by Max Monroe
Tapping the Billionaire
Published by Max Monroe LLC
© 2016, Max Monroe
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Intro
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Contact Information
Acknowledgements
Fuck you very much, Leslie.
You always manage to ruin everything, but you didn’t ruin this.
Disclaimer: You are NOT the Leslie we’re talking about. No, really.
You’re not her. We swear. It’s another Leslie. One you don’t know and have never heard of. Camp Love Yourself Scout’s honor.
I’m Kline Brooks.
Harvard graduate.
President and CEO of Brooks Media.
Net worth: $3.5 billion.
Devilishly handsome. How do I know this? I was prom king two years in a row.
Highly intelligent. Proof? I can solve any Rubik’s Cube, in front of your face, with magic fingers.
Certified master of female orgasms. My fingers, my tongue, my cock—I can make you scream, “I’m coming!” before you even realize I’ve removed your panties with my teeth. Not the almost orgasms that spur a pathetic moan and half-ass whimper. No. I’m talking toe-curling, back-arching, earth-shattering Os that will leave your voice hoarse, your body shaking, and pack a punch so powerful you’ll be left a sliver of intensity short of unconscious.
Am I piquing your interest?
Should I mention my cock is the kind of cock that’s actually dick-pic worthy? I’m not talking an average six-inch shaft. I’m talking big. Thick. Smooth. And hard. Especially when there’s work to be done.
Or maybe all I’ve done is turn you off. Are you thinking I’m like every classless man out there who’s literally a disgrace to my gender?
The type of spineless dicks who won’t call the next day. The guys who specialize in late-night booty calls but refuse to take a woman out on an actual date. Yeah, you know exactly who I’m talking about. Those idiots who have women thinking staying single for the rest of their lives is a better alternative than dealing with the bullshit that’s running rampant in the dating world.
Well, I’m not that kind of guy.
I say what I mean and mean what I say. I don’t kiss and tell. I call the next day. And if I’m interested in a woman, I will take her out on a date. I’ll open doors for her. I’ll pull out her chair. And I’ll never be the kind of horny bastard who texts dick pics—unless the right woman begs me for them.
Bottom line, I’m a gentleman. I prefer monogamy to serial dating and fucking my way through New York City. I’ve spent the past few years avoiding the kind of women most would label “gold diggers” and trying out a couple of girlfriends in between. I’ve looked for the kind of woman I want, but lately, I have to admit I haven’t put in as much effort. My focus has been on my company—building it to what it is and then keeping it that way, not only for me, but for all of the people who work so hard for me.
Until Georgia Cummings.
She’s fiery, beautiful, has this sassy attitude that demands attention from everyone within her orbit, and is worth way more in value of character than I am in money.
I don’t know how I missed her.
I don’t know why it took me so long to really see her.
Two years, right there in front of my face as my Director of Marketing.
Maybe it’s because I need to stop drowning myself in work so much. Maybe she didn’t want to be seen.
No matter the reason, it only took one spur-of-the-minute decision for this remarkable woman to come barreling into my world.
I wasn’t prepared for her.
And I sure as hell had no idea she’d knock me on my fucking ass.
Because the nice guy who believes in real love enough to build his entire fortune from a dating website?
That’s me.
And this story?
Well, that’s us.
My eyes! Dear God, my eyes!
There were things in life that, once seen, were damn near impossible to forget. A bleach scrub…acid straight to the retinas…three hours of perfect porn GIFs…hell, even a lobotomy wouldn’t remove those kinds of images.
Lucky for me, I had come across not one, not two, but four day-destroying pictures. Dick pics, to be more specific. And let’s just say this latest one was not pic-worthy. Not by a long shot. Or a short shot, if I took size into consideration. This was the kind of pic that would leave any woman wondering why. Why? Why would anyone want to advertise they were the owner of this?
It was the gremlin of male members—and the sole reason my night had taken a turn for the worse. What was supposed to be a nice evening in, watching TV with my best friend and roommate, Cassie, had turned into a nightmare of pubes, wrinkled balls, and a crown that was not fit for a king.
I banged my fingers across the keypad with a response.
TAPRoseNEXT (11:37PM): Is that your dick? Really? REALLY?
TapNext was the latest and greatest dating-site-turned-app for single men and women to meet, chat, and, hopefully, find their next date. Generally speaking, it was a better alternative to nights out at a bar or club. Because, for me, those nights had the same ending—politely declining the thrilling (insert heavy sarcasm) offer of hooking up with some random dude at his apartment, one hell of a hangover, and weird guys with names like Stanley or Milton sending me texts for late-night booty calls for the next month. Which I always ignored.
My business card said Director of Marketing, Brooks Media. It was a hefty title for someone just starting out in their career, but I had earned it. I worked harder than anyone else in my department, and it also may have helped that the man who held the position prior to me had been fired after being arrested for picking up a prostitute in one of the company cars. Why he had even been driving a company ca
r in the city was still confusing to me. Seriously, even hookers cabbed it in New York.
Since Brooks Media owned TapNext, it was easy to understand why I was well versed and highly invested in the app’s success. It was a requirement when hired—all single employees had to create a TapNext profile. Staff were strongly encouraged to use the app and give honest feedback about their experiences. Profile names were kept top secret and on penitentiary-style lock-down with Human Resources. And feedback stayed anonymous.
Translation: Don’t worry, TAPRoseNEXT, your boss doesn’t know about your pervy play on words.
At first, I’d felt it was an odd way to handle business, but after two years of working at Brooks Media, I’d found that my TapNext profile was a damn good way to do research and find promotional ideas.
My phone pinged with the offender’s response.
BAD_Ruck (11:38PM): …
Did he just ellipsis me? Really?
TAPRoseNEXT (11:38PM): Creep Threat Level MOTHERFUCKING Red.
There was no immediate response, but the rest of my rant would not be contained.
TAPRoseNEXT (11:39PM): Don’t any of you know how to start conversations anymore? Jesus.
Cassie sighed beside me. “Stop slamming everything around, Wheorgiebag! I’m trying to watch American Ninja Warrior and you’re totally messing with my pumped up vibe.”
I ignored her, still focused on finding a way to erase the offending images from my brain.
She peeked over my shoulder before I could pull my phone away. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Is that my picture on your profile?”
Creamy, perfect-skinned thighs on display, she was bent over with her dark brunette head peeking through the space between her open legs. Her hooch just barely escaped making an appearance.
“Paybacks, Casshead.”
“And what did I do to deserve being your pro-bono photo ho?”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Do I have to choose just one?”
“Go ahead, give me one example. I dare ya.”
“College. Sophomore year. I told you not to post those pictures on Facebook, but did you listen? Of course not.”
She grinned. “Ahhhhh, yes. I remember those. I thought you looked really cute that night.”
“My head was in the toilet.”
“But you had those cute puppy dog eyes going on.” She glanced at my phone again, dusky gray eyes hitting the phallic bull’s eye. “Holy hell, what is that? Is that Quasimodo’s dick?”
I stood up from the couch and began to pace in front of the TV. “Four dick pics today, Cassface. Four!”
Cassie scrunched her face up. “And what? You were hoping for five?”
My expression was a combination of disgusted and puzzled.
“You know,” she explained, “one to fill all the holes and one for each hand.” Easy to interpret and equally graphic hand gestures matched her words as she spoke. “Although, I’m not sure I’d want DP from The Hunchcock of Notre Dame.” One look at my face and she coughed out a laugh. “You’re not really a prude, but right now, you’re playing one on TV.”
I groaned and gave in, planting my ass back on the couch and burying my face in my hands. “I guess it’s because this profile is for work research. I have this unjustified sense that it should be more professional.”
She shook her head and smiled, propping her mismatched-sock feet on the arm of our couch. “I gotta say, that wiener is pretty fucking awful. But, Georgie, you work for a company that specializes in an app called TapNext, not the White House.”
After a brief beat of silence, we laughed at the same time, and I raised one eyebrow in question. “You’re comparing TapNext to the White House?”
“You’re right,” she agreed. “Bad analogy. There’s probably more dick pics there.” A giant, mischievous grin consumed Cassie’s face as she grabbed the remote.
“Cassie…” I pointed in her direction, but it was too late. She was already standing on top of our coffee table, using the remote for a microphone.
My best friend had this thing with making parody songs out of pretty much anything when inspired. And she didn’t do it quietly. No way, quiet was not Cassie’s style. She sang like she was Adele performing at the Grammys.
“I call this one White House Lovin’,” Cassie announced.
I groaned but secretly couldn’t wait to see what she would come up with. Think Kristen Wiig on Saturday Night Live kind of hilarious shit. That was Cass.
“Blue-dress intern, found my pants fast…”
“White House intern, it was a blast…”
She was singing her little heart out.
“This girl, she was crazy for D…”
Snapping fingers. Pelvic thrusts. Head bobs. Cassie wasn’t missing a beat.
“Met the prez, down on both knees…”
One verse in and the dick pic bandit had been forgotten. I hopped off the couch and tackled her to the floor. She screamed. I laughed. And five minutes later, Cassie was back on the coffee table while I sang backup to the rest of her ridiculous song.
Tell me, whore… Tell me, whore…
Admit it, you’re singing it too.
Later that night, once I had cozied myself in bed and was so very close to reaching that heavenly REM cycle, the ping of my phone pecked at me. I groaned my way out of Dreamland slowly. God, it was time to make some major life changes. For example, the alert settings for my TapNext profile in my phone. It was either that or murder, and I’m the kind of person who likes to dip a toe in the pool water to test it rather than cannonball my way in.
Rubbing a hand over my face, I forced my eyes opened and snatched the phone off my antique nightstand. I barely resisted the urge to slam it back down, thus breaking it into a million tiny pieces. Luckily, my rational thinking wasn’t as sleepy as the rest of me and realized the amount of work that would result from such an impulsive decision.
Cleaning and shopping and transferring my contacts, oh my.
Yeah, screw that.
BAD_Ruck (2:09AM): It’s NOT my dick.
It’s not his dick?
What the double actual fuck?
No. Nope. This was so not the right time to deal with this bullshit.
Not. Answering.
The sides of my pillow exploded upward with the force of my punch and made the perfect cushion for my face when it slammed down beside my hand. I had so much shit to do at work tomorrow, and dealing with BAD_Ruck and his proclivity for awful crotch selfies and unintelligible responses was not going to be on my agenda.
I was focused on getting shut-eye, confident that sleep and I would spoon the fuck out of each other until the sun rose the following morning. I channeled Buddha for my inner Zen, humming my way toward unconscious bliss. It was either that, or grab my vibrator and participate in a ménage à moi.
Thankfully, my return to sleep came easily that night. No hands-on approach required.
The next day, while I was getting ready for work, I decided to give BAD_Ruck a piece of my mind. I spit toothpaste into the sink, rinsed my mouth out with water, and turned off the faucet. Striding into my room with purpose, I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and sent the dick gremlin a response.
Suck. On. That. Buddy.
TAPRoseNEXT (7:03AM): Then it’s someone else’s dick? WORSE. Threat Level EXPLODED.
“Good morning, Mr. Brooks.”
“Good morning, Frank,” I replied, picking my head up from the crime scene on my phone just long enough to meet his honest amber eyes before sliding into the soft leather seat of my Town Car.
Fucking Thatch.
I swear, somehow he took doing what would already be really fucking annoying and advanced it to the next level. If he didn’t have the same ability with money, I probably would have dropped him by now.
To the bottom of the ocean. With a cinder block attached to his ankles.
She was right, of course. Sending a picture of someone else’s dick was considerably worse than sending a picture of your own.
<
br /> Especially this one.
Three rings trilled in my ear before his sleep-laden voice forced one hungover syllable past his lips. “’Lo?”
“A dick, Thatch? Really?” I asked immediately, pinching the bridge of my nose to stave off a headache.
No amount of lingering alcohol could stop his answering laugh.
His throat cleared a little more with each chuckle, and by the time he responded, he was speaking clearly. “You’re the one using my picture for your profile, bro. It was only fair that I unleashed the gargoyle dick.”
Gargoyle dick. Too fucking right. A winglike knob, a hunchback, and questionable coloring all lent themselves to his description. I’d left my phone on the bar without hawk-eyeing it for two fucking minutes, and the asshole had somehow managed to send one of the world’s worst illicit pictures to some poor—now blind—woman in that time.
“That profile was only payback for the last awful thing you did to me.”
“Which was?” he asked, altogether too amused.
“Who knows,” I admitted, staring up at the passing high-rises and shaking my head. “I can’t keep up.”
“Then join in, K. Live a little, for fuck’s sake.”
The burgeoning sun glinted off of a pane of perfectly smooth glass at the top of a building and reflected a rainbow right into the window of my car.
“I’m living just fine,” I argued.
“Yeah.” He laughed and scoffed at once. “Say hi to Walter for me.”
That was Thatch’s version of calling me a cat lady.
“Hey, fuck you!” I said, only to be met with dead air. I pulled the phone away from my ear to discover he’d ended the call.
“Fuck that guy,” I muttered, somehow calling more of Frank’s attention to myself than I had with all the yelling.
“Sir?”
“No worries, Frank.” I paused for a second and looked back out the window. “You wouldn’t happen to know a hit man, would you?”
