HATE LOVE: A Billionaire Boss Romance

by Katie Ford

  That’s too much. First, there’s no need to be so dramatic, like this is a horror movie or something. Really? “Repent now”? “Evil between her legs”? “Spawn of the devil”? More like Macy’s her own flesh and blood.

  Second, the Joneses have been on their daughter’s ass all summer, telling her she’s wasting her time with cooking, that her dreams are worth shit. They devalue this incredible female, and to me, that’s unforgiveable.

  So I grunt, turning nastily to face her parents as Will loads the trembling female into our car.

  “Shut the fuck up,” is my raging roar. “Shut the fuck up, or I swear ….” comes my bitten-off threat. I want to do all sorts of nasty things, but this isn’t the time. Already lights are turning on in neighboring houses, and I’m sure someone has their cellphone pointed our way.

  So instead, I grimace menacingly at the Jones parents, and then rush into the car myself, slamming the Mercedes door emphatically.

  We zoom through the neighborhood, just trying to create some distance at first, wheels squealing as rubber meets the road.

  Macy’s in the backseat, face frozen, unable to move because of shock.

  “Sweet thing,” I rumble reassuringly. “Don’t let it get to you.”

  But she can’t process anything right now because too much has happened in too short of a time. It was dramatic and overwhelming, and the brunette’s stock still, frozen in the back of the car as we whiz along at eighty miles an hour.

  Finally though, Tim pulls up in front of a fancy hotel.

  “The Meridian’s a good one,” he growls, turning to look at our girl. “You’re gonna be fine.”

  And slowly she nods, eyes wide, still unmoving.

  But hell, this is a time to go five star if there ever was one. Because our female deserves the best, and we’re gonna give it to her. Booking a suite, we walk our beautiful girl up to the twenty-seventh floor. Opening the door, I can’t help but whistle appreciatively. Shit, this place is the bomb, with white pile carpet, two giant flatscreens, and priceless artwork scattered in the living area.

  But Macy doesn’t care. Eyes unseeing, she wobbles into the suite before collapsing on a plush couch.

  “Baby girl, you’re gonna be okay,” I grunt reassuringly. “A-okay, I promise.”

  She doesn’t answer, staring at nothing in particular.

  I take a seat by her, my brother on the other side.

  “Sweet thing,” begins Tim, both of us grabbing a hand. But then Macy’s face crumples, breaking into tears.

  “Macy,” comes my hoarse rasp, “It’s gonna be fine. We promise.”

  But the brunette’s overwhelmed.

  “My mom just walked in on you two co-fucking me, one in my puss and one in my ass,” she mumbles incoherently. “She saw that. Oh god, oh god. My mom saw that. What if I am a whore? Because who does that? Oh my god, oh my god.”

  The words come tumbling out, agonized and painful, filled with grief and sorrow. Macy’s curled forwards, her face in her hands as hot tears drop between her fingers.

  Will and I glance at each other over her bent head. Aw shit, we’re not great at emotional stuff, especially shit like this. But we have to try, Macy means so much to us.

  “Baby girl, it’s gonna be alright,” I rumble again, covering her hand with mine. “Trust me it’s gonna be fine.”

  “You’ll see,” grinds out Will. “It’s all gonna work out.”

  And at that moment, the front door opens, the rest of our brothers filing in, their massive forms taking up space in the living room. Because the first thing we did upon leaving the Jones’s place was dial Smith. And he alerted the rest of the fam to the comedy cum tragedy.

  After all, what could be more important? Disaster’s struck and in times of crisis, the Morgans stick together. Even more important, we’re claiming our girl now. The time has come and there’s no need to hold back anymore.

  “Sweetheart,” begins Sam slowly.

  But Macy won’t hear it. Instead, she shakes her head furiously, eyes cast down on the carpet.

  “What my mom said was right,” she says in a broken voice. “I’ve been doing all of you,” she cries, raising her gaze to look at us now. “I’ve been letting all of you touch me, over and over again. I’ve spread my legs so many times, letting you into my secret spots, stroking my ….” The girl can’t finish, she’s so ashamed.

  But there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

  “Naw, honey,” grinds out Trent, blue eyes blazing. “You’re just the one for us.”

  Macy raises her head wildly then.

  “Says who? I’m a slut who let seven men use my body this summer! Seven men! And not only that but I’m probably pregnant, we’ve never used protection. Not once!” she wails, eyes wild now, curls flying.

  My brothers and I exchange a look. Did she just say the p-word? Evidently so, because Sam starts again.

  “About that …” his voice rumbles.

  “How could you not use protection?” Macy shrieks then, eyes wide and rolling, glaring at us accusatorily. “How could you do that to a teen girl? You know I’m not on anything.”

  Those were the words that we wanted to hear, the perfect opening. And slowly, I squeeze the brunette’s hand.

  “Sweetheart, that’s what we wanted to talk to you about,” come my calm words. “A baby. Because that’s what we want. With us as the fathers, and you as the mother.”

  For a moment, Macy doesn’t move, still staring at the carpet. But then her chin snaps up, eyes wide with disbelief.

  “What?” comes her sputter. “No, it can’t be. That’s impossible.”

  Trent nods then.

  “For sure,” he rumbles in a low voice. “There could be nothing better.”

  “But why?” the brunette gasps, looking at all of us now, her gaze swinging from one big form to another. “Why? This is just so ….” Her words trail off, wordless and incoherent.

  But we know what we want. It’s been all too clear for months now, and Sam fixes her with a hot blue gaze then.

  “Baby girl,” he begins slowly. “We’re rich as fuck. Did you know that?”

  The brunette blinks at us, uncomprehending.

  “No, I didn’t,” she says in a trembling voice. “But why would that matter? Why, what difference does it make?”

  Sam speaks then, his massive build leaning against a wall casually. But nothing about this is casual. Our goal is about to be revealed, and everything depends on Macy’s reaction.

  “It matters because these two losers,” he says, pointing to me and Will, “have their own company. It’s not public so far, but it will be soon. And then our fortune will be out in the open.”

  But Macy’s confused, shaking her head.

  “But what does that have to do with me?” she asks plaintively, tears in her eyes. Oh god, she’s so beautiful that I want to kiss it all away and be done with it. Unfortunately, this isn’t the time.

  “What Sam’s saying,” interrupts Ford. “Is that there’s a lot of money in our family,” he continues smoothly. “And there’s seven of us.”

  Macy shakes her head mutely, still not understanding. I don’t blame her.

  “So?” comes a whisper. “What difference does that make?”

  “It means that if we all get married and have kids, there’s gonna be dozens of grandkids and hundreds of great-grandkids. There’s gonna be a million heirs, dividing the fortune a million ways. And that’s not what we want.”

  Macy shakes her head mutely.

  “But what you described is normal. That’s what happens to families with money.”

  My brothers and I share a knowing look.

  “It is normal,” I say gently. “And many successful families divide their fortune multiple ways so that each generation gets less and less. But that’s not what we want. We want our business to stay intact, and our money to stay intact as well. So we’ve decided to have only one heir.”

  The brunette cocks her head at us t
hen, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing.

  “One heir? But how does that work?” she asks, stupefied. “There’s seven of you. Are some of you not going to have kids?”

  The million dollar question is here at last. And it’s important to phrase our answer just right, to strike the perfect balance.

  “It works if we share one woman,” is my smooth growl. “All of us brothers have decided that we’re only going to impregnate one sweet female so that she has one baby. And honey, so far that female is you.”

  Shocked silence fills the room. The second hand on the grandfather clock can be heard ticking loudly as Macy stares at us, brown eyes disbelieving.

  “I’m sorry?” comes her whisper. “I’m sorry?”

  Smith nods then.

  “That’s right baby girl,” he says, voice as smooth as honey. “We’d like you to be the mother of our child. You, and no one else.”

  Macy’s frozen on the couch.

  “But why?” comes her shocked whisper. “How?”

  Sam chuckles deep in his throat, blue eyes blazing.

  “I think you know the ‘how’ already, sweetheart. We’ve been taking turns enjoying your body, haven’t you noticed? Each of us gets an equal shot at impregnating your curvy form, coming bareback in that sweet snatch.”

  Macy blushes then, remembering how we come to her room each night, dicks out and ready to spurt.

  “Yes, but why then?” she presses in a whisper. “I don’t get it. Why?”

  “It’s easier this way,” bursts in Matt, eyes fierce. “Like my bros said, we only want one heir.”

  But the brunette wasn’t asking about that. She shakes her head furiously and tries again.

  “No, not why as in ‘why are you doing this?’ Why, as in ‘why me?’ What makes me so special? You could have anyone,” she chokes, face falling. “You don’t need some girl without a college degree, with no options, and no family now,” come the tortured words.

  All of us gather around her then, our gazes fierce, protective and possessive at once.

  “Because you’re perfect,” growls Matt, eyes wandering hungrily that curvy form. “You’re young, fertile, and beautiful as hell.”

  “You love to cook,” grunts Smith. “You’ll take care of us and our child.”

  “Your priorities are in the right place,” rumbles Sam smoothly. “Hearth and home mean everything to you.”

  But I know my brothers are circling the real answer. And I give it to Macy, straightforward and smooth.

  “And because we love you,” comes my simple reply. “You’re the only woman who can handle us all, generous and giving. You never hold back, even if you’re tired or sick. You’re always there for us, every single male, and that’s not an easy feat given that we’re demanding assholes. So yes, baby girl. We love you and want you to be the one.”

  And at that, Macy softens, those caramel eyes going liquid, her body relaxing for the first time in hours.

  “I see,” is all she manages in a whisper, small hands releasing their tense grip on a sofa cushion. “I see.”

  Immediately, I’m on my knees next to her, grabbing one small fist in my own. My brothers gather close, forming a protective circle.

  “Will you, Macy Jones?” comes my urgent rumble. “Will you be our woman, the light of our lives, the mother of our child?”

  And for the first time all night, happy tears come to the brunette’s eyes instead of sad. She manages a tremulous smile, clasping my hand in her own and squeezing tightly.

  “I- I’ll try,” she stammers. But then the new Macy takes hold because she seizes my hand tighter and looks me straight in the eye before turning to include my brothers. “Yes, I’ll be yours. All of yours.”

  And a low rumble rises from the Morgan boys, a growl of approval and ownership. Because this is the most important acquisition we’ve ever had in our lives. The brunette’s worth more than her weight in gold. Even if Macy doesn’t realize it yet, her presence, her goodness and light, are crucial to a peaceful, stable future for our family, and we’re overjoyed that she’ll be the linchpin that holds us together. Crowding in close, we kiss the beautiful girl, showering her with love, appreciating everything the brunette has to give.

  “We adore you, Macy Jones,” comes our low rumble. “Always.”

  And the girl writhes and twists beneath our lips and hands, moaning, yet filled with love, light and renewal. Because with these revelations, our future together is sealed, our heir assured … or so we think.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Macy

  Six months later …

  I’ve missed my period again. That’s two in a row.

  Not that pregnancy should be surprising. After I left my parents’ home, the Morgan brothers took me to a fancy hotel. I was too out of it then to appreciate the luxurious surroundings, but we weren’t gonna stay there forever. With my new lovers, it’s all about stability and permanence, and hotel living is the opposite of that.

  So within a week, the eight of us moved into a giant house on the outskirts of the city. It has nine bedrooms. Count ‘em, nine! What does anyone do with nine bedrooms? You’d think that each brother would have their own, and then one for me, plus an extra for guests.

  But that’s not how it is at all. Instead, all eight of us are in the master suite most of the time, going at it hot and heavy. They’re either enjoying my body, taking turns enjoying my body, or watching others enjoy my body.

  Depraved right? But it works great, and I’ve never been so fulfilled and satisfied. Caring, in the Morgan world, means making love constantly. And we’ve done a lot of it, it’s just how they communicate.

  Of course, the brothers show their adoration in other ways as well. Like this giant chef’s kitchen that’s custom-designed and perfect in every way. It has a sub-zero fridge, a gorgeous temperature-controlled wine cooler, two convection ovens, and even a full set of Le Creuset fancy cast-iron pots, in case I want to go crazy. It’s pretty much straight out of a decorator’s magazine.

  But the Morgans have taken it one step further because they installed special lights and mounts, and there are cameras everywhere, controlled via iPad. You can guess where this is going. That’s right, it’s a perfect set for a cooking show, every tool at my disposal, every single utensil you can think of to create perfect-looking food that’s camera-friendly and delicious.

  Of course, I use it for other things as well. Just this afternoon, I filmed myself making a cherry pie. It started out innocently enough, me in a frilly blue apron, hair down, happily mixing flour and water.

  But pretty soon it turned into a full-on show. Oh yeah, I’m a cam girl for the ages, humping utensils on the marble counter, sticking them deep up my snatch and screaming wildly as my pussy explodes in front of the live stream.

  Because what could be better? I’m performing for the audience of my dreams, a direct feed going to my seven lovers at work, and I’m sure they get off too. Oh yeah, these guys are probably stroking their dicks, milking the cum out as they grunt, hungrily devouring my wetly creaming body while staring at their computers.

  But I have to admit that it’s not all fun and games. Because what am I doing, really? Am I getting ahead in life? Making something of myself? Call it the remnants of childhood, but Jim and Marsha instilled a value system long ago, and it’s hard to completely forget it all. So how can I leave that all behind?

  Because it’s not like I’m some super-successful Food Network host. No, it’s just me in a fancy kitchen, doing amateur porn for my boys. Is that an accomplishment? Can I add that to my resume? Sure, I cook them dinner each night, but there’s been no progress made on my book, and school is long since gone. So what am I doing, really? Hanging around, waiting to get pregnant? Is that my goal in life?

  I want it, but at the same time, I don’t. It’s like two competing value systems pulling against one another. On the one hand, yes, the idea of a baby makes me bloom with happiness, contentment bubbling inside when I
imagine a cooing infant, blue eyes just like his fathers’.

  On the other, my mind screams, What the hell are you doing? This is no normal situation! This is never what you planned! Because there are SEVEN MEN, not one! Are you nutso?

  And then the world darkens. Clouds cross the sky, blacking out the sun and my mood inevitably swirls down the drain. Because I have nothing to show for the last couple months of life. No accomplishments. No achievements. No awards. Nothing, not even a ripe, swollen belly.

  And if I do get pregnant, what are people going to say?

  Who’s the father?

  Shit, do Ted and Maddy Morgan know?

  How about the girl’s parents. Do they know?

  What a fucking slutty slut, she’s boinking seven dudes at once.

  Any way you turn, the result’s pretty grim. So what do I do now? Where does that leave me? Do I just get pregnant and have a baby, cowering under the world’s glare, trembling at its disapproval? Will anyone be friends with me now, if they know my situation? Or do I go into hiding? Even in the lap of luxury, a prison is still a prison, and a flatscreen in every room doesn’t make it better.

  Plus, what about my career? Sure, I’m hardly the most ambitious person, but that doesn’t mean I want to do nothing at all. So should I plow ahead with my cookbook dreams? Will anyone buy my volume, if they realize I’m with seven men? Will any publisher take me as a client, given my non-traditional lifestyle?