I Choose You (The Billionaire Brothers Series)

by Cole, S. Ann

  “I love it when you’re bossy.”

  Growing impatient, I started, “Trev — ”

  But his complying movement cut me off as he awkwardly tried to grasp himself. Getting his cock into a fitting hold was a definite challenge, but once he had his fingers wrapped around his hard, blood-filled length, he steadily began stroking, pre-come instantly sprouting from the tip.

  Dazed and hungry, I watched him work himself close to the edge — he was a sight to see. I dragged a hand down between my thighs and whimpered at the warm wetness I found there. Impatient and needy, I slid my hand inside my underwear and passed my fingers through my slickness.

  Oh god, it felt so good.

  Trevillo’s eyes lowered to my hand buried inside my underwear working myself to the edge along with him. At that, he began pumping himself faster.

  Spurred on, I, too, began rubbing my fingers over my bud at a frantic pace, racing him to the peak.

  “Christ,” he groaned, his breathing ragged. “You’re so fucking hot, Krissan.”

  My hips undulated as I started grinding against my own fingers, my gaze stuck on Trevillo’s cuffed hands pumping away at his cock. I noticed his crest getting redder, engorged, the veins bulging at his stiffening rigidity, his abs tightening, and I knew he was on the brink of his orgasm.

  Using my free hand, I yanked down the front of my bra and, panting, I ordered, “Right here, Trev. Empty yourself right here.”

  On a growl, he took a step forward to close the tiny gap between us, leaning in as he continued to make sharp, rigid pumps, sweat beading on his forehead.

  Skimming around my own orgasm, I tried to hold back and wait for his liquid heat to spray all over my cleavage before I let go. And such was a fragile hold.

  “A beautiful pearl necklace, baby,” I moaned out. “Right here. Give it to me. Please.”

  That did it for him.

  A feral growl left him as his hot whiteness squirted out between my breasts, his hips flexing forward again and again.

  Then I let go, my fingers pressing down as I stiffened under the seizing hold of my orgasm.

  When he was drained, Trevillo got down to his knees in front of me, leaned over and licked his tongue up my cleavage, collecting a good amount of his own liquid, then came straight up and plunged that tongue, with his liquid, right into my mouth, kissing me thoroughly until we both swallowed a fair share of his semen.

  Holy. Mother. Fuck.

  Maybe I should’ve been grossed out. But instead, I was so aroused all over again, my inner walls began pulsing ceaselessly.

  “You’re Trev’s,” his husky voice told me. Moving back, he lay supine on the floor and stretched his cuffed hands over his head. “Come,” he ordered. “Sit on my mouth so I can eat you, and eat you real fucking good. Then, you’re gonna fuck me until I disappear.”

  Believe it or not, at those words, I came again. Not explosive. But a shuddering mini-orgasm.

  Concupiscence hazing my vision, I gazed at the unbelievably sexy man who was stretched out before me, sporting a full-on erection even after just coming, and I anticipated, with an excited heart, how earth-shattering this night would be.

  There was a place between heaven and hell, and that’s where this erotic man and I would be visiting tonight.

  I was so falling.

  Sunlight slipped through the blinds and took precious delight in penetrating my eyelids with its warm glare, coercing me from sleep and effectively getting me to blink in a new day. Stretching, I rolled over in bed to find I was alone, no Trev. A quick glance at the clock on the nightstand told me it was long past noon. Sleeping late wasn’t a practice of mine, yet the sun was high in the sky, and I was still under the covers.

  Damn that man.

  Trevillo had most likely left for work ages ago, but I slugged out of bed and wandered throughout the house anyway, hoping he might still be there. No such luck.

  There was, however, a note on the kitchen counter, along with breakfast that was way past cold and uneatable.

  You. Are. Perfect.

  If you woke up to this note instead of me,

  then it’s because you really did fuck me until I disappeared …

  xox

  Had to leave extra early for an eight o’clock meeting in L.A.

  Will be back in SF by noon.

  There are a few changes of outfits for you in my closet.

  If you need to leave, take the white Aston (key with V12 on the back).

  I had someone take your car to your house.

  Will call you as soon as I get done with these irksome demands that come with being a billionaire (I swear I’m not arrogant … just world-weary).

  xox

  P. S. You drive me wild.

  Smiling with contentment, I ambled to the kitchen in search of something to eat not requiring me to use the stove. Like cereal. That was easy enough.

  As soon as I effortlessly poured milk and cereal into a bowl and started my non-complicated ‘lunch’, I heard my cellphone ping from somewhere in the living room. Another spoonful of cereal got shoveled into my mouth before I got up and went in search of my phone.

  A text message from Carlos:

  Hey, KK,

  You never did show up yesterday …

  NEED you 2day, tho.

  Available for around 3?

  I hadn’t planned on leaving the apartment at all, seeing as I didn’t have to go in at Skylark until the floors were done. But a day at Carlos’ would be better since Trevillo probably wouldn’t be back from his ‘irksome billionaire demands’ until sundown. Besides, I had a few lines I wanted to give life to. So I texted Carlos a confirmation, finished my cereal, and grabbed a shower.

  When I walked into Trevillo’s closet after a hot shower, I was pleased to see there were just six outfits hanging on a clothes rack for me. He had no idea how much I appreciated this, that he hadn’t gone against my wishes by bombarding me with extraneous extravagance. The pieces were nothing short of what I would’ve chosen myself. The stylist who put them together, and I’m thinking she was said cousin mentioned last week, knew her stuff.

  Making a selection, I chose an outfit that consisted of distressed, acid-wash jeans, a skin-tight, deep-red Cami tank, a black and gray patterned scarf and flat, black thigh-highs.

  Having no hot tools there to style my hair, I just brushed it back from my face, leaving it damp and skipped on make-up. To me, make-up doesn’t make sense without a hair-do. One should either go au naturel or full glamour. Anything in between is fake and deceiving.

  I grabbed my handbag, retrieved the key marked V12, hopped onto the elevator, and headed down to the garage.

  One large section of the garage was lined with thick, red parking lines instead of yellow parking lines like other areas of the garage, and the red-lined section was where Trevillo normally parked. So, deducing that section was solely his, it’s where I went.

  Next to the empty spot where his Audi usually rests was a black Aston Martin One-77 — it was Trevillo in car form: Sex … on wheels. Beside it was a pitch-black, tinted windows Range Rover, and next to that, what I held the keys to: a white Aston Martin V12 Vantage.

  Pouting, I wondered why I wasn’t allowed to drive the One-77 instead of the V12. Maybe he was afraid I’d total it? I laughed at that thought, thinking I probably would, because I wasn’t even sure I could manage the V12.

  I knew a lot about car types because Jahleel was automobile-passionate, and I had to listen to him go on about motorbikes and cars all the time, updating me on automobile information I didn’t care to hear about. So I had enough knowledge of cars to know the One-77 was more highly rated than the V12. Cherished, to say the least. And I was beginning to think Trevillo was ludicrous for letting me go behind the wheel of his precious V12 Vantage instead of the Range Rover.

  Pressing the unlock button on the crystal-sapphire key, I opened the door and slid inside the red-interior beauty. Then I was stuck. I had no idea how to start this car.
<
br />   I spun the rectangular key over in my hand, wondering how it worked. In scrutiny, I scanned around the steering wheel and across the dashboard searching for a Start Engine button or something, knowing some cars were like that — a simple push of a button. Then I spotted the platinum-rimmed circle marked Engine Start right above the stereo. It wasn’t a button I could push though, and it took me a minute to figure out I had to push the rectangular key inside, then it took me another minute to figure out I had to hold it in for a few seconds before the car purred to life.

  Sheesh. Talk about complicated.

  I nearly jumped out of my skin when the stereo snapped on, blaring Michael Jackson’s She Drives Me Wild. Considering the fact Trevillo wrote I drove him wild in his note, I had no doubt this song was intentionally left on high-blast — to emphasize his compliment.

  Smiling, I deeply inhaled the familiar scent of new leather and male. Was it him who absorbed the scent of his cars or his cars that soaked up the scent of him? Because his Audi held the exact scent. Either way, I was hooked on it.

  Shifting the gear, I gingerly drove out of the garage and headed out to Carlos’.

  Chapter 19

  K. Kingston

  Falling

  Twenty-minutes later, I pulled in to Carlos’ residence — his brother’s residence, actually. Carlos was a long-time high school friend of mine. We used to be in the same music class and even in a secret band — secret because of the religious parents I had.

  There’d been five of us in the band, and we created music solely for fun, because of our love of music. Music gave us a sense of freedom.

  After graduation, we all separated and went off to college in different states, except Carlos and me. While I enrolled in college to study architecture and interior design, Carlos decided he wanted music to be more than a hobby, so he studied the arts.

  He started a website offering royalty-free music, soundtracks, sound effects, and the like, which has gotten more and more popular as the years slipped by. Movie producers, music producers, et cetera all had memberships on his site and downloaded his work for commercial or personal use, sometimes reproduction with additional payments for extended rights. His soundtracks could often be heard in commercials, as background music in movies, or were sometimes bought by musicians.

  Where did I come in?

  I was the voice he used for whole songs, sound effects like moans, laughter, feminine whispers, scary screams, giggles, yawns … I also created guitar pieces for him because I played the guitar well. And I did it all for free because, when in Carlo’s studio, I was me. The girl left on the beach side to die.

  I was someone else other than Krissan Kingston. I was Krissan Something. Because Kingston blood wasn’t the blood running through me. No, the blood of someone who possessed musical talent ran through me.

  The reason I hid this side of me from others — even Jahleel — was because I wished this talented blood didn’t run through me, just like those said talented people had wished I’d never been born, so much so, they’d tried to kill me. I refused to embrace the talent they passed on to me, just as they refused to embrace me as their child. So, passion for music was my dirty little secret.

  Seconds after ringing the doorbell, Mark, Carlos’ older brother, swung it open, holding a half-full brandy snifter in his hand. Shirtless, he displayed his rock-hard abs cockily at me.

  Mark was an average hunk. He wasn’t handsome, but he wasn’t unattractive. He had a gapped-tooth smile, a crooked nose and sand-brown hair receding much too early for his age. He did, however, own a body that would make any woman salivate.

  Mark was also a whore. A whore without remorse.

  He was moneyed, too, but I wasn’t sure how. Carlos didn’t know what he did for a living, neither did I. Yet he could afford luxury such as this residence: a six bedroom house that was a lot like a mini playboy mansion, seeing there were always naked girls running around.

  “Hey, KK,” he drawled, and I could tell he was far beyond tipsy.

  I pushed past him into the foyer. “Jeez, Mark, it’s not even three in the afternoon, and you’re already shitfaced.”

  Laughing, he closed the door, stretched his arms out wide and started walking backwards into house. “YOLO!!” he shouted. “I could walk across the street right now and get hit by a big ole truck. And boom! Life’s over.”

  Shaking my head, I rolled my eyes at him. “You’d get hit by a truck only because you’d be too damn drunk to remember to look up and down before you cross.”

  Leaving Mark with his brandy snifter turned up at his mouth, I made my way through the house and tried keeping my eyes straight ahead to ignore: the two half-naked girls tonguing each other on a couch in the living area, the three performing body shots on the floor in the hallway, and the nude Hispanic who was eyeing me as she licked her lips while I strode past her to the stairway leading down to the basement where Carlos’ studio was located.

  See? Mini Playboy mansion.

  Carlos and I were the same age, and he had no qualms whatsoever about squatting with his debauched, mysteriously-wealthy brother. He claimed squatting with Mark gave him the opportunity to save his own dough, what with Mark taking care of all expenses, including groceries and his wardrobe.

  Carlos was hunched over his mixing board with headphones on when I arrived down in the studio, his head bobbing. Even being on the chubby side and under six feet tall, Carlos was better-looking than Mark, kind of cherubic.

  As if he sensed my presence, he glanced up with a wide grin. “KK … ” — Oh, he also grinned a lot for no reason — ” … You’re early.”

  Setting my handbag down on a nearby chair, I went over to hug him. “Yeah. Have an empty schedule, so I can afford punctuality.” I ruffled his curly hair as I perched on the handle of his chair. “How may I be of assistance today, boo?”

  Carlos reached over to his desk on the left, picked up a notepad with some scribbled lines on it, and handed it to me. “I have a smooth track I want to weave your breathy voice into, saying those words. After that, I want to do some new horror screams, sexual moans, and sexy morning yawns — change it up a bit. Members are requesting them.”

  Going by the phrases on the paper, the track had to be a sexual one: Touch me, Take me, I want you, ssssss, Yours, Mine, Yours alone, Give it to me, Don’t stop … .

  Time to have some fun.

  I smacked the top of Carlos’ head with the notepad and grinned my I’m-Fucking-Free grin as I got up and opened the door to the sound room. “Let’s get it crackalacking, baby!”

  Two hours later, we were good to go, and Carlos was wearing his perpetual grin, excited about his new track. But I wasn’t done.

  “I’ve got a song I want you to lay down for me,” I told him. “It’s half a song, actually.”

  “To what rhythm?” he asked without hesitation.

  Carlos would never deny me anything, plus this was the first time I’d ever asked him to create a track not for his benefit.

  “Acoustic. I’m playing the guitar.”

  “Raw music today, huh?” His grin widened. “What’s this new happiness about?”

  I shrugged and murmured, “The unexpected,” more to myself than to him and turned to head back into sound room.

  As Carlos prepared to voice me, I took my white Gibson off its hook on the wall, wired it up, tossed it across my shoulders, and waited for Carlos’ cue. I’d been writing the song in my head since last Saturday on Sweet Sins. Even though it was incomplete, I wanted to lay it down, anyway. Just for the sake of confessing the words out loud that I was falling. Maybe the other half would come to me as I sang.

  Testing the flow I had in mind, I played around on the guitar for a while. By the time I had a solid flow, Carlos was ready. He nodded and leaned back with his arms crossed, watching me from behind the glass, his grin still present, curiosity bright on his face.

  My fingers touched the strings as I closed my eyes and started a lengthy intro. Then, I took a
breath and did what I did best:

  I never wanted more

  I never wanted us

  I never wanted you

  I never wanted me

  But you gave me more

  You gave me you

  You gave me us

  You let me be me

  And now I’m fallin’

  Deep down into the unknown

  Yet I’m not screamin’

  ‘M not afraid of the unknown

  Baby, I’m fallin’

  With every kiss, every breath

  And I’m not complainin’

  No, not yet

  My fingers worked the guitar strings as I did an instrumental bridge while mentally writing the next verse. But then, an eerie feeling prompted me to open my eyes, and when I did, I gasped.

  Trevillo was standing on the other side of the studio staring at me through the glass, wearing a livid expression. Mark was standing beside him holding an icepack over his right eye, and Carlos was holding a hand over his nose, blood seeping through his fingers, his eyes watery.

  What in the world … ?

  At the reflexive thought to drop the guitar and run outside to find out what the hell was going on and why the hell Trevillo was standing there, he made a sharp shake of his head, and I understood. He was commanding me not to stop. To continue singing. He heard the words, knew they were meant for him, and he wanted to hear more. But, there wasn’t any more, I’d sung all the words I’d written, which made up only half of a song.

  Afraid to stop because of the threatening expression on his face, I continued to work the guitar even though my friend’s nose was squirting blood.

  Until the words for the other half came. And I sang them. With my eyes opened. Locked on him.

  You’ve been trying to find my soul

  You wanted to know more