“Mother, I hadn’t realised you were coming tonight.” I’m not even sure why I’m the slightest bit surprised. This is nothing new. If a high-rolling function is going down, she’ll find a way to make it on the guest list, usually by dropping my name.
“Why would I miss my successful son’s charity gala? I’m so proud of you.”
Okay, perhaps I forgot to mention this is my shindig, and I’m sure I’m looking like some arsehole for not inviting my mother personally, but guess what? Tonight is supposed to be about the victims of bullying and increasing my list of benefactors to the Foundation, not chaperoning my mother from unleashing her cougar-like ways on potential investors.
“And the chance to meet your next rich fancy didn’t cross your mind?” I roll my eyes, taking in her long, red, sparkly dress and perfectly groomed hairstyle, to which I have no doubts I’ve paid for. Don’t I always?
“Well, cupcake, when you get to my age every moment is an opportunity to meet someone new.” She fluffs her hair in an attempt to catch the eye of a nearby businessman. I just about manage to control the urge of locking my mother in the boot of my car, when he comes over, smiling at me as if we’re going to be the bestest of buddies.
He shakes my hand with an assertive firm grip, but it’s my dominance that wins the round. I’m the alpha here especially when it’s my mother he’s giving the fuck-me eyes to. The woman that’s at least ten years older than him.
Prick.
“Mr. Rush, excellent speech.” Mr. Toupee here grabs my hand again, shaking vigorously enough for his hazel piece to bounce around like it’s auditioning for a part in the Irish jig. “The Foundation seems like a worthy cause.”
Seems like it? Christ, this fella knows how to hand out warm gestures. “Thank you, Mr. . .”
“Bennetts,” he supplies. “I own Teknowlegie.”
Fuck me, I can already hear the bells ringing in my mother’s mind. She’s going to plaster herself all over this guy any second now. All because he owns a decent electronics company. It’s a shame he can’t afford to buy himself a better rug.
“Perhaps your company would like to invest in the generations to come. The Foundation needs all the sponsors it can muster.” Please, I don’t have to like the guy to take his money. He’s got slimeball written all over his seventies-style porn moustache. Seriously, does the guy not see how ridiculous he looks? Hand him some corduroy trousers and send him back in time. He’ll fit right in.
“I’ll think about it. Would you care to dance, Ms. Rush?”
I’m rolling my eyes here. The man is deflecting. He doesn’t care about the Foundation one bit, he’s only interested in what my mother can give him, and how much free food and drink he can get down his gullet. It’s fucking disgusting, he’s an absolute mockery for a human being.
“That would be delightful.” My mother’s crooning like this guy is some kind of George Clooney whisking her off of her feet.
I need a barf bag. My body’s about to reject the obnoxious vision I’ve just witnessed.
“Logan,” I call, knowing my trusted bodyguard and friend isn’t far away.
“Grayson?”
“Keep tabs on my mother, will you? I don’t fancy clearing up the mess of another broken heart tomorrow morning.”
He nods in acknowledgement, pressing his earpiece as he turns and walks away, no doubt relaying my order to the entire security team under his command.
You might think I’m being overprotective, and despite how vile this Bennetts guy is it’s not my mother’s heart I’m worried about. It’s his. She’ll gobble him up and spit him back out before his brain has enough time to understand what’s going on. She’s an absolute maneater.
But I don’t give a shit about what happens to him. He can jump off a cliff for all I care. It’s what happens next that I’m concerned about. My mother’s men always come at me thinking I should be held accountable. Like it’s my fault they were thinking with their dicks. Seriously, guys with money are mostly incomprehensible douchebags especially when they try to get rich by taking someone else’s hard work and threaten it with a puny lawsuit because their manliness has been challenged.
I have no time for those sad excuses, but unfortunately they always seem to be prime kill for my mother. Easy targets for the cougar.
The night goes on with my attention demanded everywhere; interviews, investors, women. And at one a.m. I deem the entire gala a success despite the lack of companionship on my arm as I head home alone. Not that it hasn’t been offered, but I can’t be a hypocrite of my own rules. Tonight isn’t supposed to be about me anyway.
“Please tell me my mother left the premises alone tonight?” I ask Logan as he navigates my limousine towards my lavish penthouse apartment.
“She did, Grayson. Anderson escorted her himself.”
I sigh with relief, running my hands over my tired face. That’s the thing about being a billionaire; there’s very little time for sleep. I can’t even remember the last time I had a holiday that hasn’t been revolved around a business trip.
But I soldier on anyway because what good is moaning about hard work when I seem so good at it? What good is whining about a life that I created for myself? This is all my own doing. I have the control, the power to live my life the way I want to.
Except for tonight when my publicist gave me strict rules about not cocking up the good name of the Foundation with my inappropriate desire to shag the women that make themselves wanton.
And it’s so damn hard to resist. Women look at me and their ovaries pop with satisfaction. It’s like an alluring mating call that only my cock can hear.
And I had to say no.
Walk away.
Be selfless.
Why? Because tonight is about the kids. And when I lay my head on my pillow, I know I’ll sleep easy because I’ve just invested in the future by procuring resources that’ll help bullied victims.
No longer will a child suffer the same way I did.
Chapter Three
~ £ ~
As a man the only alarm clock I’ll ever need in life is the relentless stiffy tenting my duvet that always finds a way to cause a draft. And it’s a shock to my sleepy system every time. It’s like the torture of having a bucket of cold water tossed over my toasty warm chest.
And every morning I fight to drag the fucking duvet over my pulsing rocket, desperate for a few more minutes of sleep in my luxurious, king sized bed before it succumbs my thoughts with the need to launch.
The battle never lasts long, my schlong’s sheer willpower to stay on ceremony can rival the Queen’s guardsmen. I can sword fight against an entire army with my morning wood and still stand proud at the end of the day. My cock is a machine.
This is why my waking routine is as assured as the money sitting in my over-indulged bank account. I get up, shower, and buff my banana to a creamy milkshake.
Yes, that is a metaphor for masturbating. I tug and tug until the release of a good orgasm takes a hold of me. Only then am I able to concentrate on the day ahead.
Being the CEO of my own company allows me to control every aspect of my life. From what I wear to deciding what time I should start and finish. I have the power.
Isn’t that sexy, ladies?
Here I am, naked from my shower as I decide today’s suit. Though I know it doesn’t really matter which I choose, I’ll look finger-licking good in just about anything.
Except a mankini. No guy can pull one of those off, I don’t care how fit you think he is. Besides, those things can barely hold one of my balls in safely. Anyone fancy a game of spot the snake?
Anyway, I digress. That’s what happens when I haven’t had the delicious taste of specially brewed morning coffee made to perfection with its artistic flourish in the froth to awaken my main brain. I’m practically thinking on fumes.
I clothe my rippling abs, bulging biceps, and gloriously toned butt in a tailor-made charcoal suit, adding a silver tie to match my ‘GR’ inscribed
cuff links. I finish with my black ‘stealth’ Rolex on my left wrist, a gift I gave myself after my very first pay cheque. It reminds me of all my hard work, what I’m capable of achieving.
Looking damn right tasty for work isn’t just about boosting my ego despite what you might be thinking. Tell me, what good can a businessman do to encourage potential clients and employees’ faith if he himself looks dowdy in shorts and t-shirt? Doesn’t quite inspire the right mindset, does it?
“Mr. Rush. Breakfast is ready.”
As if on cue my stomach grumbles in recognition as my chef’s husky voice crackles through the internal intercom situated in my bedroom.
I speed through styling my dark, short hair, knowing a full English breakfast is waiting to be devoured. Don’t look at me like that with your heart-attack-on-a-plate look. A busy man like me needs to eat like a King if he intends on having a successful day. And I have quite a busy one lined up.
As always, Logan takes me to work whilst I use the half hour drive to catch up on the night’s emails, including one from my mother scorning me for my effective cock-blocking.
That puts a smile on my face. The Bennetts guy doesn’t deserve her attention.
“Have a good day, Grayson,” Logan says as he holds my door open.
I pat him on the shoulder. “Don’t I always?” I grin, and head into the tall, glass building that is Rush Tower, headquarters to all my businesses.
“Good morning, Mr. Rush.”
“Olivia.” I acknowledge my secretary as I enter the top floor that houses only my office. “What have we got going on today?” I ask as she hovers beside me, clearly something is on her mind.
“Your afternoon appointment with Enhance Graphics and Design has been moved to this morning. Now, in fact.”
I raise my brow, keen to meet the person with enough guts to rearrange my busy schedule. “Have they been waiting long?” I ask.
“No, Sir. Just a few minutes. I have her in the conference room for you.”
“Thank you,” I appraise, flashing the grey-haired woman my warmest smile as I head toward my office to unload and prepare. “Hold my calls until I’m done.”
These days, loyal, hard-working assistants are hard to find. Most think it’s their best opportunity to screw me by applying for one of my jobs, but the truth is any girl on the street has a far greater chance of that happening. Workplace fucks never happen. It’s my number one rule. I can’t afford to mess business up with pleasure. Lawsuits, remember? They’d kill me. Never mind the work that would never get done, brain cells can be a bit lacking sometimes. Fuck that was a nice way for me to put it. What I mean is, they’re all fucking dumb.
So when Olivia entered my doors, dressed conservatively elegant for her older age, I had no qualms that this would be a woman with only an agenda to work on her mind. And fuck me was I right. She’s brilliant.
As I hang my coat on the rack in my office, I consider using the effective power-shifting tool of making my appointment wait a little longer. I told you, I’m all about control. I’m the one in charge.
If I let one client rearrange my schedule then it sets the precedent for others, and I’ve worked too damn hard to be at another’s beck and call. But I’m also a professional. So in the thirty seconds it takes for me to have a to-and-fro battle in my mind of how this will play out, I decide to cut to the chase and get on with the reason I called for the meeting in the first place.
I straighten my jacket, pull on my stony business face, and head towards the conference room.
By the time I reach the glass doors, I’m afforded the chance of checking her out without her knowing. She’s staring out the windows, glaring at the view of London’s famous landmarks. Big Ben. Westminster. London Eye.
When I’ve eventually had my fill of her scrumptious arse and bare legs accentuated by the delicious four-inch heels she’s wearing, I clear my throat to announce myself, but even as the words leave my mouth I’m lost inside the most enchanting jade green eyes.
Call it what you will - lust, attraction, desire - I know I’m in fucking trouble. The number one rule I swore to myself just minutes ago already has me crippling with hatred. Fucking rules.
And that’s just her eyes. I take her in entirely, and I’m impressed. No, more than that. I’m a bloody animal that wants to press her bare cheeks up against the glass window and fuck her brains out until all she remembers is the raw pleasure I give her. Over and over.
Her lips are full, begging to be kissed. Her tits, though concealed in a smart, hot-pink dress, are bigger than my hands. And those sweet long legs look even better up close.
I’m fucked.
Cursed.
Punished.
This is what I get for being a sexually active man. A boner for forbidden fruit.
“Mr. Rush, pleasure to meet you.”
Oh, it will be.
“I’m Maya Kennedy, Enhance’s junior designer.”
I blink, and blink again. Junior? I call for an important meeting with a new company and they send me a fucking junior?
“Is this a joke?” I ask, wondering what the girl’s gain is in wasting my time. She rearranges my day for this?
She sputters as if offended. “Not at all, Mr. Rush. My boss asked that I come in her stead. She’s out with food poisoning.”
I scrutinise her, knowing she’s seeing the dark danger in my eyes. Many have faltered under my gaze, yet she seems unaffected. Clearly she isn’t intimidated, and neither is she falling head-over-heels in love with me.
Oh, good God. It’s finally happened. I’ve lost it. You know, the it that makes me dangerously alluring. The it that makes businessmen I compete with squirm.
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!
“My qualifications and creative mind far succeed my job title, Mr. Rush. I wouldn’t be so quick to walk me out the door.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and the movement alone is enough to distract me for a few seconds.
What? She’s the one encouraging me to look. Don’t tell me women don’t do this on purpose to distract us men long enough to agree to whatever it is they want. It’s one of their womanly powers.
And it works, because I can’t remember what it is we were talking about when all I’m thinking about is having my cock wrapped in her tit sandwich for lunch.
Yummy.
“Mr. Rush, are you really so snobbish, you’d readily disregard what I can do for you and your company without the grace of assessing a simple mock-up beforehand?”
I smirk at her boldness, liking her confidence. Of course, I won’t tell her that. I like this fire in her.
“Please, sit down, Miss Kennedy.” I extend my hand to one of the many seats along the long conference table, eager to have her in my company, questioning my every word.
Christ, she’s fucking gorgeous.
She stares dubiously, no doubt assessing my intention. When she sits, I take it I’ve passed her test, and settle in a seat opposite her.
“So, what can Enhance Graphics and Design do for you, Mr. Rush?”
I have to hand it to her, she’s remaining professional no matter what she already thinks of me. And I know, based on her distance, that she has strong opinions about me. Which is fine for now, I’ll make sure I’ve changed her mind about me by the time the job is done.
Then, business will be over, and the all-night pleasure party can begin.
I lean back in my chair and begin to relay the necessary information, pleased to see she’s taking me seriously enough to make notes. “I’m in the process of opening a publishing house, and it’s in dire need of an eye-catching logo. Something modern, tasteful. Something that fits well with all of the Rush branding. Elegant, stylish, with a pop of colour. It has to stand out against all my competitors.” I stress the importance of that last word.
“Do you have anything in mind?”
I contemplate for a moment. “No. I’ll give you creative freedom within those preferences I mentioned.” After her self-proclaimed crea
tive genius I’m intrigued to see what she can deliver. I just hope I’m using the right brain to do the thinking.
“And the company’s name?”
“Rush House,” I answer.
“Do all your businesses have your name splashed territorially on them?”
I smirk, surprised by her question. “Yes,” I simply answer. “What good is conquering the world without taking credit? I’m not one to hide in the shadows.”
“I know,” she rolls her eyes, and I’m utterly fascinated by what just happened. Is she insinuating she disapproves of how I spend my social time? Does she read the gossip magazines about me?
Before I can even get to the bottom of the unusual interaction she butts in with another question. “How about a strap line? Or slogan?”
Oh, this will be good. “There’s the Rush Enterprises motto that applies to all my business avenues.”
She waits patiently, though her perfectly manicured hand grips the pen a little tighter, and I wonder if it’s an effort to not tap it against the notepad, to hurry this process along. But I’m enjoying myself.
“Creating pleasure,” I say, watching her eyes widen with a little bit of shock.
“That’s your company’s motto? It sounds like a review title for a porno.”
My smile widens at her obvious discomfort. “Everything I do caters to society’s need to feel good. Drinking. Exercising. Partying. Holidays. It’s all legal. It makes people happy. And there’s no better return on investments than pleasure. I give it. I take it. I make it.” I drip my voice with heavy seduction, lowering my tone to drive her wild.
She visibly swallows, that small movement lets me know she isn’t totally unaffected by me. Thank fuck for that, because my dick is choking on my boxers at even the smallest thought of having her.
“Is there anything else you want from me?”
Sex on the table? “That’s all for now.”
She files her notepad and pen back in her bag, straightening out her dress as she stands. Fuck, pink suits her. “I should have a few samples ready for your perusal by this time next week. I hope you can fit me in.”
Wicked Sunshine Page 2
