BIG SHOT LOVE: 5 Billionaire Romance Books Bundle

by Kristina Weaver

  “Jump back in the car, I’d imagine,” he joked.

  Life with Peter was amazing, and that was no lie. I didn’t even feel the compulsion to lie to him anymore. He knew my every whim and desire, knew the things that made me throw my head back and laugh. Even my mother noticed a difference whenever I’d chat with her on the phone.

  “You seem happier than normal,” she observed after talking my ear off about various wedding planning meetings she’d been conducting with a host of dress shops and potential reception halls.

  “Do I normally not sound happy?” I asked, laughing at her.

  “Well, not necessarily,” she allowed. “I don’t know how to describe it. Lighter. Like you’re not as stressed out. Did me intervening on your behalf with Peter do anything? I noticed you’re not having as many night events anymore.”

  “Night events” had been the way I’d lied to my mother about having a second job, at night, following my day job as a dog walker. It was a good explanation to have when she wanted to yammer on after 6 p.m., when I was trying to get dressed to cocktail waitress and shove some food down my throat at the same time. Otherwise, she would’ve been suspicious of me.

  “He’s been a little more conscious of which events I go to,” I allowed. “But you shouldn’t have said anything. It’s his prerogative. He’s the boss. And I benefit from going to those things. I learn a lot.” I enjoyed a private smile at that. Peter was teaching me a lot — sexually and otherwise.

  “I like Peter,” my mother announced. “And Frank speaks highly of him.”

  “I should hope so. Peter’s his son, after all.”

  “He’s good to work with?”

  “Very good.” And that wasn’t any kind of lie whatsoever. I’d never worked with someone as “good” as Peter before in my life. I doubted that I’d ever come across anyone else with Peter’s specific talents, but I didn’t want to think about that. It was strange. I didn’t think of my life beyond the point when Peter and I would give up our dating experiment. I didn’t think of the men who might follow him. For some reason, it was easier to think of Peter as the man I’d be with for the rest of my life.

  It was a frightening thought, especially since I hadn’t dated anyone at all since moving to the Big Apple. Had I finally found the man I was meant to be with?

  “Gemma?”

  “Yes?”

  “I asked you if you saw Peter outside of the office,” she said, and I blanched. “Do the two of you socialize?”

  “Don’t you think it would be a little weird if we did?” I countered. “I’d be afraid that it would show favoritism among the other employees.”

  “Gemma, you’re about to become family,” she said incredulously. “There’s nothing nepotistic about it.”

  She had no idea. It was the very definition of nepotism — and maybe even something a little more insidious — that he’d hired me in the first place, but she didn’t know anything about that. He’d only hired me after we'd realized our parents were marrying each other. And when we’d agreed to give dating each other a try. He had been behind my renaissance, of sorts, in New York City, giving me the means to start fresh after my solo attempts at being successful had failed miserably.

  “I’d just rather function at work on my own merits,” I said, wincing at my own lie. That was a bad one. Peter might try to convince me otherwise, but I was somewhat convinced that I had very few professional merits. He’d used an idea of mine for a marketing campaign that was becoming more and more successful each time it aired on television, but I’d just been running my mouth, nervous at being inside a real office for the first time since I’d moved to the city. My other main task was entertaining Peter, but I wasn’t complaining about that.

  “Well, as long as you’re happy,” my mother told me. “Call me soon.”

  “Okay, I will. Bye.”

  I wished I could tell her the whole truth, but I wasn’t about to reveal to my mother that I was not only seeing Peter extensively during and outside of work, but I was also having the best sex of my life with the man who was about to become her stepson. It was too strange, too off-kilter, and I was sure it would make her worry about both my well-being and my sanity.

  The reasoning behind all my lies was to make sure she didn’t worry. She had enough on her plate with her upcoming wedding. It was something she was excited about, but it was also a point of stress. I don’t think she’d ever planned a wedding before, and there were more choices than I think she could’ve ever imagined.

  All I’d ever wanted to do was to make my mother believe that everything was going just fine in my life, even when it wasn’t. She didn’t need to worry about me. I could worry about myself.

  And now, somehow, impossibly, Peter was very occupied with worrying about me. He wanted to know constantly whether I was happy, whether I needed anything, if there was someplace I wanted to go or something I wanted to do.

  “You can’t buy love,” I protested one day when I walked into the penthouse to see dozens of red roses in a stunning crystal vase on the countertop in the kitchen. “I love you just the way you are, dummy. You don't have to lavish me with money and gifts.”

  He blinked, and I realized it was the first time either of us had confessed to that emotion. Love was such a funny and fickle thing. Lust was easier, the mutual admiration two people had for the movements they were able to produce together, the feelings. Love was sticky, worrisome, a bag of worms.

  But Peter took a single rose from the vase and touched the soft petals to my lips as I smelled the blossom.

  “I love you, too,” he said. “But I also love spoiling you, so you’re just going to have to deal with it.”

  I coped as best I could. Retail therapy helped. With Peter encouraging me to spend his money, I did. It was fun. If that made me a bad person, then so be it. But when the money was there and it made him happy for me to buy things, I’d do it.

  It was late summer — perhaps the last of the hot days we’d have this year, barring anything apocalyptic next month. It was a mere handful of weeks ahead of our parents’ wedding, something that still gave us pause.

  “Have you told your dad about us?” I asked on the way to work. We were both taking the car, as Peter had stayed the night with me in the penthouse. I told him that he should just move in, but he said there was more excitement and mystery with two separate places we called home. It was hard to believe that he still considered some things to be mysterious after he’d explored every inch of me, but there it was.

  “God, no,” he said, chuckling and shaking his head. “Nothing against you, of course, but he’s irrepressible. He’d want to know every detail. He’d call you at all hours to make sure I’m treating you right. He has chased away many a girlfriend, I’m afraid.”

  “Maybe I’ll tell your dad,” I said, stroking my chin thoughtfully.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Does your mum know?”

  “Nope.” I shook my head. “If she knew, your dad would know, and the whole thing would be blown apart.”

  “We’re going to have to tell them, eventually, you know,” he said. “It’ll be a hell of a thing to hide at the wedding.”

  “I know.” I leaned against him as we approached the office building. “I just don’t want to steal their thunder.”

  It was looking to be a gorgeous wedding, if the leaves would continue changing at the same rate. There were already patches of fire among the foliage in Central Park, and it would only get better between now and then. I started working through my list of tasks, keeping the thought of the wedding in the back of my mind. My mother deserved this. She deserved to be happy. Hell, maybe I deserved to be happy, too.

  “I’m going to need to see you in my office,” Peter said, tapping his fist against my desk as he bustled by, jolting me out of my stupor of thinking. I felt dual shots of anxiety and arousal. I knew just what that tone entailed. He had something in mind, and I had a game to play.

  With most of my previous bo
yfriends about as exciting as thinking missionary was my favorite sexual position, Peter had opened up endless new doors for me to walk through — if I wanted. He’d push me, but not too hard. In the end, it was always my choice. I knew that, much of the time, I’d be rewarded by doing something I wasn’t sure I wanted to do. That didn’t make the next time, or even the time after that, any easier. Peter was imaginative, endlessly creative. He always had something new in his head that he wanted to try out.

  We could both agree that Peter playing the dominant boss was one of our favorite kinks. He enjoyed ordering me around, making me do his bidding, making me come apart in the end, helpless to his expert torment.

  But I’d surprised him one morning, answering his request to come “keep him company” during a long conference call with some of the vice presidents of the company in his office. I’d gleaned the idea from that wretched contract I’d signed, but I thought he’d be pleased with my initiative.

  He put his end of the call on mute as soon as I stepped in to the office, someone on the other end droning on and on about profits and dividends, but I wagged my finger in his face and pushed the mute button again, placing my finger against his lips before straddling him.

  “You’re going to have to be very quiet,” I whispered, my lips against his ear, and then I very gently eased myself off of his lap and down to the floor, at his feet. He used to keep the window blinds to his office open, but since he closed them practically every time I entered the room, he figured it would be a good idea to just keep them closed all the time to avoid any suspicion.

  Honestly, I would’ve been sure that at least somebody in the office would’ve caught on by now, but it was a discreet workplace and they all adored working for Peter. He was an incredibly giving supervisor, making sure everyone had whatever resources they needed at any time. He was lenient about time out of the office, including giving employees the option to work from home, and he gave raises every single year no matter how the company was faring. Maybe it was just a testament of a happy workplace that no one seemed to notice or care that the boss was screwing around with his secretary. We were adults, and we both liked it. There wasn’t any crime in it.

  Now, though, half listening to several voices on the conference call start talking at once over an apparent point of contention about stock options, I slid Peter’s belt open and unfastened his pants. He kept his eyes on me, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the bulge in his underwear proving to me that I was doing a very good job holding his attention.

  I easily found the slit in his underwear and drew out his erection through it, maintaining eye contact as I moved my head closer and closer to it until I was just inches away. If possible, he’d begun breathing harder, his blue eyes locked with mine, neither of us paying attention to the ebbs and flows of the conference call.

  Painfully slowly, I stuck my tongue out — playfully, at first — then extending to delicately touch the dewdrop of arousal that glistened on the head of his cock. Peter’s eyes fluttered closed, and he inhaled, long and sharp. I noticed that the conversation on the phone had halted, and froze.

  “Mr. Bly? Would you like to cut in?” a voice ventured.

  “Yes, now that you ask, I would like to offer my two cents, for what it’s worth,” Peter said easily, not opening his eyes. Ever so gently, as he began talking about expanding their hotel business in other countries, he pushed the back of my head, indicating that I should go about my business without minding his. It was so sexy watching him as I ate him inch by glorious inch. He struggled to maintain composure. I didn’t think he understood what he’d been signing on for, trying to talk to probably dozens of businessmen in rooms across the world while getting head from me for the first time. It was electrifying, and I instantly understood why he always liked to be in charge.

  It was a lot of fun to be on top, to control the other person’s feelings and perceptions, to maintain whatever pace you felt like.

  I licked him languidly as his thigh muscles bunched and shook through his pants, taking his entire length in my mouth, the tip brushing the back of my throat, before revealing that length of wet flesh again.

  “We will be moving forward with the Paris acquisition,” he said, opening his eyes, staring at me from beneath the lashes. “It’s a good idea, and one I want to pursue. Start thinking about other foreign locations we might see some success in.”

  With that, he stabbed the mute button and seized me by my shoulders. I hadn’t stopped my ministrations, suckling at the tip and rubbing his shaft with one of my hands, and he arched his back against his chair, giving a loud groan as he emptied himself into my mouth.

  I swallowed because it was cleaner, because I loved the man, because I thought he’d like it, and he pulled me up into his lap and kissed me.

  “You are a minx,” he said, his tone accusatory.

  “I had no idea you liked Paris so much,” I said innocently. “And I’m sorry that I'm going to cost you so much money.”

  “Nonsense,” he laughed. “I have plenty of money. And I wanted to expand to France. Sorry that I used your fib as an excuse to do something I’ve always wanted.”

  Was life good? Yes, I could answer truthfully. Life was very good. I walked the handful of yards between my desk and Peter’s office, my pussy already wet with anticipation over what game he’d have for me today.

  I shut the door behind me as he opened a letter with an ornate opener, slitting it from one corner to the other.

  “Don’t you have someone to open your mail for you?” I asked him, teasing.

  “I think I do,” he said, “but I’m trying to stay humble here. There’s actually something else I’d like to open before lunchtime. I was hoping you could help me.”

  I smiled and walked around the desk, trailing my fingers over the surface. “I love to help. It’s my favorite part of this job.”

  He gently pushed me back so that I sat on the edge of the desk, sitting between my legs, spreading my knees, trailing the business end of the letter opener up my shin, then twirling it around my calf, then circling my knee.

  I shuddered as it approached my thigh, then opened my eyes when its movement stopped.

  “Trust me?” Peter murmured, and I didn’t even have to think about it. I nodded wordlessly and he continued the abstract patterns he was drawing out with the edge of the letter opener. The tip climbed higher and higher until it traced the lips of my naked pussy. With any other person, I would’ve squirmed away with fear that their hand would slip and I’d be pricked in a very uncomfortable place. But I trusted that Peter knew what he was doing, his pupils dilated, watching me breathe and lick my lips, knowing just how much he was turning me on.

  He was as patient as he could be, but he suddenly flung the letter opener aside and flipped me over, upsetting his cup of pens and drafting pencils, scattering them across the surface as he prepared to whip my skirt up and enter me.

  Just then, though, a brief knock announced someone’s presence at the door, and it opened without waiting for permission. I gasped and looked up to see Frank and my mother’s faces, peering in.

  Chapter 10

  Peter pushed away from me abruptly as the door opened, and I lunged for a pen that was rolling across the desk.

  “Got it!” I announced, well aware that my face was bright red. “Sorry for being so clumsy.”

  “No worries,” Peter said easily, discreetly turning away to tuck his erection beneath his belt, I could only assume.

  “What a surprise!” I said quickly as my mother’s lips pursed in a question I knew she didn’t really want to know the answer to. “Peter and I were just going over some figures for the…France acquisition. We have some really exciting properties to consider. What are you all doing here?”

  “Well, we were just in the city,” my mother said, her eyes darting between my red face and Peter’s back. “We thought we’d drop by and see you two here at the office, but I’m afraid it’s inconvenienced you in the middle a busy w
ork day.”

  “Nonsense,” Peter said, turning cheerfully and pecking my mother on both her cheeks. He’d done a masterful job of concealing the bulge in his pants. If only I could learn to hide my infernal blushes. “It’s wonderful to see you both.”

  “So you’re really going through with expanding to Paris,” Frank said, pumping Peter’s hand up and down before slapping him on the back. “Good for you.”

  “Good for me?” Peter laughed. “You were rather dubious about the whole thing yourself.”

  “That’s because it came as a surprise, is all,” Frank complained. “Your blasted secretary — no offense intended, Gemma, dear — knew about it before I did.”

  That didn’t help my flush whatsoever. The only reason I’d known about the so-called France acquisition was because I’d made it up, spun the tale out of thin air as a way of convincing my mother I was something much more important than a dog walker and cocktail waitress. I’d pretended, back then, to have the life that I had now so that she wouldn’t worry about me. I was convinced that Peter had swooped in and saved me from certain discovery of my lies by agreeing to snap up a group of hotels in Paris. It was a deal worth millions of dollars, and he’d done it for me. It was yet another reason I felt inferior. What could I ever do for him that would even hold a candle to this Paris debacle?

  “None taken,” I said faintly.

  “We’re not here for hotel business, of course,” my mother interjected before Frank could quiz Peter further about the acquisition. “It’s strictly wedding business.”

  “Ah, the wedding,” Peter said eagerly, beaming. He was probably just thrilled not to have to go over the details of a plan he didn’t want to do. “How is the planning going?”

  “Pretty frantically,” Frank chuckled. “That’s what we get for a short engagement, of course.”

  “You’d better not be complaining,” my mother said, prodding him with a finger. “It was as much your idea as it was mine not to prolong the agony of planning.” She turned to Peter as if to appeal to his sense of justice. “If there wasn’t that much time to plan, then there wouldn’t be as many choices to make. So we couldn’t agonize over what cake or what venue or what dresses. It would only be what could be quickly made available.”