lined by evergreens that most people easily miss. First thing I hear is my dog, Buck, barking happily at my return.
Dumb mutt has been sitting right there on the porch where I left him this whole time, pouting. Would have taken him with me, but the big bastard would’ve eaten every damn fish that I caught and then some.
Buck is big, black and just as shaggy as I am. Scares some people, which is fine by me. I found him as a stray when I first came up here—skinny, dirty, half-starved, chasing squirrels for his supper, but too hungry to have the energy to catch them.
Now, Buck eats what I do. If I’m being honest, he’s turned into a bit of a porker, but that doesn’t bother me none. I figure he’s earned it, after the life he’s had. Sheriff in town thinks he might be part wolf—wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he was.
As I clomp up the porch steps, Buck perks up and pants excitedly. Silly mutt is usually pretty excited to see me, seeing as I usually have the courtesy to bring him back a consolation fish. But when he sees the woman in my arms, I watch his ears stiffen and his nose twitch with curiosity.
Don’t I know it, boy. We don’t often get visitors up here, least of all, beautiful unconscious brides-to-be.
Buck sniffs at the foot of the angel with his big wet doggy nose and I cluck at him with my tongue.
“Down, boy,” I say. “This ain’t no fish.”
Tentatively, Buck licks at her toes anyway. Can’t even say I blame him. If I was a dog, I’d want to lick this beauty too.
Even as a man, it’s a tempting prospect.
But I need to shove those thoughts out of my head and get this poor girl warmed up and cared for. She’s been through a lot tonight. Last thing she needs right now is some grizzly old bachelor nosing between her legs.
I lay her down on the couch and am pleased to discover she’s still breathing. Well, that’s something, at least. Buck curls up on the floor in front of her, occasionally casting glances up at her beautiful face.
“Behave,” I tell him, not that I need to. Buck is a good dog. A nosy old mutt, but a good dog. And I can tell he’s already just as protective of this girl as I am.
Blankets. She’ll need blankets, enough to lose herself in. When she comes to—if she does—we’ll sort out what to do with her next then.
I cast a tentative glance to the window, watching the snow pour down harder than I’ve ever seen it.
I just hope her plans don’t involve going anywhere—because this shit won’t be letting up any time soon.
Want to know what happened next? Mountain Man Baby Daddy is now available in Amazon!
Wanted: Big Bad Single Dad
A Billionaire Matchmaker Romance
By Daphne Dawn & Natalie Knight
Copyright © 2018 by Crimson Vixens
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Daphne Dawn
Natalie Knight
Aaron
My laptop is my fucking life.
No, but seriously. It’s how I keep my business at the top of the industry. It’s how I stay ahead in the game.
My laptop is key to who Aaron Bennett is.
And I, Aaron Bennett, am the fucking king of the internet.
Self-proclaimed, of course, but my opinion goes a long way if you ask the people closest to me. And I don’t even have to pay them to say it.
It’s ear
ly morning, and I’m leaning over my marbled white granite kitchen counter, my laptop screen casting a white glow over my face.
What’s a billionaire doing, slaving over his laptop while the sun is barely up, you ask?
Well, let me tell you. Billionaires don’t become fucking billionaires for nothing. Not unless they’re born and bred in the back pockets of their filthy rich parents, learning to read balance sheets before they’ve begun reciting the alphabet.
No. The reason I’m a fucking pro at my job, the reason I’m drowning in more cash than anyone needs in one lifetime, is because I work my ass off.
I guess you can say I like micromanaging my own business. But that’s how I roll. I employ the very best to do their very best―but I still dip in the waters, treading to make sure there isn’t any trash in my sea of people.
My self-assigned job is to catfish unsuspecting, pussy-whipped billionaires. I know, I know. Can’t imagine a fucking CEO doing the dirty work, can you?
Well, you haven’t met me. And I’ll be the first to tell you, if you did, you’d have the same reaction to me all the women do. You know, ready to drop to your knees at the snap of my fingers. Anyway, back to my job.
I fucking love it, even though I’m a dude.
Think of it as being an actor, only I’m behind the scenes. I talk to high-rolling losers who are both new and regular clients of my website, making sure they’re not treating any of my female clients like shit or taking advantage of my employees.
That’s the kind of fucking CEO I am.
I’m here to make sure Thebadboys.net stays afloat, with the competition trailing far behind. Preferably drowning and close to death.
I also have a standard to uphold. Thebadboys.net isn’t the premier billionaire dating site in the world by mistake. No, I make sure we only host the best of the best clients. Which is why I’ve developed my online persona to lure them in. It’s quality assurance, plain and simple.
Yes, I’m both the owner and a “client” of Thebadboys.net. And yes, it’s exactly like it fucking sounds: dirty shit in the sexiest ways possible.
Besides, it’s good for the brain. So much better than Sudoku. It helps let my creative juices flow in the cover-up name I’ve built from the ground up: Ms. Winters.
She’s a seductress, a temptress, and a sexy ass bitch―but she’s one-hundred percent made up.
If I’m being honest, that’s part of the thrill of the job, getting a kick out of catfishing these assholes and making sure they keep throwing money at my feet. Well, Ms. Winters’ feet, at least.
I’ve just finished checking my e-mails and making sure I’m not missing anything. It’s a free day―the rare, once-in-a-year day that I don’t have any fucking meetings. Usually, I’m being whisked away in my limousine from one restaurant to another, meeting investors and advertisers and other big money men in black suits, looking to make bigger money so they can buy more black suits.
But today, I’m off. So I decide I can stop being Aaron Bennett early and start my day as Ms. Winters. I log onto the site as soon as I close my e-mail window.
My morning routine is the same ritualistic bullshit that probably mirrors ninety percent of executives out there in the workforce.
I yawn sleepily and scratch the scruff on my face. I guess I need to shave pretty soon.
I glance at my reflection through the screen, at my dark straight hair tousled almost artfully. It’s a little chilly in the room, the cold air touching my abs and making me shiver. I sleep naked, since that’s always how my bedroom guests want me, anyway…
What do you expect from a workaholic CEO with washboard abs and enough money to buy any-fucking-thing I want? Of course women come knocking at my door all the time.
Wait, that’s not accurate. They schedule appointments with my executive assistant first.
But since there’s no pretty mouth waiting to wake me up with a morning blow today, I settle with how the rest of the country usually starts their day.
That means I’m waiting for my saving grace, my life-link.
The reason I keep on going.
My coffee.
Yes, it’s caffeine and not blood that runs through my veins. It’s my drug, the way I get supercharged and pumped for another exciting day at the office.
I’m right in the middle of entering my site password when my fancy-ass coffee machine beeps, music to my fucking ears.
My coffee is ready, and as I pour myself a refreshing mug, I relish in the smell of that French roast filling my nostrils like fucking perfection.
I take a moment to space out and savor the first few sips of the sustenance that gives me life before I chain myself back to my desk, ready to belt out some work in my new supercharged state of mind.
That’s when my mind drifts to Ben—my son. I miss the little guy like crazy, but he’s in the best place he can be right now. At the premier boarding school in the country. Ever since my wife died three years ago, we both really had a hard time. I work too fucking hard to be both a mother and a father to him, so after a lot of consideration, I decided to send him to the same prestigious school I attended.
One day—maybe—I’ll be ready to settle down again for real. But only once I find the woman who can handle the two of us. However, that’s the furthest thing from my mind right now. No woman has been able to hold up to my standards so far. I need someone who can keep up with me in every way. Ambitious, brilliant, sexy as hell—and a good mom. Yeah, you can see why my short list has yet to even have a name on it.
I sigh, and down the rest of my coffee, then fill my mug up again. No time to get lost in these depressing thoughts today. Time to get back to work.
The jolt of caffeine hits me just in time. I’m ready to get started.
I’m not going to lie―Ms. Winters is the shit. I’m talking the real deal. Yes, I’m fucking damn proud of the alter ego that stemmed straight from my imagination.
She’s elusive and sought after, my pride and joy. I continuously develop her character and charming poise, which is why I think it keeps the big money dudes coming—and cumming. Those filthy rich men just want to witness what other outlandish amazing shit I can root up from my good ole’ noggin.
Not to brag, but Ms. Winters brings in the most revenue out of any other alter ego on the site, and I’m fucking proud of that fact.
I’m untouchable. Watch anybody try to get on my level, and they’ll undoubtedly fail to reach my potential.
The other billionaires of the world are her fresh and prime target, and you better fucking believe I shoot those darts with the aim to hit the bullseye every fucking time.
Because, seriously, who could ever be better at knowing how to bring a billionaire to his knees than another alpha billionaire?
That’s fucking right. No one.
Let me guess…you want to know all about Ms. Winters, don’t you?
Well, let me appease you by giving you a slice of heaven on a platter.
Ms. Winters is cool and sexy, fun and adventurous. She’s got long, golden blonde hair and huge, beautiful blue eyes the color of the Caribbean waters. Yep, her eyes are a token trademark.
She’s tan and slender, but muscular at the same time, with perfect legs that guys want wrapped around their waists.
Ms. Winters doesn’t buy into hype or bullshit, but if you’re ready to get naughty and play the game, you bet your ass she’s going to be there front and center playing her cards right.
She’s the kind of girl who will let you cry on her shoulder (if you need that), but she’s also fun-loving enough that if you decide to go to Vegas on a whim, she’ll meet you at the airport with a bag she’s already pre-packed.
That’s what makes her so appealing to the men who get lured in. She’s up for anything, scared of nothing. Challenge is child’s play to her.
I take another sip of my delicious coffee and squint at the screen, ready to dive right in to an engaging conversation with another idiot wi
th an overstuffed wallet.
Except there’s another name that catches my eyes.
Another client.
His name is Mr. BadBoy.
What the fuck?
That’s fucked up, but at the same time takes some serious fucking guts. This guy’s balls must be the size of New Hampshire.
How the fuck is he even getting away with that screen name? HR filters names and make sure they’re appropriate for the site. What the fuck?
We go through the pleasantries, but I’m impatient. I want to know who this asshole thinks he is.
Where do you live? I type the words into the chat box not long after I say hello, expecting Mr. BadBoy to respond with a vague answer like ‘SoHo.’ But to my surprise, he gives an actual address.
I live at 35 Houston Street in a brownstone.
No fucking way. Is this guy for real giving out his address to a stranger so early?
I need to fucking find out more about him.
You’re bold, giving out your address like that.
The pause is extended, but finally, I see the prompt pop up that notifies me that the other person is currently typing.
I don’t have anything to hide.
This guy is giving me a run for my money, but I have to remember that I’m posing as a female and that I have to mask my real animosity towards him.
There’s nothing wrong with a little mystery every now and then, I type into the chat box.
You’ll just have to wait and see what I have to offer, Mr. BadBoy replies.
Yeah, you bet I fucking will, you fucking creep. I want to tell him I find him sketchy, but I can’t exactly write that if I want to keep up appearances.
I audibly scoff at my screen, thinking that I have the brainpower and intelligence to top this guy at this game. At my game. No fucking doubt.
I didn’t work my ass off for nothing just to lose.
The Other Brother_A Billionaire Hangover Romance Page 27
