Executive Engagement: A Boardroom to Bedroom Fake Fiancee Romance

by Alexis Angel

  Before I even have the time to exhale, you start bobbing your head, my cock sliding in and out of your mouth at breakneck speed. I don’t know how you do it so perfectly, but I never had someone doing it like you.

  You pull my cock out for a few seconds and, during that small moment, you stroke me as fast as you can, your fist flying over from the tip to the root. Then, when your hand is going down my shaft, you lean forwards again and take me in your mouth, sucking and stroking in a pendulum motion.

  I start to thrust too, my hands on top of your head. You let go of my cock, placing both your hands on my round ass, and allow me to match the rhythm of your mouth. My thrusts grow wilder, as if I’m not fucking your mouth but your pussy. Fuck, just thinking of that is enough for my heart to send a special order of lustful blood to my already rock-hard cock. I can’t fucking wait to be inside of you.

  You lean back, my cock sliding out of your mouth with a loud pop, and stand up. I don’t give you the time to do anything else - I grab you by the arms, pushing you back. Blindly, I guide you until your back is against the glass door that leads out of my office and into balcony. The cold glass makes your skin prickle, a perfect antithesis to the wildfire raging in your pussy.

  "I want to fuck you so bad," I whisper, my mouth against your ear. The sound of my own voice makes me even more delirious, the need to be inside of you making my mind burn.

  You open your mouth to speak, but I already know what you’re going to say. Without giving you the time, I place my hands under your ass and lift you up; you react by instinct, crossing your legs over my ass as I pull you against my chest. Holding you against the glass with only one hand, I grab my cock and guide its tip towards your pussy. You close your eyes and shiver, feeling my fat head straining against your folds. Inch by inch I lower you over my cock, the massive shaft rolling inside of you as your inner walls strain to accommodate me. You feel so fucking tight… Fuck, I knew it would be good to be inside of you, but I didn’t expect it to be this fucking good. Could you be even more perfect, baby?

  You moan hard as my cock goes as deep as possible, your labia brushing against my root. Slowly, I pull back out, drawing more soft and honeyed moans out of you. I do it once again, sliding deep inside of you and then back out again, but by the third time you’re already rocking your hips, jumping hard against my length. We go like this until time stops making sense, the sound of your back hitting the glass over and over again the only thing that my brain is capable of processing.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  The sound pulls me deeper into an ocean of pleasure, the constant pounding of my cock dragging me all the way down.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  It grows louder, and an image of the glass shattering crosses my mind. I don’t care. I’m way past caring about anything right now. Ecstasy is coating my brain, sweetening all of my thoughts and washing over my body.

  Swear to God, babe, I never had a woman that made me feel like this. My life up to this moment feels like a fucking waste.

  I up the pace frenetically, both my hands on your ass as I slam my cock viciously at you. The sound of flesh on flesh meshes with the sound of your body hitting the glass, but by now I’m already deaf to the world. And, with my eyes closed shut, I’m also blind. I feel your body tensing up, the electricity of pleasure pooling on your muscles and preparing you for a climax so fierce and hell bent on conquering you through and through. Your body is a vessel for pleasure - nothing more, nothing less.

  Your fingernails are like knives on my back, burying themselves on my skin so hard you might draw blood. Then, one hard thrust from me and you let go of me, your whole body shaking. You place both your arms against the glass, by the side of your body, as your pussy tightens like a vice around my girth.

  "Fuck," I hiss through gritted teeth, your cry of pleasure following my words immediately after. You press your arms against the glass firmly, your whole body trembling and shaking with pleasure. I can almost feel your brain melting in ecstasy, bright flashes of light behind your eyelids. "Yes, come for me, baby…" I say, my voice firm and steady as I feel your muscles spasming, stabbed by that intense and wild pleasure.

  You scream until your throat starts to hurt, and then you scream some more - it’s pleasure turning into sound.

  I put you down then, your trembling legs struggling to keep you up on your feet. I grab you by the waist and, with a sudden movement, make you turn around. I push you against the wall, your hands instinctively hitting it at shoulder-height.

  I smile at you, that hunger for your body shining at the corner of my lips. You close your eyes again, surrendering to how it feels to have my naked body pressed against yours.

  You shiver as I place my hands on your waist, pulling your ass into me. My shaft nestled between your ass cheeks, you start rocking your body in a flowing motion, stroking my cock with just your crack. You do it slowly, each time your body moves the absolute definition of perfection. As you up the rhythm, my breathing grows harsher and, soon enough, I’m almost growling in anticipation.

  "I’m going to make you cum so hard you won’t even know your name when I’m done," I tell you, the words coming out of my mouth with the authority of a man that always gets what he wants.

  You breathe in harshly, the cool air of the room filling your lungs as I grab my cock and press it under your ass, my glans snuggled between your labia. You go on your tiptoes and then lower yourself again, the tip of my cock once more inside of you.

  This time there's no subtlety about what we're doing. We're going hard and violently, each thrust of mine a maddening stroke charged with divine electricity. We are fucking, and we are doing it as hard as we can, my thighs slapping your ass over and over again.

  I don't even know if I can endure the kind of pleasure that’s going to take over me once I cum, but I don't give a fuck about it. Even if I die from pleasure, it’s going to be totally worth it - to spend my last moments with a woman like you… I’d call myself a lucky man.

  My cock pulses hard inside your pussy - I’m already dancing on the edge of climax, but you don’t stop me. You’re on the edge as well, and each thrust of mine pushes you closer to it.

  I wanted to fuck you hard, and that’s exactly what I’m doing now. How could I do it otherwise with a woman such as you?

  One final thrust and my train of thought stops. You explode, moaning hardly through gritted teeth; I feel you summoning all of your strength to remain standing up, your legs threatening to buck under your weight as your body trembles in ecstasy.

  One second after and I jump after you down into the abyss of pleasure, my cock spasming violently inside of you. In a fraction of a second, I’m coating your insides with my warm cum. You sway your ass softly as I gush my load inside of you, an almost never-ending stream of semen filling you up to the brim. When my cock stops shooting, I pull back slowly, strands of semen dripping down your pussy and descending towards your legs.

  You turn to me, smiling lazily. Fuck, I can’t even think straight right now.

  "Perfect," I tell you, "that’s what you are."

  I grin, pulling you into my embrace. You let me put my arms around you and, tilting my head to the side, I press my lips against yours. We kiss softly, both our bodies still reeling from a thunderous orgasm.

  I don’t know what got into me, but I just lost all control. You’re not only easy in the eyes, you know how to drive a man completely insane. I’ve been through my fair share of women, but I never met one like you.

  Fuck, I can’t wait to go another round with you.

  You still rolling your eyes, babe?. This is all you, baby. I’m here, just for you.

  Princely Passions

  A Royal Romance

  By Alexis Angel

  Copyright 2017 by Naughty Angel Publishing

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.

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  Derrick

  I own the motherfucking world.

  Seriously, sometimes it just feels like I am the fucking prince of all fucking creation.

  Never more so than when I'm looking out the fucking window of my condo in the fucking clouds high above New York City.

  I live in One57. That's right. Right in the center of Manhattan on a street they call Billionaire's Row. You don't get much more fucking materialistic and pretentious than this.

  "Your Highness," Pressly, my manservant says to me, coming into the large living room with floor to ceiling windows of the sky. "Your motorcycle is ready. Are you quite able to ride today?"

  That's just like Pressly. Always watching out for me. Ever since my mother died when I was thirteen, he's become more like my primary guardian than anything else. He gives off the look and feel of Alfred from Batman, but I know Pressly's had his fun in life. He used to fight for my Kingdom, St. Livy, when we gave forces to the Americans in Vietnam. He lost his wife to cancer - same as my mother, only earlier. I guess we have that going for us. But the number one thing that makes him invaluable is that he doesn't fucking judge me like the rest of the world.

  And the world would be fucking judge me right now if they could. I feel like shit. I only got in about fifteen minutes ago - around 5 am. I was at my nightclub in the Meatpacking District, having a fucking orgy with three Russian models in town for one night. Try drinking a bottle of vodka with some Russian birds and then cumming countless times on their eager faces and you'll understand what I mean when I say that I’m fucking tired enough to go mental.

  "I've prepared some breakfast for you, Sire," Pressly continues, "It'll help you get some energy for the day ahead."

  I turn to look in the mirror. Even for a night of heavy drinking, you’re going to think I’m a cocky fucking asshole when I say I look fucking good. My ice blue eyes are soulfully distant. They can look right into your soul. I have a strong as fuck jawline and a sculpted face. That’s the product of 2000 years of royal fucking blood flowing through me. My chest is cut. My shoulders are fucking broad. I may be a prince, but I look like a King. My arms are the product of over a decade of working out. And my abs. Fuck. Let’s just say that I’ve defined them so well that even if you’re blind, tracing your finger along them will get you fucking hot.

  I’ve gotten you fucking hot now too, haven’t I?

  Admit it. You’re fucking smiling.

  No?

  How about now?

  Whatever. I’ve never let a bird get me down if she wasn’t feeling me.

  Why am I calling girls ‘birds’ you’re wondering? I don’t fucking know. The Brits do. And St. Livy is close enough to them that I guess that shit rubs off.

  But enough about me for now. Breakfast sounds like a very good idea after the night I’ve had. I pad over to the breakfast room and sit down at the clear and sleek glass table - a present from my brother in arms, Silas D'Avington. We fought together for St. Penares in Afghanistan - I was in his group and we were trapped in the mountains near Kandahar for close to a week, surviving on our own. Everything I learned about being a fucking badass came from that fucking guy. After Afghanistan, I came to New York, determined not to lose a single day of my life. My goal - simple - indulge in everything that I ever desired. Whether that was liquor, women, or anything else -- it was all fair game. Never really did any drugs though - it would have made it hard to keep my physique. That's right. My fucking body. What drives the birds fucking wild. 6 feet 4 inches of cut, ripped, and sculpted muscles and sinew. A set of abs that was chiseled by fucking Apollo himself. But let’s not forget the raison d'être of this marvelous body - it was all for the 11-inch cock that was swinging between my fucking legs. People call it an organ. I call it a fucking muscle for what I'm able to do with it. For the absolute bliss that I'm able to inflict upon the female population of this fine city.

  And right now, I'm wolfing down my eggs and bacon, washing it down with some hand squeezed juice and running out the door. The Royal Press Secretary, a woman named Samantha in St. Livy, had booked a spot for me on Today, USA. I fucking hate Samantha. I know she’s fucking my Dad. But I don’t say anything because she’s the mother of Alicia. And Alicia…Fuck, we’ll talk about her later. Anyways, Samantha has me on some fucking morning show for people who slept well enough the night before to be up and at 'em at 6 in the morning. My interview is scheduled for 6 on the dot, and if I ride fast, I'll be there in fifteen minutes.

  I bound out of the elevator and out of the steel and glass superstructure that I live in and hop on the motorcycle that the valet had brought out for me. It roars to life and I take off down 7th Avenue heading south to Rockefeller Center.

  But first, I have to get through fucking Midtown traffic. Lucky for me, I'm on a bike. Not in a cab or on two feet like the pathetically weak pedestrians.

  "Hey buddy, watch where you're going, will ya?" a Bangladeshi cabbie yells at me as I skirt by between two lanes and zip past him. Whatever. I give him the middle finger and dive forward. The light's yellow, but I put my foot to the gas. I'm going to fucking making it.

  A fucking MAC truck blares its horns at me, just barely missing me as I zoom down 7th Avenue. I laugh to myself and yell as pedestrians get out of my way. Oh yeah, I may be driving on a sidewalk now.

  "Fucking asshole!" some guy in black hoodie yells at me.

  I stop the bike. Did I just hear what I think I heard? I'm maybe twenty feet past him but I get off the bike and turn around. I look at him. Wannabe gangsta. Thinks he Jay-fucking-Z.

  "What did you say, mate?" I say.

  He looks at me. I'm at least a foot fucking taller than this guy. He's got dreads but that's no match for the fucking skull and rose tattoo I have or the rose and thorns adorning both my arms. You can see them because I'm wearing a wife beater. But you can see my fucking muscles too, and right now, I don't mind flexing them.

  The gangsta-wannabe looks at me for a second, then drops his eyes. "Nothin' man," he murmurs slowly.

  "That's what I thought, mate," I say, and get back on the bike. It roars back to life and this time I fucking peal into the traffic.

  But traffic is intense. And I'm fucking hungover. So I do the only thing I can to get some open road.

  I head over to the other side of the street. With the oncoming traffic for the last block coming right fucking at me.

  It's not a problem really. Most of the cars honk at me but I don't fucking care. They swerve out of the way, but I've already made my turn onto 51st street.

  Life is fucking grand.

  "Sir, you can't park that here," the building security rent-a-cop is telling me when I park in the ‘Reserved For Loading’ section.

  I wave him the fuck off. I don't have time for this. It's 5:45 am and I need to fucking get upstairs.

  "Sir! Sir!" he yells like a fucking parrot.

  Luckily for me, my security contingent who was struggling to keep up catches up just as I head into the building. I'm not worried. Pressly leads the security detail. He'll deal with the rent-a-cop.

  I head up the elevator, not giving two shits that I look so out of place with the rest of the people in there – dressed in their suits and uniforms of corporate slavery. What the fuck do I care? The women are staring me up and down. Hunger in their eyes. Lust in their hearts. Their husbands forgotten. The men are shrinking away from me - afraid when an Alpha is among them. Just the way I fucking like it.

  "The interview is in Room 3, Prince Blaine," the receptionist who meets me outside the elevator is telling me as I walk out. She recognizes me instantly. I'm not surprised. Most people would, with the number of times the Post and the Daily News have my face splashed on there. "Mindy Friedman is waiting for you. They'll do hair an
d makeup as she preps you for the interview."

  I'm not paying much attention to her, because we've just walked into the studio that's going to host the interview segment. The receptionist actually never came into the room - her job was done so she just gives fuck all about me. Leave it to the next schmo to take it from there.

  The studio is empty except for a cameraman manning a camera and the interviewer - world famous Mindy Friedman.

  "Where's the hair and makeup?" I ask, walking over.

  Fuck me, this bird is fine. She's wearing a dark blue short skirt and a blue silk blouse. She blushes when she sees me. I give her an evil smile right back at her.

  "You must be Prince Derrick," she says to me, a blush creeping across her face as she gets up. I can tell she's flustered.

  Her tits are nice. Could be nicer. Body okay. Definitely fuckable.

  I don't know what I'm doing but in times like this I usually just go with it. I reach over and pull off my wife-beater.

  "What are you doing, man?" the cameraman exclaims.

  Fuck. I had forgotten he was there. Mindy's looking at me with a look of shock as well.

  "Get the fuck out," I say strongly to the camera man, pointing towards him.

  "Excuse me?" the incredulous cameraman asks. He can't believe this shit. Neither can I. Which makes it hilarious.

  "You heard me," I say. "Get the fuck out of here. Now."

  I flex my upper body. My muscles glisten under the light and ripple. Mindy is entranced.

  I smile to myself as the cameraman scurries away, more used to listening to orders than standing up to orders that are bollocks.

  I mean, I know what you're thinking. Who the fuck am I? Why am I such a fucking asshole.