Billionaire Bad Boys

by Holly Hart

Penny drags an uncooperative tongue across painfully dry lips. She seems to shiver as I speak. “That’s not how I remember it…”

  “Oh, sure,” I say. I pinch her nipple between my fingers, and her eyelids flicker shut.

  “I was looking at you as well: from top to bottom, Penny. Wondering what was underneath that sexy little skirt, wondering what the slit between your legs would taste like. Wondering how you’d moan when I lay you down on your back and fucked you on my desk.”

  Penny pants. Her cheeks redden slightly, and I see her hand drift downward from where it’s resting on her belly. It’s an automatic, instinctive reaction. It crests the mound of her pussy before she realizes what she’s doing and drags it away.

  I laugh. “Touch yourself, if you want,” I say. “I won’t judge you.”

  Believe me, I won’t judge you.

  In fact, suddenly it’s all I want to see: Penny on her back, probing her wet folds while I play with her breasts. I want to order her to touch herself. I want to see the look on her face when she agrees, when she fulfills her filthiest fantasies with me urging her on.

  But Penny shakes her head. “No,” she pants. “I can’t. It still hurts.”

  I lean forward again, and graze the topmost section of Penny’s ear with my teeth. “Still think you could have resisted me, Penny?” I whisper: “because I wouldn’t have stopped. You know I wouldn’t. I would have kept going until you stripped for me: until I got to cradle your perfect tits in my hands; until –.”

  Penny sits up, startling me out of my train of thought. She has a wicked look on her face: the expression of a woman with a plan. I don’t know whether to be excited, or afraid …

  …Very afraid.

  “Can I touch it?” She asks, looking at my cock. It’s lying on my stomach, half-erect.

  I’ve seen that thing every day of my life. It just hangs there, in between my legs. Sometimes it gets hard, and sometimes not.

  Hell, I think it’s got a mind of its own. My cock long ago stopped being interesting to me. That’s not to say I don’t remember it from time to time – especially when I’ve got a Grade A girl like Penny riding it.

  What I mean to say is, most of the time, I just ignore it.

  But Penny doesn’t.

  She’s got a look of wonder in her eyes. It surprises me, for a second, until I realize why. She’s a virgin – or at least, she was until recently – about as recent as it’s possible to be without it being now.

  “Go to town,” I say. My cock is your oyster.”

  That sounded better in my head.

  Penny fixes me with an unimpressed stare. “Well, Mr. Big Shot, you better not expect me to swallow it…”

  I tip my head back, and a frustrated sigh escapes through my teeth. I didn’t expect Penny to swallow anything. But now she’s suggested it, all I can think of is my cock disappearing past those perfect lips: the touch of her tongue on my shaft; the feel of her hands cupping my balls.

  I know I can’t expect it to happen. Penny’s new to all this, she’s innocent – that’s what I like about her. I like that I get to show her the ropes, teach her how to love a man. Teach her how to pleasure a man.

  I know all that.

  But my body thinks differently. All it knows is pure pleasure. My whole life, it has had what it wants. My cock stiffens – just a fraction.

  “Don’t do anything you don’t want to,” I say.

  My voice cracks. I sound like I’m going through puberty in reverse.

  Penny’s eyebrow arches. “Trust me,” she says. Her tone leaves me under no illusions. “I won’t.”

  Still, Penny’s hands creep forward. She’s sitting on her knees now, leaning forward, shoulders hunched as she stares at my thickening cock with delight. As she folds over, her tiny, pert breasts scrunch together. The cleavage carves a delectable furrowed down her chest.

  Penny bites her lip. “Maybe I should start charging,” she says; “a buck a look.”

  I rake her body shamelessly from the bottom to the top. My eyes linger once again on her perfect chest. It draws me in, draws me back, every time.

  “Don’t you dare undersell yourself,” I groan breathlessly. “You’re worth a hell of a lot more than that.”

  Penny’s forehead furrows. “You’re the one paying…”

  “Don’t forget,” I smile. “I can afford it.”

  Penny does something I don’t expect. She punctures my bubble as effectively as if she’d drawn out a needle. She scrapes her fingernails on my balls. The sensation is so unexpected I jump, and my mouth drops open.

  Penny giggles.

  “I wondered what would happen if I tried that,” she says.

  “I guess you got your answer,” I reply.

  I swallow hard. My mouth is suddenly dry, and I’m looking at Penny in a different light. She doesn’t seem nearly so innocent anymore. She’s a minx, and a troublemaker, and all of that’s hidden in a perfect, angelic, virginal body.

  “How does it grow like that?” Penny asks. She stares fascinated at my cock, which is quickly becoming fully erect. “Are you doing that?”

  I shake my head. I’m tingling. I wonder what would happen if I told Penny to taste it. Would she? Or would she run a mile instead?

  “No,” I growl. “You are.”

  Penny looks up. A slow, delighted smile creeps across her face. “I hope so.” She says.

  She leans forward, never breaking eye contact with me. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like Penny’s a seasoned pro, not a girl who lost her virginity just minutes ago.

  She’s playing me like an expert. If she asked me to jump right now, I would ask how high. If she asked me to hand over my bank cards, I’d do it without another thought. She’s got me under her spell.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper.

  I need to know. Desire is surging through me like burning lava. My skin is on fire; my breath is ragged in my chest. I’ve never felt like this around a woman before. But Penny’s different. She’s not just a woman – she’s so, so much more.

  She places one finger on her lips to silence me, and I do, but I can’t tear my eyes away from the scene that’s unfolding in front of me – on top of me.

  Penny plants a kiss on me: on my cock; right on the tip.

  I let out an involuntary moan. I can’t help myself. Everything she’s done, it’s been building up to this. All the tension, the erotic excitement, it’s beginning to overflow.

  “Please…” I whisper, unbidden.

  Penny stops. Her voice is hard. “Please what?” She asks.

  How the hell am I supposed to answer that? What does Penny want from me? It’s obvious what I want: what I need. Pleasure: release; to lose myself entirely in the blackness of orgasm.

  “Please,” I whimper, squeezing my eyes shut. “Please taste it.”

  “Better,” Penny says.

  She takes my cock in her hands. I don’t know how, but it’s like Penny knows exactly what she’s doing. She manipulates it with soft, careful strokes. Some women treat a penis like it’s the handle of a hammer, but not Penny.

  She caresses it, spoils it.

  “It’s so thick,” Penny gasps.

  The crack in her breath breaks the façade she’s putting on – the display of arrogant competence, but I don’t care. Like I said, compliment a man’s cock and he’ll be like putty in your palm.

  I nod. The noise my hair makes scratching against the pillow sound as loud as a jet engine in the quiet of my bedroom.

  Then she does it.

  Penny takes me in her mouth. She caresses my cock with her tongue, spins it around the tip until the first shoots of fire speed through the nerve endings on my skin.

  Penny’s inexperienced, but it doesn’t matter. There’s something about her that turns me on like no woman ever has. It’s the naivety, and the innocence – but it’s not just that. It can’t be. It’s that around her, my drive quiets down. My endless restlessness seems to fade away.

&n
bsp; I can be me.

  I thread my fingers through Penny’s hair, and scrape the soft skin at the back of her neck. She feeds my cock deeper into her mouth, and moans around it. It’s the most erotic; the most exciting; the most achingly perfect sound I’ve ever heard.

  I feel the telltale signs of orgasm beginning to grow: a tightness in my balls; a longing ache in my stomach. The details don’t sound that sexy, but right here – in the moment – I promise you that I’ve never felt anything like this.

  “Jesus, Penny,” I groan. I’m going to –”

  Come.

  Penny nods her head as though she knows exactly what I’m about to say. There’s nothing like coming in a woman’s mouth – especially one like Penny. One you’re beginning to feel things for; things that go beyond just pure lust.

  The fact that this girl, this perfect, angelic girl would do this for me blows me away. I close my eyes; my chest falls up and down with heavy strokes. My hand scrunches tight into Penny’s hair, the other one more firmly into the sheets.

  I feel it surge. I feel the explosion deep down low. It’s like nothing I’ve felt before. Stars explode behind my eyelids, my buttocks tense, and an unbearable tightness releases inside me.

  I lose time. I lose conscious thought. I lose any sense of where I am or what’s going on.

  And I don’t care.

  Penny doesn’t stop, even when my seed fills her mouth. She keeps going, milking me dry.

  But enough remains of me to consciously promise one thing: when I recover from this, I’m going to give Penny an orgasm like she’s never experienced before. I’m not going to stop until her legs clench around my head, until her back’s arched against the bed sheets, and until she’s screaming my name.

  While Penny’s brushing her teeth before bed, I grab my phone. I navigate to an entry in my contacts.

  Harper Cole.

  I compose a message. “Harper, call off the dogs. Penny’s clean.”

  I don’t feel good having my lawyer continuing to dig into Penny’s background. Not after what just happened. If this girl’s conning me, then I deserve everything I get.

  I hear the sink drain away in the bathroom, and Penny appears, a bathrobe wrapped around her body.

  “Are you ready for bed?” I ask with an eyebrow raised.

  Penny rolls her eyes. “For sleep, this time.”

  108

  Penny

  I wake to loss. It’s an unbelievable, aching feeling. It rips at me until I open my eyes and jolt back to my senses. It’s still dark outside – the middle of the night. I reach over and turn on a bedside lamp.

  “Charlie?” I whisper.

  The memory of the pain takes a few seconds to fade. I can still feel it – tearing at my stomach, squeezing down on my lungs. Then it’s gone – as though it were never there in the first place.

  I pat the bed to the left of me. It’s empty, but still warm. I look up, searching for a crack of light underneath the bathroom door, but find instead that it’s empty, and the light is off.

  That clears one thing up, anyway. Charlie’s not here – but wherever he is, he only just left. But where would he disappear to in the middle of the night?

  I sit up in bed. Charlie’s silk sheets pool around me, and I toss them off, swinging my feet out from the low-set bed and onto the floor.

  I pause, and examine my assumptions. Why am I so sure that something’s changed? Why am I so sure that Charlie’s gone somewhere? He might simply be getting a glass of water.

  But he’s not.

  I’m sure of that.

  My eyes pass over Charlie’s nightstand. I distantly remember him slipping his watch from his wrist and settling it there – but the leather banded wristwatch has disappeared. That settles the argument.

  Charlie’s gone.

  As I stand up, I distantly recall the contents of my dream. It was a cold, damp dream, like swimming in a garden pond in the depth of night. I was at dad’s hospital. They were giving me the news – the news I’ve dreaded for months, years even.

  They give me the news that he’s passed away: that the cancer got the better of him; that I’ll never hear him speak again –

  – that I was too late.

  “But it’s not true,” I whisper.

  I might whisper it, anyway. I’m not sure whether any words actually escape my mouth. Maybe the dream’s just my brain’s way of communicating something to me. Maybe it doesn’t mean anything about dad, but Charlie, instead …

  … about where he’s gone.

  I slip out of a pair of silk pajamas. Like everything in my new wardrobe, they are way out of my price range, and they appeared in exactly my size. I step out of them, and grab my favorite pair of worn jeans instead.

  There are piles of new – brand-name – denim in my room, but none of them fit right. They just aren’t me. These, however, are. They are “thrift shop” finest, and they fit my body down to a T. I leave my pajama top on, and walk into the penthouse’s lounge.

  It’s quiet. I barely hear a sound.

  Until I do.

  It’s so faint I barely catch it. The elevator doors sliding closed, and the dampened mechanism whirring as it sends the metal box inside dropping forty floors.

  The hell?

  A cold shiver runs through me. I don’t know why – call it woman’s intuition, but I feel that something’s wrong; in my bones. I know it’s an overused phrase, but it’s the only way to describe how I’m feeling.

  Uneasy: like my lies are about to be discovered.

  I hate this: this powerlessness. I want to – need to – know where Charlie’s going. More importantly, I need to know whether it has anything to do with me.

  Maybe I’m just being dramatic. Maybe he’s gone to –, to –. Hell, I don’t know where he could possibly be.

  Charlie slipped out of our bed in the middle of the night.

  Why would a man do that?

  I can think of only two explanations: neither of them is good. One: Charlie has suspected me from the start, and he’s gone somewhere to confirm his suspicions. Or two: and strangely, this is the thought that truly scares me, he’s gone to meet another woman.

  Have I just given my virginity to a man like that?

  “You’re just jumping to the worst possible option,” I tell myself. My voice seems to echo around the empty penthouse. I bite my lip, and before I know it I’m doing it hard enough that my eyes begin to water.

  Jealousy rages inside me like a wildfire: jealousy and suspicion. I know that I won’t get another wink of sleep tonight unless I get an answer. I need to know where Charlie’s gone, and what he’s doing.

  My feet start moving instantly. I grab a tattered leather jacket that goes well with my tattered denim jeans and throw it over my shoulders – and over my pajama top. I button it up so that no one can tell. Next I grab my favorite pair of studded leather boots and slip them on.

  I glance at myself in the dark reflection of one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. I nod, like a Jersey dude checking himself out in a nightclub mirror.

  I’ve got bad bitch mode on.

  Whatever Charlie’s up to, I’m going to find out. If I need to run, then I’ll be gone before he knows to stop looking. If he’s sleeping with another woman with my scent still on his cock, then…

  Hell, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  But he won’t like it.

  My fingers stab the elevator call button, and just seconds later it slides into position. I step in, and follow Charlie down. Who knows, this might all just be a wild goose chase. Charlie might have popped out for a snack,

  God, I’m a jealous girlfriend: no – a jealous wife.

  That label seems to make it better. I am Charlie’s wife for better, or for worse: no matter how shaky our foundations. No matter that he does the slightest little thing and I apparently fly off the handle. Not just a bad bitch, but a crazy one.

  “Can I help you, Miss Thorne?” The doorman asks as I step into the marble lobby.


  I shake my head. “I’m good.”

  The cool air of a New York night greets my skin. I look left: then right; just in time to see a limousine with blacked out windows drive off and merge into the traffic.

  “Shit,” I groan.

  I hadn’t thought this far ahead. I’ve got no idea what I’m going to do now. I pat the pockets of my jacket down in a half-frantic hurry. My breast pocket clinks, and I shove my hand inside to find a stack of coins in a couple of dog-eared, filthy twenty dollar bills.

  Good enough.

  I throw myself to the edge of the sidewalk and hail down a pulsing yellow cab. It screeches to a halt, and I climb inside, slamming the door behind me.

  “Follow that car,” I pant. I point at Charlie’s departing limousine.

  “Hey, lady,” the driver says in a thick New York accent. “This isn’t the movies. I ain’t doing anything illegal, you hear?”

  My balloon popped, I grimace. “Fine; but can you go already, we’re losing him!”

  The driver huffs, but does as I ask. In the end, I can’t fault him. He pulls out into traffic – indicating, definitely not like in the movies – and merges with the river of cars flowing in our direction.

  My driver, for all his protestations, seems to have an excitable glint in his eyes whenever I catch them in the rearview mirror.

  “Two cars back,” he says.

  I’ve got my cheek pressed right up against the glass of the window, so I miss what he says at first. “Huh?”

  “Distance,” he says, glancing up at me in the mirror. “You’re supposed to keep two cars in between you and your target. I learned that on The Wire.”

  “I haven’t seen it,” I say.

  “Girl like you,” the cab driver says, “wouldn’t be able to understand a word of it. Hell, my daddy grew up around Baltimore, and even I had to turn the subtitles on.”

  I pout, but don’t reply. My eyes are scanning the traffic. I remember Charlie’s bodyguard saying something about pursuit cars, and my eyes are peeled for them. I don’t see any. Maybe Charlie decided to travel light.

  My stomach rumbles at the thought. I don’t like it. Why would he need to hide what he is doing – and where he’s going – from his own men?