Second Chance Baby Daddy: A Billionaire + Virgin Romance

by Vivien Vale

  But if she expects me to just calmly discuss this with her right now, she’s on another fucking planet.

  I can’t deal with any of it right now. That might be the case for the entire time she’s here in my vicinity.

  It’s not like I can fuck her. That would be out of the question.

  Fuck, this whole nightmare is getting harder and harder to deal with.

  I shake my head. On top of everything else, talking is the last thing I want to do right now. Conversation, words, excuses, and all that other crap will have to wait.

  That’s why I needed to get out of there—and fast.

  But it still took every ounce of self-control to force myself to leave that room after feeling and seeing Emma run her tongue all over my chest.

  Ultimately, I’m going to have to forget that ever happened, because otherwise the memory is never going to leave me alone, and I will lose my fucking mind guaran-fucking-teed.

  Fuck. Why did she have to come into my room just as I finished? I mean, her fucking timing couldn’t have been worse.

  Of course, I’m sure Emma doesn’t realize what kind of effect this would all have on a man.

  Or does she?

  To even do what Emma was doing, you have to have some knowledge and some idea about the sort of thing that turns a guy on. And, of course, she knows enough to masturbate herself.

  I saw very clear evidence of that today—and that’s another memory that’ll haunt me for the foreseeable fucking future.

  It’s sure as hell haunting me right now.

  Fucking woman. Surely, she would know what effect she was having and how it would drive me right up to the brink of insanity and beyond?

  I’ve got needs, and I’ve spent my years of solitude trying to subdue, suppress, and outright deny every bit of loneliness and lust that tries to rise to the surface. For Emma to lick my chest, half-naked, in my bedroom…

  It’s like she found that highly combustible cache of stifled longing and desire, walked right up to it, and lit a fucking match.

  Fuck it. I only have myself to blame. With all the planning and work I’ve put into this—not to mention giving up my entire fucking life—this is one situation that I didn’t think through at all.

  I just didn’t see it coming, which is fucking ridiculous.

  I groan, sending a puff of vapor into the frigid evening air.

  I’m fighting everything inside me, a monstrous magnetic force that wants me to run back inside, find her, give her a good fucking spanking before fucking her from behind.

  Am I going to give in? Of fucking course not.

  There’s no way I can fuck her. My purpose is to protect her, look after her, make sure nothing bad happens to her.

  Fucking her right now would not work towards fulfilling that purpose. How could it? It would be taking advantage of her.

  This is going to be a fucking trial, but like every other challenge in my life, I’ll get through it. I’ll have to exercise utmost self-control, naturally, and I’m sure I’ll be taking plenty of long walks in the snow.

  I’ll probably have to add the occasional ice-cold shower to my routine.

  I pace through the snow, swearing under my breath.

  Damn.

  What the fuck was I thinking bringing her here?

  The answer is to that is obvious: I wasn’t thinking. When it comes to Emma, my ability to think takes a leave of absence.

  Stop it, I growl at myself. Get a fucking grip and come up with a solution. Fucking navel-gazing and self-pity won’t solve any fucking problems.

  I kick at the snow, which is already accumulating fast, and watch it fly off in different directions.

  If the blizzard wasn’t so bad, I could maybe take her somewhere else, somewhere safe, and figure out a way to make it easier for both of us.

  But there’s a blizzard, already the worst one of the season, so that’s not an option.

  Another kick unleashes another flurry of snow, and I curse some more, getting louder. Solutions. I need to come up with a fucking solution fast.

  This shouldn’t be this fucking hard for me. I mean, I was once in charge of a massive business, with massive, complex problems that involved millions of dollars.

  I know it’s fucking freezing, but I barely even fucking notice. My mind is not on the temperature.

  My mind, if you haven’t guessed, is on Emma and me, in a confined space, for who knows how many days.

  And her body is off-limits.

  The word off-limits hovers around my head. I start repeating it, a new mantra.

  Like I’m mediating. Like I’m fleeing from my heated cabin, full of earthly temptations, to try and find some inner peace in the snow.

  Those darn perky tits of hers are pushing any inner peace aside.

  Off-limits. Be strong. Fulfill your purpose. Stop thinking with your fucking dick.

  This is getting me fucking nowhere. I’m stomping with each step, compacting the snow. Right now, I’m more effective than a Sno-Cat.

  Emma. Off-limits. Together in cramped cabin.

  That kind of sums it up.

  I sigh and look skyward, as if searching for inspiration up there. There isn’t any, just a lot of fucking snow falling down.

  I’ve stomped a fair distance from the cabin by now.

  There’s a snow-covered pine in front of me. It’s not overly big, but it’s not exactly small either. The trunk is thicker than my thigh.

  I stare at the trunk, trying to decide which direction to go, like I’m Robert fucking Frost or some shit.

  I’m not going back to the cabin, so do I go left around the tree?

  Or…

  I form a fist with my right hand and punch right the fuck into that fucker.

  That’s the option I choose. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I started punching a fucking tree.

  Right hook, left hook, right, left, faster, harder.

  There’s no pain. There’s only me, the tree, and my confusion and frustration.

  And I’m still not feeling the fucking cold, only the fire raging within me.

  My silent opponent takes the punches like any tree would. I go harder and faster until the trunk starts to shake. After one especially solid left hook, it also starts to move.

  At first, the trunk starts leaning just a tiny bit. I stop punching, and without warning, there’s a loud crack, and the trunk splits and the entire pine slopes to the left before tumbling onto its side.

  I step back and look.

  For the first time, I notice my heavy breathing and the beads of sweat rolling down my chest.

  And then I notice something else: I’m not alone.

  I begin turning around. I know it can only be Emma. If it were a bear, or some other intruder, I would have instinctively sensed the danger by now.

  “Oh, wow. Such a male way to resolve problems. Let it out on some poor, innocent tree, destroying nature instead of communicating. How mature.” She stands there, hands on her hips, her eyes blazing at me. “But then, I guess you don’t know how to do that: communicate. You never have.”

  I watch silently as Emma surveys the damage. Her eyes stay on the cracked, broken tree for a long moment before slowly moving to my bare chest. I think it’s dawning on her that seeing a dude destroy a tree with his fucking fists is not something she sees every day.

  I watch her turn on her heels and storm back toward the cabin. Heat rages through me, despite the snow all over my beard and chest.

  Eventually, I move. If I stay out here any longer, I’ll be covered from head to foot in snow—buried.

  How I’m going to fucking survive this ordeal I have no fucking idea.

  Chapter 12

  Emma

  “Dylan!” I call one more time.

  Although I’m not really calling his name, I’m just saying it.

  That’s Dylan. Grizzly is Dylan. Dylan Westmont.

  I think about his face, the face I knew, and compare it with the face now covered in a ra
gged beard. That’s Dylan, and now he’s gone, again—literally. He just ran out of the cabin.

  At first, I wasn’t even thinking of following him. I mean, if he’s crazy enough to go out in the snowstorm without a shirt on, that’s his problem.

  But he’s been out there for a while, and I’m starting to worry. The storm’s getting crazy intense, and I could do without a guy’s death on my head.

  Even if he just caught a cold or something, I’d kind of feel responsible.

  All I have on now is the shirt Dylan gave me last night. I look around and find an old coat on the back of the door. I slip my feet into a pair of boots by the door and brace for the cold.

  Millions of tiny pins prick my skin the second I poke my head out through the door. I squint, trying to minimize the pain on my eyes.

  Fuck. I’ve never felt anything like it.

  It must be like minus a hundred or something.

  No one could survive out here for more than a minute. How long had Dylan been gone now? At least ten, maybe fifteen?

  I put one arm up to shield my face and trudge through the snow. In some spots, it’s almost up past my knees.

  These boots are so big that they’re filled with snow. Big clumps fall in and settle around my toes. I stop and try to scoop them out, only to have more come in with my next step.

  It’s a cumbersome process, and I’m beginning to wonder how wise it was for me to come out here in the first place.

  I squint, trying to see through the snowstorm. I can’t see more than a few feet in front of me at most. I turn my head around, and notice I’m only like ten steps away from the cabin.

  Seriously? That’s all? I’m breathing harder than if I’d just run five miles on the treadmill.

  If I don’t see him soon, I’ll have to turn back.

  There’s no point in letting myself die out here. What the fuck would it achieve if I perished in the cold trying to find the fucking arrogant prick of a sex god anyway? It’s not like he ever paid me much attention when we were working together.

  Just thinking about him in one of his tailor-cut Armani suits—starched white shirt casually left open at the top—and the recollection of all those women he dated comes instantly to me. Not a day went by when Dylan didn’t walk around the office with at least one big-boobed blonde on his arm.

  What really made me sick was the way those vacant-looking chicks hung on every one of his words and laughed at every one of his stupid jokes.

  Stop it, I yell at myself. This is not fucking helping.

  I keep slogging through the snow, trying not to think, trying to resolve to turn around after a few more steps.

  But I keep going, because it’s getting too cold to think, which is kind of a relief.

  And then I see him.

  Bear-like, he appears in front of me.

  Well, at first I think it is a bear. An angry bear demolishing a poor, innocent tree.

  I’m rooted to the spot. I don’t move. I don’t want this animal to see me.

  But as soon as I see a patch of flannel through the snow, and realize the bear is Dylan, I inch forward.

  What the fuck is he doing? For some reason, he’s punching a tree like it’s a punching bag at the gym.

  Left, right, left, right, over and over, his bare hands connecting with the trunk of some kind of pine tree.

  When he stops, I see the top of the tree swaying back and forth.

  My eyes widen. I realize that any second now, that poor tree is going to come crashing down.

  Sure enough, I hear the sickening sound of a crack before it falls gracefully, silently to the ground. And there it stays, unable to get up again.

  What did that pine tree ever do to anyone?

  I can’t help but give Dylan a piece of my mind. What was he thinking, destroying a tree for no reason?

  Fuck, it’s cold.

  Dylan turns around—his shirt is still open. I try yelling at him, try to focus on my words, but why is his shirt unbuttoned?

  And did he really fell that tree with his bare hands?

  “Oh, wow,” I say out loud, unable to help myself. “Such a…male way to resolve problems: let it out on some poor, innocent tree, destroying nature instead of communicating. How mature.” I look at him in disbelief and frustration. “But then, I guess you don’t know how to do that—communicate. You never have.”

  Forget it. I swing around and plod straight back into the cabin, shaking my head about Dylan’s destruction of nature—and about his clothing choice in this weather.

  I slam the door shut and storm into the living room. I pace back and forth, anger raging inside me.

  This isn’t annoyance or confusion or fear. No, I’m fucking angry, and I’m not even sure why, and it’s getting worse.

  Why did Dylan leave me—and his whole life—to live by himself in the middle of goddamn nowhere?

  I’d like that explained, but I’m now realizing what’s really making me angry: his fashion choices.

  Dylan used to be the most fashionable colleague I had, and probably—no, definitely the best-dressed guy I know. So, what’s with all this plaid, flannel shit?

  It’s bad enough that he wears that stuff now, but he can’t expect me to go along with the lumberjack look anymore.

  My eyes roam the room and fix on the curtains. They’re a forest green kind of color, but I don’t care—I mean, they’re not plaid, at least.

  A plan forms.

  What else am supposed I to do? My options are limited. His bed sheets are white and thin cotton, so that wouldn’t work. These curtains really seem to be the only thing available for fashioning some decent clothes.

  Green’s not usually my color, but I bet I could make it work.

  Resolutely, I rip one of the curtains off its rod and spread it out on the floor.

  Okay, good start. Now I need some tools.

  I go to the kitchen and rummage around various drawers until I find what I need: needle, some thread, scissors, and a whole lot of motivation.

  Armed with my sewing tools, I sit down next to the material and stare at it.

  How the fuck do you start making your own clothes? I have no fucking idea.

  I think hard, searching my memory for any knowledge about where the hell to begin.

  I have no luck with that. Sewing or dressmaking was not even a subject at school. But I got to try.

  With no fucking idea, I lie down on the curtain to measure it for length. Okay, looks like I’ll be covered from head to foot. So far so good.

  So, I should get a sort of shirt and pants out of it, maybe even a slip, Tarzan- and Jane-style. I spread my arms, and there’s still more than enough material to have me covered.

  Step one completed: I’ve established there’s enough curtain to cover me from head to toe. If I was in ancient Greece, I could just drape it around me, toga style—or was that the Romans?

  Who fucking cares. Let’s just get a move on and start sewing.

  So much green. With shaking fingers, I pick up the scissors, and hover them at the bottom of the material.

  No, wait, maybe I should draw an outline of what I want to make.

  I furrow my brow. Did I see a pen anywhere? Back into the kitchen I go, pulling drawers open until I find what I need. Armed with a black ballpoint pen, I return and get to work.

  I start drawing, and soon wriggly lines fill the material. I try to draw the outline of a slip, a t-shirt of sorts, and pants. From time to time, I lay down and trace the outline of my own body for a bit more accuracy, but, like many great artists, most of my work is from memory.

  Hands on hips, I stand to examine my handy work. Not bad, if I do say so myself. My drawing could have been a bit neater, but I can sort of see where I’m supposed to cut.

  I can’t wait for Dylan the bear-man to return and see how fucking productive I’ve been while he was out there trashing the forest.

  The sight of the tree falling from the force of Dylan’s bare hands has me shivering all over.


  It’s one thing to look at his wild, angry, bear-like features, but it’s another thing altogether to see him in action, demolishing an innocent tree.

  Picturing what those hands could do to me sends my imagination to some weird, wild places.

  Time to get a fucking move on and actually make something.

  I start cutting.

  For some reason, the scissors are refusing to cooperate. They just won’t cut through the thick material. I shove, I push, and I force the scissor blades until I slowly start making progress.

  I’d call it more ripping and tearing than cutting.

  After what seems like hours, with sweat dripping down my back and chest, I’ve cut out what could be my slip.

  At this rate, I’ll be here all fucking day.

  Maybe I need a knife? I go to the kitchen and grab a small black knife and a large serrated knife. One of these should get the job done.

  While the small knife is able to cut the material, it’s a lot harder sticking to the lines and cutting straight. I have to keep stopping and starting.

  Finally, trying to hold the material steady with one hand and cut with the other, I end up slicing right into my forefinger.

  Ouch, fuck, ouch.

  I stick the dripping finger into my mouth make my way to the kitchen yet again. I wonder if Dylan keeps any bandages around.

  When I can’t find one, I go back and wrap a bit of the green material around it.

  I better be careful not to lose a goddamn finger.

  I have no fucking idea how long it takes, but eventually I’ve got a whole lot of pieces. As I stare at them. I can’t remember what’s what. I pick up a scrap that could be the slip, but I think there was another piece that goes with it…

  Is it that one? Whatever, time to sew.

  Now for threading the needle.

  There only seems to be black thread and I have a hell of a time getting it through the tiny hole. Why they make the hole so impossibly small is beyond me. Surely, it would be better to make it bigger so it’s easier to thread?

  There’s no doubt a man invented this crap.

  While trying to thread the needle, I stab myself six or seven times. By the time my finger looks like a pincushion, I’m ready to give up.