Dirty Billionaire

by Meghan March

  “I want to still be feeling you tomorrow.”

  A devastating smile spreads across his face. “Good. Because you will.”

  He kicks off his shoes and shoves his pants to the floor. I expect him to pounce on me, but he snatches up his pants and fishes his wallet out.

  Shoot. I totally forgot to grab the condoms out of my drugstore bag in the bathroom. Apparently I’m not good at this whole one-night stand thing.

  But since I probably won’t be doing it again anytime soon, I’m not going to worry about that. It’s just one more reason to get everything from this night I possibly can before letting it fade into a distant memory.

  She’s sweetly submissive and everything I crave. Her inner battle between hesitation and need rages so strongly, I can see it in her eyes. It ratchets up my need to possess her . . . more than I remember ever wanting to possess something in a long, long time.

  But that’s all the time for introspection we have, folks, because I’ve got a condom on my dick and the sweetest pussy I’ve ever tasted in front of me begging me to pound into it.

  My brain short-circuits when she slides one hand down toward her clit and strums it with her thumb. Now that, I didn’t see coming.

  Oh no, you don’t, baby girl. That pussy became mine the second we entered the room. She needs to understand whose rules she’s playing under.

  “You touch yourself again and I’m going to spank that cunt until you come, and then I’m going to fuck you until you can’t walk.”

  Her hand stills, and her eyes widen in shock. The innocent surprise in her eyes is quite possibly the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. But as much as I’m loving those eyes, I want her back in the position I initially envisioned fucking her in.

  “Get back on your hands and knees.”

  She blinks a few times, but follows my order.

  Goddamn, that ass is a work of art. I smooth my hands over it, cupping each cheek. I slide my dick between her legs, coating myself in her slick heat.

  Does she realize she’s pushing her ass toward me? I can’t help but smack it again.

  Her whimpers and moans shear through my remaining threads of self-control. I wanted to take it slow, tease her to the brink, but I can’t wait. I fit my cock to her opening and bury myself to the hilt in one thrust.

  “Oh my God,” she whispers, and I can hardly hear it over the blood pounding in my ears.

  I can’t move. Can’t breathe. I’m gripped by the tightest¸ hottest pussy my cock has ever had the pleasure to know. It’s a fucking religious experience. And yes, I’m aware I’m going to hell. It takes me several moments to gather myself and hold back the orgasm rising in my balls already.

  Fuck. This woman could unman me, but that’s not fucking happening.

  I pull back and pump into her, fucking her with long, sure strokes. Her inner muscles flutter and clutch at my cock as I angle to hit her G-spot. She’s clawing at the sheets and meeting my every stroke by pushing her ass back against me in perfect rhythm.

  She rides the same wavelength as me, even as she rides my dick. It’s carnal fucking poetry, and I’ve never felt anything like it in my life.

  I decide to push her further. I slide one hand around her hips and tease her clit with my thumb. She clenches tighter, harder, and I fight to keep my orgasm in check. I swirl my thumb lower, coating it in her slickness. Her tight little asshole is teasing me as I fuck her, and I can’t stem the urge to get a little piece of that too. I pull my hand away.

  “Touch yourself. I want your fingers on that little clit of yours, but don’t fucking come until I tell you to.”

  Her head jerks in what I assume is a response, and I grip both hips with my hands before sliding my slick thumb to her ass. The moment I circle the pucker, she stills.

  I wait for the protest . . . but it never comes.

  I continue thrusting and she resumes her counterthrust, and maybe even tilts her ass higher, further baring my target. I would bet my company that she’s never been touched there. When my thumb breaches the tight ring of muscle, her moans turn to plaintive screams, and her cunt clamps down on my dick in a stranglehold.

  “Fuck!” One more thrust. Two. And I’m lost.

  I shoot my load, and for the first time in my entire adult fucking life, I feel like it drains every single brain cell from my body.

  We both collapse onto the bed, and I roll us sideways so I’m not crushing her with my weight.

  She doesn’t even realize it, but this nameless woman just brought me to my knees. And I can’t fucking wait to experience it all over again.

  I wake slowly, rolling over to reach for the woman beside me as I had three other times last night, but my hand hits cold, empty sheets. My eyes snap open to confirm what I’m feeling.

  She’s gone.

  I sit up in bed, shove a hand through my hair, and survey the room. No sign that she’s ever been here.

  Rolling out of bed, I pull on my crumpled suit pants, wrap a hand around my morning wood, and squeeze it in an effort to calm it down. I’d prefer to be going for round number five with her, but she’s fucking gone.

  I pull on my shirt, telling myself that I don’t care, and if she were any other ordinary one-night stand, I wouldn’t. But last night was anything but ordinary.

  And I wasn’t fucking done with her yet.

  My inner monologue sounds altogether too close to a petulant child, but when you get to my level of wealth and success in life, you get used to having pretty much whatever the hell you want.

  And I want her—right now, tomorrow, and until I’ve had enough—which I can’t imagine happening anytime soon.

  I check the bathroom. Nothing. Not even a stray hairpin or smear of makeup on the counter.

  Grabbing my wrinkled suit jacket, I let myself out of the room. There’s nothing but a destroyed bed and used condoms left inside anyway.

  At the front desk, no amount of bribes or threats will get the name the reservation was made under. Apparently the Plaza prides itself on always offering the utmost privacy for all its guests.

  Moralistic bastards.

  Frustration grips me until my Machiavellian brain begins to formulate a plan. I refuse to admit defeat.

  My lips tug with a smile. I know exactly how I’m going to handle this.

  Merry fucking Christmas to me.

  I just hope my “wife” is ready for what’s about to happen.

  “And tonight’s top story: Billionaire playboy Creighton Karas has published a missed connection that has gone viral, and there’s no doubt as to why. Most of it we can’t read on the air, but the gist of it is, he spent Christmas Eve with a woman who he claims is going to be the next Mrs. Creighton Karas. The posting requests that the lady in question, whose name and number he didn’t get prior to or following their . . . encounter, show up at midnight on December 31st at the location of the tryst, which he claims only this particular lucky lady would know. Mr. Karas will be waiting with an engagement ring—and prenup—in hand.”

  The green power smoothie in my hands falls to the floor of my tiny kitchen, the glass shattering on the tile and coating it with swampy goo as I gape at the TV.

  Oh. My. God.

  He didn’t.

  He did.

  Holy. Shit.

  My cell phone rings, and I blindly grope the countertop for it. I don’t bother looking at the display. I know exactly who it is.

  “Please don’t start screaming, Tana.”

  Instead of the screeches I expect to hear, my friend speaks very calmly. “Holly, they’re talking about you on TV, but they don’t know they’re talking about you on TV.”

  “Yeah. I figured that one out myself.”

  “Please tell me you’re going to go,” she says.

  “Are you serious?” I screech.

  It was just supposed to be one night. A Christmas Eve fling. No one was supposed to know. Well, no one but me, the guy in question, and Tana, who demanded all the details when I told her I had a
single amazing night with her potential backup husband.

  “Holly—”

  “What do you think would happen to my career if I did this?”

  Tana is silent for a few beats before she answers. “It might be exactly what you need to get out of the disaster with JC. New Year’s Eve in New York, baby. You can go one way or the other.”

  Holy crap, she’s right. But still . . .

  “The label? My contract? What about those minor details?”

  Homegrown will blackball me and find some way to slap me with a breach-of-contract suit if I don’t show up to this New Year’s Eve farce with JC and let him propose.

  “Creighton Karas has enough money to buy your way out of your contract, if not the entire damn label. And he wants to marry you!”

  I’m not sure why Tana is a dreamy-eyed romantic all of a sudden, but it’s misplaced. Either way, I’m now a cynical realist when it comes to things like my career.

  Besides, Creighton Karas does not want to marry me because he’s in love with me. He’s probably in lust after all the things I let him do to me four days ago. All those things . . . I wasn’t even able to give Tana all the details because I was too dang embarrassed to put them into words.

  My body heats just remembering. I’m still not sure where I found the courage.

  Oh, that’s right—whiskey.

  “He doesn’t want to marry me, he wants to marry my . . . pussy.” Crass, but it’s probably the truth. “With a prenup. And with his track record, that prenup is going to come into play sooner rather than later.”

  After spending that night with him—the one where I left him buck naked and asleep in bed while I hopped in a cab to JFK, I did just the tiniest bit of research. All it took was one Google search to find out a heck of a lot.

  Honestly, though, after reading the first few entries, I had to make myself stop. It didn’t matter because I was never going to see him again—not outside the zillions of pictures of him with other women. I also wasn’t the biggest fan of reading about his love ’em and leave ’em ways. Including his ex-wife, Shaw MacLeod, CEO of the chain of luxury MacLeod resorts.

  “What the fuck ever,” Tana says. “Does it really make a difference? It’s Creighton Karas.”

  “And I’m Holly Wix. I can’t take a chance this will blow up in my face, and I’ll never get to sing anywhere but the bowling alley on karaoke night again.”

  Even though Monty said he’d screw my life over so badly I’d never even sing there again. Not singing isn’t an option. This is my life. My passion. Everything I have left in this world that truly matters. And because of that, I have to be smart.

  “Lay it all out there when you go meet him,” Tana says. “See what he says. He’s already gone this far, so I doubt he’ll argue too much. He’s the one who’ll look like an idiot if this stunt of his doesn’t work. I think you’ve got leverage; you might as well use it.”

  I think about her point. Leverage. That’s something I’ve never really had before. But still, the idea of marrying a guy I’ve met once? It’s insane. Certifiable. Almost as insane as the label thinking I should get engaged to JC.

  Why do both of my options involve a diamond ring?

  I squeeze my eyes shut, wanting to run back to a tour bus, climb on, and pretend none of this ever happened. I just want to sing, damn it.

  “Holly? You still there?”

  “Sorry, I’m . . . thinking.”

  “What’s there to think about? Marry a billionaire with a giant cock, or get engaged to a has-been who will almost certainly ask you to try fucking him in the ass with a strap-on.”

  “Tana! Jeez. Don’t ever say that.” But her blunt words give me more to think about. “I don’t even know the guy.”

  “You don’t know either of them, but that didn’t stop you from sleeping with the oh-so-sexy Creighton Karas,” she unhelpfully points out.

  I sigh. “You know why I did.”

  “I know. But still, what do you have to lose?”

  Everything, I want to say. But I don’t.

  My first one-night stand, and the guy had to screw it up by telling the world through some PR stunt of a marriage proposal. I guess that’s what happens when you pick a demanding billionaire.

  “You know what I do with naughty girls? Whatever I want.”

  I still remember the conversation, and my nipples pucker in my bra. How can he still have this effect on my body? That can’t be normal.

  “Holly?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “You’re taking that flight to New York either way, aren’t you?” she asks.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m backed into a corner, and I don’t see a way out other than these two very crazy options laid out in front of me.

  I have no idea what I’m going to do. Still, I have to do something. I have no other choice.

  With a deep breath, I reply, “Yes. I’m taking the flight to New York.”

  I would have made an excellent warlord.

  I see.

  I want.

  I conquer.

  I keep.

  Anyone who gets in my way is removed by whatever means necessary. I’m not afraid to take chances, and I’m sure as hell not afraid to make waves.

  The only time I let something go is when I’m damn good and ready, and there’s no guarantee I’ll ever be ready when it comes to the woman I’m waiting on. The last six days have done nothing but strengthen my determination to have her on my terms.

  I’ve made myself comfortable in a leather wingback chair in Room 1919 of the Plaza, enjoying three fingers of Bushmills while I wait for my newest acquisition to arrive. Because in all honesty, at this point, that’s exactly what she is. The latest toy to add to my collection.

  Cannon Freeman, my best friend and COO, would probably tell me that calling my bride-to-be an acquisition is the quickest way to fuck this up, and he’d be right. I may think it, but I’m not stupid—I’d never say it to her face.

  Yes, I know I sound like an asshole. It goes with the territory. You don’t get where I am in life without making more enemies than you can count. But one of the upsides? I get to pull crazy stunts like this, and people just shake their heads and wish they could be me.

  There’s no guarantee she shows, but I’ve wagered big many times before—and won big. Honestly, I don’t expect this time to be any different.

  She slipped out of this very room in the early hours of Christmas morning, leaving me without any way to track her down. I’m a creative guy, so I took a novel approach to finding her.

  I sip the whiskey as I wait and listen to CNN. The topic of conversation on this New Year’s Eve? You guessed it, yours truly. But I’m no stranger to being discussed by talking heads. Although, the conversation on the screen is starting to piss me off.

  “This kind of behavior by a CEO does nothing to inspire the confidence of his stakeholders. Once again, I urge that the activist investors come together and take a stand.”

  Usually I ignore these kinds of opinions, but when it’s your uncle on CNN bitching about the way you run your company and insulting your character, it’s harder to let it slide. Especially when it’s the uncle who begrudgingly took you and your sister into his home and “raised” you. I throw the mental quotes around the word raised because I’m not sure shoving me off to boarding school and turning my sister over to a nanny counts as raising us.

  Either way, every public company deals with activist shareholders; they’re just not usually relatives. I’ll deal with him later. He’s made noises for a while, and it seems it’s time to shut him up for good.

  I look at the clock on the bottom of the screen: 11:50. Ten minutes to go. She’ll show. My missed connection wasn’t a question, it was an order, and she’s very good at doing what she’s told. And once she comes, she’ll continue to concede to my every wish, because that’s how things work in my life. I give the commands, and everyone else obeys.

  CNN cuts to a commercial, and then my u
ncle is back spewing more bullshit. I glance at the clock again: 11:58. The woman sure knows how to make a man wait. I wonder if she realizes she’s going to be punished if she’s late.

  The thought brings a smile to my face.

  “I don’t know what to do, Tana. I wish you’d pick up. I’m freaking out here!”

  I whisper-yell the words into my phone, knowing I’m being unfair because I know she has an appearance at the Opry tonight. But still, if there was any time I could use her guidance, it would be right now.

  I sold my soul to the record company for what turned out to be chump change, but I got the chance to live my dream. What am I willing to do to save that dream? That’s the question I’ve asked myself over and over for the last forty-eight hours.

  I’m here in Manhattan, feeling like I’ve just watched the last grains of sand pass through the hourglass. I’m out of time.

  A feeling of inevitability mixed with helplessness weighs down on me, and I hate it. When it comes to my career, I want to be in the driver’s seat. I don’t want someone else calling the shots. But that’s not a choice I get to make.

  I look down one last time at the list in my hand. Pros and cons. Because apparently that’s what you do when faced with a decision like this. Weigh the options.

  Get engaged to JC and perpetuate a farce that may end up with me being an even bigger laughingstock in the industry, but keep the record execs happy and my career flowing in the right direction.

  My other choice is to sell my body to a man for a generous divorce settlement in the hopes that he has enough power to save me from the wrath that will surely follow from the record label.

  I’ll possibly be putting my dream at risk, but I have to believe Tana is right—the man is rich beyond my wildest imagination, and with that money comes incredible power. Will he use it to help me?

  The other pro on that side of the column is the amazing sex. But will I be able to have that kind of relationship while keeping myself and my emotions intact? He was so incredibly dominant before, and I can’t imagine he’ll be anything less on a daily basis. But will he understand that the demands on my career come first?