Billionaires, Boarders, and Bastards: A Limited-Time Collection of Reverse Harem Romance Novellas

by C. M. Stunich

  A steamy contemporary romance/reverse harem winter collection from Tate James, C.M. Stunich and Amanda Rose.

  Billionaires, Boarders & Bastards:

  A Limited Time Collection of Reverse Harem Holiday Shorts.

  By Tate James, C.M. Stunich and Amanda Rose.

  Billionaires Boarders & Bastards

  This collection is compiled with arrangement by the authors.

  Blizzards and Bastards © 2017 C.M. Stunich

  Slopes of Sin © 2017 Katrina Fischer

  Frosted By my Billionaires © 2017 Amanda Rose Carroll

  For information regaurding an individual work withing this collection please contact the author.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 89365 Old Mohawk Rd, Springfield, OR 97478. For information regaurding individual stories contact the author directly.

  Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  Welcome Note

  FAIR WARNING: We are publishing these as a set so that folks can participate in our "Let's Read Some Foxing Books" (https://www.facebook.com/groups/foxingbooks/) book club and they will be 99 cents/FREE with KU, HOWEVER, we will each be re-releasing our stories as full-length novels (compared to the novella length they are now) in November of this year for $3.99 each/also in KU.

  Happy reading!

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Front Matter Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction From the Editor

  Blizards and Bastards Cover

  Blizards and Bastards Description

  Blizards and Bastards Dedication

  Blizards and Bastards Chapter 1

  Follow C.M. Stunch

  Slopes of Sin Cover

  Slopes of Sin Description

  Slopes of Sin Dedication

  Slopes of Sin Chapter 1

  Follow Tate James

  Frosted By My Billionaires Cover

  Frosted By My Billionaires Description

  Frosted By My Billionaires Dedication

  Frosted By My Billionaires Chapter 1

  Follow Amanda Rose

  A Thank You from the Editor

  I was Born Ruined Cover

  The Vixen's Lead Cover

  Voodoo Knights Cover

  Elements of Mischief Cover

  Elements of Mischief Excerpt

  Description

  "These inked up bastards are gonna rock my beat for Christmas."

  A broken down car, a busted toilet, and a bunch of rocker boys.

  That's how I started my happily ever after.

  Christmas break. A cross-country move after the loss of my bookstore.

  Remote Minnesota in the middle of a snowstorm.

  Add in an out of order ladies room, a busted transmission, and a lost tour bus and you get the picture.

  Pop rock group, Inked Pages, has just rescued my nearly frozen butt from a rest stop.

  Their plan? Drop me off with my psychotic family in the suburbs and continue onto their holiday concert in Saint Paul.

  But the blizzard, it has other ideas.

  Seven days trapped in suburbia.

  They say that people fall in love faster during crises.

  Being snowed in with my family must count as one because guess what?

  I'm in love with four drop-dead sexy pop stars.

  The thing is, what happens when the storm clears and the holidays are over?

  this book is dedicated to my family, the ones connected by blood and those I've found through friendship

  thank you for making my holidays magical with your warmth, laughter, and inappropriate sexual jokes.

  CHAPTER ONE

  My butt is stuck to a toilet seat.

  No kidding. It's quite literally frozen to the porcelain bowl beneath me, the one I had to sit on bare cheeked because there's very little toilet paper and absolutely no seat covers left.

  “I hate my life,” I groan as I try to force myself to pee in the freezing cold restroom—the freezing cold men's restroom. Much to my chagrin, when I pulled my little Kia Forte into the icy lot and did the full bladder dance up to the women's restroom, I was greeted with a crudely scrawled Toilets Don't Work sign … only the one I saw was spelled like this: Toilets Dont Werk.Seriously, no joke.

  Sprinting over to the opposite side of the squat brown building, I threw myself into the one and only stall in the men's room and plopped right down on the icy white porcelain. Now, that's a choice I'm coming to regret.

  “Come on, come on,” I whisper rubbing my mittened hands together and watching my breath frost in the air. I still have about a three hour drive to get to my parents' house, and I am not leaving this spot without peeing first. I adjust the beanie on my head, brunette tendrils springing out in random directions as I finally relax enough to let nature take its course.

  Obviously, my day isn't shitty enough for the cruel forces of the universe because as the sound of, um, running water fills the bathroom, the raucous noise of several laughing voices enters with a fresh rush of snow and a blast of frigid air.

  “It was that fucking assistant of yours that clogged the toilet,” one of the men is saying, black ankle boots squeaking along the dirty floor and pausing in front of the stall. Not knowing why I care, I lift my legs up and try to hide my feet. I'm not exactly ashamed to be in the men's room, but for some reason sitting with my butt frozen to a toilet seat while a bunch of strangers mill around doesn't much appeal to me.

  “It wasn't my assistant, Frost—it was you,” another voice replies, and then two distinct laughs begin to echo around the room. Meanwhile, the man with the boots tries my stall door, jiggling it a few times, and then leaning down to peek underneath. Thankfully, he doesn't bend down far enough to see me—just enough to note the fact that there're no feet present.

  “Nobody in here,” he says, and I can hear his clothes rustling as he stands back up. “Maybe this one's out of order like the other side?”

  “Just piss in the urinals and let's get out of here,” another voice says, and then I hear the sound of several zippers coming down.

  My plan is wait these guys out, whoever they are, and get on my way. I still have three hours of driving to get to my parents' place in Detroit Lakes and no time to hang out with strange men in deserted public restrooms.

  I swear, it takes these guys a year and a day to piss. So long, in fact, that my phone ends up going off, the embarrassingly sweet sounds of the band Inked Page's new Christmas song, A Gift of Starlight, echoing around the small tiled room.

  “Fuck, we got a stalker,” one of them says, and another sighs.

  Meanwhile, I'm straining to peel my ass off the ice-cold toilet seat so I can lean forward and snatch my purse, digging frantically around inside for an old napkin or a leftover lipstick stained tissue to supplement the one-ply sheet of TP that's left. Why is there no fucking toilet paper in this damn stall?!

  “Alright, come on out of there,” one of the men says as I yank a crumbled McDonald's receipt from the chaos strewn hellhole that is my purse, wip
ing frantically and flushing before I stand up and just barely manage to get my pants undone before a man's face appears below the stall door.

  “Hey,” he says, climbing under and rising to his full height in front of me. Which, of course, is a very impressive six foot something or other. I stand there, five foot three and tiny as hell, dressed in over-the-top designer Christmas wear that does not seem to impress Aspen Carver.

  I know who this man is because I guiltily play his band's music on repeat in my car … my apartment … at work on my headphones … basically all the damn time.

  “What are you doing here?” I gasp and then, managing to pull myself together, throw on the most indignant face I can muster. A rare feat considering I'm looking up at the hottest pop rocker since, well, ever. “When is it ever okay to just crawl under a bathroom stall? I was peeing in here.”

  The man looks at me from sapphire eyes, two brilliant circles of blue with a ring of hazel-gold just around his pupil, making his gaze that much more intense in person than it is when I'm scrolling through shirtless photos of him on my phone.

  “It's rude. And not just rude, but creepy, too.”

  “What?” he asks, looking perplexed as hell, but also sexy as fuck, too.

  My phone goes off again, lyrics swirling like snow around us as I scramble to find it in my purse and shut it off. I accidentally bump the screen and answer it instead, just after Aspen's golden goose of a voice croons out from the cell's speaker, “When the stars come out at night, I see you in their light, and although you're no longer here, I feel your spirit close at heart.”

  “Mom,” I say with a ridiculous amount of false holiday cheer, “I was just about to call you.”

  “I just wanted to tell you that your cousins stopped in, so we have an extra full house through the end of the year. You like sweet potatoes, don't you? I can't remember. If you do, would you let me know, so I can have the caterer prepare a few extra trays of appetizers? I know how you like to eat.” I purse my lips as she continues talking, Aspen's confused stare still focused on my face. “There's a big blizzard coming in and all the news reports say it's best to stock up for a weeklong apocalypse.” She sigh dramatically and cuts me off when I try to talk. Aspen just crosses his arms over his long-sleeved black shirt and leans back against the wall of the stall, watching me with those beautiful baby blues of his. “Of course, I already called into the office and had my secretary start prepping for some work-from-home hours. I'm having her schedule all my clients for Skype meetings instead of—”

  “Mom, I'm a little busy right now,” I say, trying to swallow past the sweet scent of spruce that followed this gorgeous, gorgeous man into the stall. It's weird to think how delicious he smells, standing in the middle of an ice-cold public restroom. Before Aspen crawled under the door, all I could smell was stale urine.

  So not a good start to the holiday week.

  Well, until now.

  This is good, right? This deliciously hunky man staring at me, arms crossed over his chest, brows raised in question.

  “I'm on the toilet.”

  “Learn to multitask, Cyan. Piss and chat. There aren't enough hours in the day to move like a sloth. Shame on you.” I try my best to reply, but when I open my mouth, no words come out. Aspen reaches out a hand covered in tattoos and plucks the phone from my fingers.

  “She'll call you back,” he says, his mouth curving into a smile. “What she failed to specify was that she's in the bathroom with me.”

  He hangs up and then starts going through my phone, like he's a god and has every right to do what he damn well pleases.

  “Give that back to me,” I manage to sputter, breaking through the shock of seeing a multi-platinum recording artist in my toilet stall. I try to go for the phone, but Aspen simply lifts it out of my reach. I have no idea how tall he is, but I have big brothers at home that are six foot three and six foot four.

  I know how to deal with their shit.

  “Give it to me or else you're getting a face full of Peppermint Rage,” I say, whipping out a white and red striped bottle of pepper spray. Yep, even my self-defense tools are holiday themed. What can I say? I'm a Christmas fanatic.

  “Sorry, it might be your phone, but I don't have patience for stalkers who hide in bathroom stalls and steal photos of me.”

  “I wasn't stalking you!” I snap, accidentally compressing the button on the top of the Peppermint Rage bottle. A snake of liquid spurts out, not unlike cum from a rigid cock, and hits Aspen right in the face.

  “What the fuck, you crazy bitch?!” he screams, dropping my phone to the ground and covering his face with his hands. “Dude, get Donner!” he screams and because it's so close to Christmas already, I immediately think reindeer.

  But then I realize he's probably talking about a security guard of some sort.

  “I'm sorry!” I say as I pick up my phone from the floor and then start crawling under the stall door myself. “It was an accident, I swear.”

  Scrambling to my feet, I find myself face-to-face with a guy sporting a headful of blonde, blue, and silver hair—like ice. A black beanie with white snowflakes is shoved over the top, crushing the tendrils down so that they drip into his beautiful golden eyes.

  Vale Kesselring, the drummer for pop rock group Inked Pages. I know it's him—and not only because I'm a little too obsessed with the band—but because he offered to dye his hair with a holiday/winter theme if his fans donated enough to his favorite charity. He then matched their donations and dyed his pale blonde hair with pale wintery streaks of blue and silver, like Jack Frost or something.

  Speaking of Frost …

  “What did you just do to Aspen, you crazy psycho?” Frost Manderach shouts, kicking the door to the stall open dramatically and knocking Aspen ass first into the toilet. Good thing I'd remembered to flush.

  “Oh my god,” I shout as I meet Vale's amused eyes and raised brows, scooting past him and toward the door. The exterior door swings inward, hits me in the face, and makes my nose pour blood down the front of the puffy white coat my dad bought me last year. It has shadowy gold snowmen on it, their arms positioned just so, making them look like they have two giant dicks instead of arms.

  I won't be sad to see it go.

  “Oh, my face,” I groan, turning around and putting my hands on the side of a grubby ass porcelain sink. Red drips into the bowl as the speakers in the corner of the room—which haven't played a single damn note since I came in here—creak to life and start pouring nineties pop Christmas music into the bathroom.

  “The fuck is happening in here?” a woman with a gruff voice says, stepping into the room in a hideously clichéd Christmas sweater with a … is that a gun in her hands?! How did things escalate so quickly?! All I wanted was to piss and be on my way!

  “Donner, we got a stage five crazy,” Frost says, guiding a dripping and squinting Aspen toward the angry lady named after one of Santa's reindeer.

  “I am not a stage five anything,” I sniffle, sounding stuffed up from my bloody nose. “The lady's room is out of order, so I came in here to pee! I just didn't feel like talking to a bunch of weird sounding men in a deserted restroom in the middle of nowhere, so sue me.”

  I fling my hand for emphasis and spatter Vale with blood.

  Oops.

  He looks down at his white hoodie and cocks a single blonde brow.

  “I'm not a stalker,” I murmur … and then my phone goes off again. It's my dad this time, and my ringtone is yet another Inked Pages' Christmas tune called A Dark and Open Heart.

  “You search me out at night, stalk me in the day, but misery, enjoy the cold shoulder because this heart isn't yours to let wither, break down, or decay.”

  Fuck. My. Life.

  Just as I'm about to answer the phone, Donner snatches it from my fingers and starts going through my photos—totally and completely illegal, I'm sure. Paparazzi take pics of these guys without their permission all the time, right? Even if I was a stalker, I wasn't do
ing anything wrong, right? Except, you know, assaulting a guy. But their security guard just assaulted me, too, right?

  “Whoa,” Donner says, gritting her teeth and then passing the phone back. “She's clean, guys. And now I can see why she didn't want us to see her phone …”

  As I reach out, Frost snatches my phone back and … he sees it. He sees it; I know he sees it.

  “Wow,” he says, blinking panty dropping-ly beautiful eyes at the screen as I grab my phone and yank it back against my chest. Why is it so much harder to be furious with a man whose eyes are the color of the evergreen trees at my favorite Christmas tree farm? And why am I comparing this cocksucking asshole to something so nice?! I should say his eyes are … the color of … of … green mold on leftover fruitcake. “A threesome? One of the guys was wearing a Santa hat, so I'm assuming this was recent?”

  “My sex life is none of your damn business,” I shout, shoving past the redheaded woman and into the snow outside. The ground is so icy, I immediately lose my footing and start to slip.

  “Careful there,” a sinfully slow and sexy voice says in my ear, a dripping Southern drawl that should rightfully melt all the snow in a ten foot radius. “Wouldn't want a girl as—”

  The man stops when I spin around and he sees the blood all over my face.

  “Holy hell, what happened to that sweet face of yours?” he asks, reaching out a thumb and brushing it over my bloody lips. He may as well have flipped a switch in my brain, too, because suddenly all I can think about is Crispin Fox—the man standing in front of me as well as the bassist for Inked Pages—fucking me into soft flannel holiday sheets with snowflakes. It's somehow all that much sexier to imagine him doing me hard and fierce and wild on such a sweet, innocuous bedding set.

  “I—” I start to say, but then the door to the bathroom is swinging open and the rest of the band is piling up, their crazy security guard along with them. “I … sorry for the pepper spray … and the toilet …”