by Kent, Julia
Her Billionaires
the Complete Collection
by Julia Kent
Copyright © 2013 by Julia Kent
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
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Her First Billionaire
“Hot, luscious piece of ass who can suck a golf ball through forty feet of garden hose seeks rippling-ab’d firefighter who has a tongue that thrums like a hummingbird and enjoys painting my toenails and eating Ben & Jerry’s out of the carton while watching Mad Men.”
Laura Michaels stared at the online dating site’s registration screen and frowned. That’s what she really wanted to write. Here was the truth:
“Needy, insecure, overweight twenty-six year old Business Analyst with three cats, a corporate job with pension and no debt seeks Mr. Impossible for way more than friendship and lots of ice cream. I’m desperate for some physical affection and oral sex with a guy who doesn’t view it as some sort of favor he’s granting me, and then expects to be praised like he cleaned my toilet. One night stands are better than nothing as long as you brush your teeth. Call me!”
Her best friend, Josie Mendham, punched her in the bicep. “You can’t say either of those!” Josie was Laura’s opposite. Where Laura was 5’6”, Josie was barely tall enough to ride roller coasters. Remove the 1 from Laura’s size and you still had to subtract a few to get Josie’s size 2. Where Laura had long, curly blonde hair and bright green eyes, Josie was chocolate all around. “Mutt and Jeff” her mom had called them, and they’d been besties since college.
Which meant Josie knew Laura too well. “You are going to do this, damn it,” she said, wagging a finger in front of Laura’s face. “No trying to be perfect. Perfect is the enemy of good enough.”
“I haven’t even found Mr. Good Enough!”
“That’s because the hundreds of Mr. Good Enoughs have walked past you, Laura, and you’re blind to them.” Josie nudged Laura aside and started typing, her long nails burning up the keyboard. How did she do that? Typing on the pads of her fingers seemed impossible, but Josie did it, keeping her manicure intact, little replicas of the famous grey necktie from Fifty Shades of Grey on each nail.
The two had been out at a club the night before and Josie spent the night, waking up chipper and springing this online dating thing on Laura before she’d even had her first cup of coffee. As the machine gurgled and burbled, Laura willed it to hurry. Weighing out her entire dating future in a half-zombie state was not good.
Laura knew she had to lie, but how much was acceptable? Could she shave off a few sizes, or would she need to hack off an imaginary arm and leg to make herself seem “fit” and “athletic”? The drop-down box with its built in descriptors seemed like judgmental torment. No choices were there for “zaftig” or “juicy” or “full figure.”
Being a size 18 with size F breasts wasn’t a crime, she knew; in real life she was fashionable and flowing, plump and pleasing, and could arm wrestle most guys into submission, but reducing her accomplishments, personality and, yes, body into a vocabulary designed by some Internet start-up team of nineteen-year-old dropouts from Stanford and Carnegie Mellon made her irrationally angry.
No—rationally angry.
Seeing little choice, she pointed to the boxes on the screen and told Josie, “Pick the word ‘fit.’ I can deadlift 105 pounds. Which is,” she eyed Josie, “more than you weigh.”
Josie pointedly ignored her, biting her lower lip and deep in concentration. “Voila!” she shouted, her hands spread wide in a grandiose gesture. “There’s your ad.”
She announced:
“Luscious, curvy Business Analyst seeks friendship and more. Financially independent and self-assured, I’m a fit woman who wants a man (or, more than one! YOLO!) for stimulating conversation...er, yeah. Conversation. Message me (or massage me!).”
“I can’t write that!” Laura groaned. “It makes me look like I want an orgy!” She squinted at the screen. “And what the hell is ‘YOLO’?”
“Who doesn’t want an orgy?” Josie wiggled her eyebrows lasciviously and stuck out her tongue, waggling it in a very bad imitation of oral sex. “And YOLO stands for ‘you only live once.’”
“Cut it out. You’re turning me on. It’s been that long since I got some ass, and the last guy used his tongue like he was a Roto Rooter man. Like that.” She pointed at Josie’s tongue and bent over, laughing.
And then Josie, with a flourish, pressed the “Submit” button. “Thank you for joining—your profile is now live!” the screen read.
“Oh, shit, Josie, did you just do that?” Laura sputtered as she grabbed the mouse. “Fuck!”
“What?” Josie batted her eyelashes. “Live a little. See who replies!” She grabbed her heavy, over-full Vera Bradley purse that they had discovered at a local thrift shop for $3.99 and fingered her car keys. “Gotta go, Laura. And don’t you dare delete that.”
Laura laughed. “You know me too well.”
“No shit,” Josie muttered. Her face turned serious. “Really, Laura. You need to get out there. Some guy is being deprived of your awesomeness. And besides, your budget needs the break.”
“My budget?”
“Yeah. What are you spending in batteries for Bob?”
Confused, Laura shook her head. It was like Josie spoke a foreign language sometimes. “Huh?”
“Your battery-operated boyfriend. You know— BOB.” And with that she snickered, running for the door as Laura threw a section of a fashion magazine at her. Josie’s evil laughter filled the apartment as she ran down the hallway, the sound fading once she hit the stairwell. “Have a good day at work!” she hollered from the street.
The coffee machine gave its death-rattle gasp that signaled the pot was done, and Laura went to drink it greedily, needing sustenance to kick her brain into gear. Enough caffeine and she could date anyone. Hmm, maybe she should do a search for baristas on that site. Free lattes would be a nice perk.
Dylan Stanwyck couldn’t quite believe what he saw when he logged into the online dating site. Four months of weeding through so many crappy profiles had jaded him. Finding the right woman would be like coming across the proverbial needle in a haystack, but in this case he didn’t want to face any pricks.
And yes, women could be pricks. So far he had been inundated with requests to chat, and he knew exactly why. Being a firefighter who competed in weightlifting competitions for fun, along with the occasional mini triathlon, made his pictures look quite nice. The problem with the women who were responding to him was that they were also the type to be drawn to appearances only. It seemed so shallow of him to think it, but sometimes being built the way he was could be a curse.
Curse of the Jersey Shore chicks. Because that was the type who seemed to seek him out, like moths to a flame. A trashy, Snookie-like flame of ho-dom. When he would meet up with these women he found himself in some alternate universe, where they licked their lips and offered themselves up in the alley behind the nice tapas restaurant where he liked to take women. A few goat cheese stuffed dates and pitchers of sangria later and he was being humped up against
a slimy brick wall next to the trash cans.
And when he turned them down...he still had scars from one woman’s long, overdone nails raking his neck as she screeched, “You don’t know me!” over and over, as passersby gawked, took pictures they probably uploaded to Reddit, and mercifully called 911 when it became evident he required police assistance.
So when this new profile for Laura appeared, he peered at the description and leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath. Cute. But not too cute. A little sassy. He liked sassy. He ran a hand through his thick, wavy hair. Time to get a haircut, dude. You look like a survivalist. And smell like one, too, he thought as he studied her picture and caught a whiff of himself. His morning run was done, 3.8 miles logged on his online fitness program, and he reeked.
She looked like a 1940s pin up girl. A little plumper, with soft curves to her shoulders, a fuzzy, lime-green sweater accentuating her breasts. Her jaw line seemed firm and gentle all at once, and what appeared to be naturally-blonde hair was swept up off her face in a pony tail. His mom would call her a “corn-fed farm girl” and those lips— lush and grinning a half smile that seemed to say “Kiss me, Dylan.”
Smart, too. A business analyst? Sounded suitably bland and yet signaled she was smart enough to carry her own in a conversation about something other than Kim Kardashian or Fifty Shades of Grey (really—why? Why had every date for the past two months mentioned it?). A real woman. What a refreshing change.
So he continued reading:
“Luscious, curvy Business Analyst seeks friendship and more. Financially independent and self-assured, I’m a fit woman who wants a man (or, more than one! YOLO!) for stimulating conversation...er, yeah. Conversation. Message me (or massage me!).”
Something fierce and hot inside him came to life. From that description it sounded like she...seriously? No way.
“Mike! Hey, Mike! Get in here!” If there were a chance— any chance at all, here, then he had to act fast. Someone this amazing was about to get inundated by messages from needy weirdos.
And he needed to be the first.
His roommate wandered in. Where Dylan was all muscle and brawn, Mike Pine was tall and sleek, a marathoner’s body of long, lean tissue. Dylan’s dark, thick, Italian, looks made him popular with women, but Mike was the golden boy, with blonde hair and blue eyes, the long distance runner with a soft heart, the guy women turned to and poured their hearts out, Mr. Sensitive to Dylan’s Mr. Conquest.
Dylan tapped the screen. “Take a look at her.” He smiled smugly as Mike’s eyes raced across the screen. They’d been waiting for a long time. Too long. His roommate’s expression told him everything he needed to know. Score! It might finally be time.
“Do you really think that’s some sort of code for being up for a threesome?” Mike asked, eyebrows arched. “I don’t know, Dyl...I think it’s just some sort of joke she’s making. You know how nervous and weird people can be when they try to distill their entire life into a few sentences.”
Dylan chewed on the inside of his cheek. Bad habit. “Good point. Well, even if she isn’t into a nice ménage arrangement, she is one fine woman.” A low whistle escaped from his lips. “I have a project on my hands now, don’t I?”
Mike nodded, peering at the screen, eyes lingering. “You are going to have a lot of competition.”
Dylan snorted. “Like I give a fuck. May the best man win.”
Mike went silent, then grinned, his fresh-faced boy-next-door look morphing into a Wall Street trader’s predatory smile that made Dylan suddenly uncomfortable for no reason he could pinpoint. “Yeah. I hope he does.”
Ding! The little chat box on the online dating site lit up like a Christmas tree. Laura sucked the last mouthful of her coffee and gaped at the screen. You have got to be kidding me, Laura thought. Already? She clicked and read a message from “9inluvr”:
Hey, babe. I live in the city and so do you, so let’s hook up for some FWB action.
She snorted. Oh, sure. Just like that. Yer a catch, Bud. A real romantic.
Ding! This one was from some guy named Dylan. Before she read the chat she looked at his profile.
Well hellooooo there, Mr. Firefighter. A thin line of drool formed at the corner of her mouth, an instant response to the picture before her. It was a professional picture, the guy wearing no shirt, a fireman’s hat perched at a jaunty tilt. Like a stripper’s picture in a firefighter’s role. Oh, God. I can’t date a stripper, she thought. He’d have nicer g-strings than mine.
But no—he was a real firefighter. The picture, he explained in his profile, came from a charity bachelor auction he was in. Bachelor auction? How much had he gone for? As she studied the picture she figured it had to be a solid four figures. Hell, she was ready to empty her life savings for a night with this guy.
On a whim she Googled “Dylan charity bachelor auction firefighter” and her drool increased so much she would soon need a bucket.
Oh, holy hell. The image search showed the same man, whose name was Dylan Stanwyck, in firefighter’s pants, boots, a fireman’s hat and suspenders, perched on the floor of a fire station right next to the pole. He was leaning on one elbow and had smears of soot on him, with well-oiled muscles and a smug-ass grin. Whoever set up that photograph needed to be recruited for her company’s marketing department because damn—she was ready to use up every available dollar on her credit cards to get a night with him.
Maybe she could save a bunch of money and just set herself on fire. Or her car. It probably wasn’t worth much, but if she found out his schedule and whether he’d be the one responding...
And he was pinging her on the dating site? She dropped her coffee and scrambled to write back in the chat room.
“Hi,” she said, all inspiration and creativity vanishing as the heat forming between her legs apparently melted her brain.
Hi. I’m Dylan. Nice to “meet” you. :)
Think, Laura. Think. Man, where was Josie? Of all the times for that girl to be on time to go to work. She needed help figuring out something witty to say.
Hi. I’m Laura. Nice to “meet” you, too!
She wrote back. Then he answered:
You’re probably on your way to work analyzing businesses, or businessing analysis, or whatever it is you do ;). I was hoping you might be interested in going out? We can do coffee, maybe? Or go to a nice tapas bar?
Tapas! Her favorite! But wait—Josie always said any guy who likes tapas must be gay. Laura checked the photo again. No way. And even if Dylan was gay, she would still sleep with him. Cute, polite, and loves tapas?
Tapas sounds great! When?
Dammit! Now she sounded too eager. And then he waited. And waited. No reply. Shit! Maybe he was having second thoughts. Or she sounded like a moron. Or he realized he didn’t like tapas after all. Or he really was gay. Or this was his cat impersonating him. She began to pace, willing the chat bar to ping. If she stared hard enough, maybe it would come—now! No, now! Or...now!
Finally:
Uh, this might seem too eager, but I don’t care. I am free tonight. I work a 24 tomorrow, so this is my last chance for a few days. I don’t mean to be rude, asking you on short notice, but...please tell me you’re free tonight.
Yes! Yes, yes, yes, she wanted to write. But she needed to play that stupid game, the dance of meeting someone new. Her turn to wait. She reread his message. What was a 24? She puzzled over that one as she chewed on her cuticle, pulling on it until it bled. Brilliant! Screw up your manicure when you have a hot date tonight, Laura.
Might have. Might have. Don’t put the cart before the horse.
I am free. Prince William is now taken and so I have an opening in my busy social schedule.
She hit “Send” before she could change her mind. Too cheesy?
LOL. Sounds great. Meet me at Tempo Bistro after work. At 6?
Tempo Bistro? The most expensive, chi-chi restaurant in town? Not tapas, either—something she couldn’t quite remember. Asian fusion? How on e
arth could a firefighter afford that? Not your problem, Laura. And she was making terrible assumptions. She needed to assume they were going dutch. Good thing she was a careful saver.
’lo?
The chat window pinged. Geez, Laura. Get out of your head. She typed furiously:
Sounds even better. I’ll see you there and you know what I look like.
And he replied,
Oh, yes. :P
What was that supposed to mean? Her eyes swept over the clock—now she had eight minutes to shower. Damn! Laura just shook her head and walked to the bathroom, stripping naked by the time she crossed the threshold and turned on the hot water.
Sliding under the spray was bliss, the beads of water trailing their way down her body, her hair wet and ropy within seconds, the curl relaxed and the strands stretching long enough to tickle the top of her sacrum. Eh—why not leave the ad up? Who knew. Maybe she’d attract a better breed of guy. Or, at least, a different kind. She eyed the shower head—did she have time? Eight minutes?
More than enough for the last guy she dated.
Just enough time for some intimate attention from Mr. Showerhead, though. Josie was wrong. It wasn’t her battery bill that was getting expensive. Her water bill, on the other hand...
Good thing her vibrator was waterproof. As she soaped up she was cognizant of the time, knowing she had minutes to finish. Pulling up the old standby fantasy always worked. Two men, luscious and thickly-muscled, both in the shower with her. Mmmm...
The extra tip of her vibrator slid along the soft, sensitive skin of her clit as she perched one foot on the tub, opening up for access to slide in her fantasy lover, who was soaping her body with his sculpted, large hands, hands that smoothed over her curves, cupping her ass to pull him toward her, sliding his enormous cock in her while the other nameless, faceless lover kissed her, hard, his tongue lashing against her and exploring as the spray rolled down in rivulets between them, gathering at her folds and adding to the tease on her clit.
