by Alexis Angel
You would think that a guy like me has his shit together. I own and run a hugely successful chain of bars in one of the most competitive and oversaturated markets in the world. I live comfortably in one of the most expensive cities in the country—in Russian fucking Hill no less.
It’s no mistake I live this life. Everything I have is built on a bedrock of hard work, tenacity, and focus.
Yeah, I’m fucking proud of it. I have everything that I could ever want. At least, I should feel that way.
You would also think at this point I’d be past puppy-love crushes and ready to approach dating the way I approach everything else—like a rational, intelligent adult who fucking crushes everything I go after.
But every time I think about Emily, which is a lot, I feel like I’m in eighth grade all over again. My heart picks up pace, my stomach feels like it’s spinning, and I’m totally thrown off balance.
I mean, what the fuck? I’m a grown-ass man who can have anyone he wants with a snap of my fingers.
And then came Emily.
Two weeks, give or take a few days, is apparently all it takes for my sex-life-slash-love-life to go sideways in the best way possible.
The Bay Area attracts some of hottest women in the world. And in my line of work, I see plenty of them. Every fucking night.
You become numb to it after a while, and you learn to compartmentalize. Dating is dating, and work is separate. That’s one of those long–held, self-inflicted rules that I now realize is bullshit.
Emily walking into the bar—and my life—has forced me to tear down a lot of these restrictions and assumptions. It all happened so suddenly that I finally understand what all that Cupid’s arrow shit is all about.
The arrow pierces fast, starting in this case with the sting of pure testosterone-fueled lust. That feeling’s still there, weeks later.
Emily entering the bar like a golden-haired goddess, her sexy-as-fuck body, her honeyed voice and laugh—all combining to give my cock a hell of a time.
Like really, I can feel the blood rushing there now just thinking about her while I’m busy trying to choose a shirt from my closet.
Emily’s allure is proving to be the rare thing that can distract me during a busy night at the bar. Now it’s also taking me out of my daily life.
For fuck’s sake, if I can’t even focus on getting dressed, I know that this must be for real.
I usually can’t fucking stand getting diverted from my routine for any reason. But now, just the thought of the last couple weeks and what the future might bring is making me reconsider everything that came before Em.
I walk over to my bed and get the idea—for like the first time ever—to just lie down and think for a few minutes. I do plenty of thinking and rumination every day, but I never just idly stare at the ceiling. There’s too much to do for that shit.
But these thoughts need my full attention. Emily deserves my full attention.
I look back on the last few weeks with Emily. I got to know her and revealed more about myself than I even wanted. Very few of my customers, even regulars, know that I own the establishment where they always see me working.
Like, this girl just fucking does something to me that makes me act in ways I never have before.
My cock is now insanely hard. Like, ready to rip through the fabric of my boxer briefs kind of hard. Fuck, see what I mean?
This girl…
I mean, the time we’ve been spending with our clothes off, in my office, and at the W, and on this very bed. And here’s the kicker: I might sound crazy as fuck, but it’s not the mind-blowing, earth-shattering sex that’s on my mind as I wrap my fist around my cock.
Nope. I’m thinking about commitment. Yes, really.
To Emily, I’m still WineBar.
I’m Kirk, but also still WineBar. That’s her association with me—a dude who works at the wine bar. And it makes even more sense now that she knows I own the damn place.
I’m not special in this way she gives nicknames. There’s also Freeway.
Care to guess where she met him? Real romantic, I know.
But with a woman like Emily, there’s always some competition. Most of the time, competition means nothing to me. Because fuck that.
I can blow any competition right out of the fucking water, if that’s what I want. For me, it’s usually the easiest thing in the whole goddamn world.
The thing is, this isn’t my usual life anymore. Suddenly, I care, and that complicates things. I don’t know what to do with that.
Fucking? I’m your guy.
Relationships? Not so much.
Until her.
So here I am faced with what’s quickly becoming the usual for me these days—the need for a quick wank before I get on with my day. I won’t be good for anything until I get her out of my system, at least temporarily. I know this from experience.
But even before I take care of my cock that’s demanding attention, I need to figure out what to do next. We both effectively told Freeway to fuck off, and now I want to share everything with Emily.
That’s another first for me. I want to bring her in closer—as in I’m starting to think she could be the one. So much so that I want her to meet my family.
If things go the way I think they should, we’re going to have to meet each other’s families sooner or later anyway. Why not now?
I know people run from that shit like the fucking plague, but I want to introduce her to my parents.
Yeah, you heard me right. I’m now officially living in a world that’s been turned on its fucking head.
And still, I can’t get enough of her. It seems like Emily may feel hesitant about it, but I need to figure out how to take that step.
But first, I need to take care of this raging hard-on.
I grab my throbbing cock and pull it up out of the elastic of my boxer briefs. A mental vision of Emily’s smile that first night at the bar flashes through my head. Okay, that’s a decent start.
I wrap my fist tighter around my pulsing shaft.
It feels fucking amazing, and I delve right into some graphic memories. It doesn’t take long. Emily and her sexy little body do it for me every time.
I feel my balls tighten, and the tingle starts at the base of my spine. And then I’m cumming, shooting a massive load. Jet after jet of hot sticky cum goes everywhere as my cock throbs with the release.
“Fuck,” I groan. This girl has me so fucking horny I can barely function anymore.
As I make my way to the shower, I find myself saying the word before even thinking it: “Barbecue.”
Yeah, that’s right. This guy’s ready to do this thing.
It’s time to introduce Em to the family. And what better way than a good old-fashioned family barbecue? Nothing could possibly go wrong.
100 Days
Think you’re a true player? Take the challenge and try not to fall in love for 100 Days…
100 Days – a matchmaking game for the wealthiest circle of New York City’s elite. Pay $100 million and enter yourself to find a soulmate. If you don’t fall in love with someone they send in 100 days, then you win the combined entry fee of everyone that’s come before you.
No one has won. Love has conquered them all. The pot has grown to $4 billion.
But all that’s about to change. Because the game has a new player. Me.
As the wealthiest hedge fund manager on Wall Street, I got the cash. As a former SEAL, I’ve got the body. And with 12 inches of lust muscle between my legs, no one goes home unhappy.
I don’t plan on losing. Until they send the creator of the game herself – Athena Hawke.
This curvy blonde is sent to bring me down and make me lose. She opens up a side of me that I never even knew existed.
Now I’m dealing with a lust and passion that could bring me and my business crashing down.
I've never lost at anything.
But will I still want to win this game of love against Athena in 100 days?
Malcolm
"Fuck me harder," she purrs.
I smile, grabbing both of her hips in my hands.
"You don't have to ask me twice doll," I growl, slamming my cock balls-deep into her pussy. This is one hell of an intern—whatever her name is. Lacey? Or is it Lisa, or maybe Lana—I can't remember, and to be honest, I don't give a fuck.
All I know is that she's hot—smoking hot—and willing, so here I am, bending her over the entirety of Manhattan.
We're putting on quite a show.
I wonder if anyone's catching a good look at her tits and face smashed against the window. Probably not, because we're 50 stories up, but the idea of it makes me even fucking harder.
"You like that?" I ask her with a smile.
It's a rhetorical question. Of course she fucking likes this. Who wouldn't? And by the way she's moaning and biting her lower lip, I know she agrees.
Don't roll your eyes at me gorgeous. I'm rich—I could bounce hundred dollars bills off this woman's ass all night long, and I have a perfectly chiseled body, the kind you'd love to use your tongue to trace every ridge with. And with the snap of my fingers, I'm up to my fucking eyeballs in women.
At any given moment.
At any given day.
They're pawing at me, and begging me with their eyes. Go ahead, I dare you to gaze into my breezy blue eyes that are the color of the Bahamas. I'm sure you'll fall just as hard and fast for me.
Oh, you don't know who I am? Sorry, where are my fucking manners? Let's start from the beginning. I'm Malcolm Bane, and I'm one of the richest men on Wall Street. You've probably seen me listed in Forbes' list of top 30 under 30. I've made more money on Wall Street than most men make in their entire lives.
And that's how I like it.
Capitalism makes my cock hard … and so does this intern.
Instead of responding, this woman suddenly reaches back, grabs my silk tie in her small, manicured hand, and pulls me close to her mouth until my ear brushes against her crimson lips.
"You have no idea," she whispers, "how much I like this."
There. See? I fucking told you.
The way her warm breath runs across my ear and down my neck makes my pulse kick in my chest.
I bring my hand down on her ass, giving it a quick slap, and piston my cock in and out of her pussy at a faster pace.
Then I decide to change things up. I lift her into my arms and walk her over to my desk, pushing aside paperwork, along with my desk phone with one quick push of my forearm. It all tumbles to the floor.
I lie her down on the dark mahogany, grabbing her legs and draping them over my shoulders. I grab her thighs and pull her ass to the edge of the desk. Angling my cock back inside of her pussy, I give her a deep thrust. I watch as she grabs the edge of the desk with both hands and let's out a stifled scream. Her toes curl with the force of an oncoming orgasm.
Her hands are grasping at anything to hold on to as I begin fucking piledriving into her. I’ve lost all fucking reason - all rational thought. I just need to fucking cum at this point.
As I fuck her, I watch her tits bounce in rhythm with my thrusting, and I reach down, grabbing one in each fist.
As hot as this intern is—as good as this fuck session is—it never seems enough.
She’s trying to hold on. Her hands are all over the place. They’re grasping onto my keyboard, her cum-sticky fingers punching keys on my terminal and the 10 screens I have registering buy and sell orders based on her body jerks. But I don’t fucking care. I’m too in the moment of this fuck. My cock is starting to tingle. The underside of it is starting to crackle with electricity.
If I'm honest, I can fuck hundreds of hot women, but at the end of the day, sex isn't capable of fulfilling anything more than a physical need. There's nothing emotional about it—and that's fine by me. I'm all about the physical.
And the more that I think about it, I realize I'm a slave to my cock. I guess it's true what they say—that men can only think with one head at a time, and right now, that head is flushed a deep purple, and leaking precum.
"Fucking Christ," I say, throwing my shoulders back. "You feel so fucking good."
"Cum for me, Malcolm," she purrs, reaching down and caressing my balls with her fingers. "I want you to cum inside of me … yes, oh fuck, yes."
I close my eyes and groan as a hot bolt of desire shoots down my body.
I feel my balls tense … and then I see it. I'm getting text messages, one after another, on my cell phone.
My terminal is going wild.
A few faces pop on one of my video call screens at my desk (I have 10 screens in my workstation)
They look fucking urgent, and when I glance down at the sight of my desk, I see wild orders placed from my terminal. A trader is trying to speak to me through the video call, but my ears are ringing with lust and I can’t hear. He sounds frantic though. He's at the trading desk, and he's telling me about a huge fucking trade happening right now. Coming from my desk. If I don't pull it back, I'm going to lose millions.
But I can't fucking stop.
Fuck, here I cum.
I'm chasing an orgasm stronger than a rocket at lift off, and I'm about to fucking explode.
"That's it—oh fuck yes!" the intern screams, and just as she does, I shoot rope after rope of hot cum deep inside of her pussy. I pull my throbbing cock out and she grabs it, milking me until I think I don't have anything left.
She yanks the condom off my cock and her eyes widen at the Magnum of cum right in front of her. My cock is still dribbling cum but she takes my condom and empties it’s contents over her tits, letting it slide down her body in rivulets.
“Something to remember me by,” she says with an evil grin.
She locks eyes with me, and brings her fingers to her lips, licking off remnants of my salty cum.
She's smiling, but as my pulse slowly returns to normal, the realization hits me—she's not the only one who just got screwed.
I look over to the terminal.
In the throes of our fuck, we must have messed with the trading system that’s wired into my desk. I can place trades from my desk that most people can’t - I mean come on, I’m the fucking CEO.
And it looks like I placed a series of extremely bad bets.
That’s what happens when you’re randomly hitting the keyboard with your hands because you’re in the middle of fucking.
And those trades have gone south.
I've just lost one of the largest amounts of money in a single day that’s ever been recorded.
Fuck.
People are rushing into my office.
They don’t even care that we’re naked.
The intern looks around, puzzled as her boss runs into the office. He’s frantic.
People are fucked.
If I don't fix this fucking soon, my entire empire—this firm, the palatial Manhattan apartments, all of the wealth I've worked so hard to build—it's all going to crumble quicker than a wave washing out a sandcastle.
I'll be nothing.
I'll leave nothing.
I'll be a washed up joke.
And there's no fucking way I'm going to let that happen.
Wanna come help me fix this, babe?
Malcolm
"You look like you could use another drink," Andrew laughs, refilling my glass with a ribbon of amber-colored whiskey.
"You know me all too well," I smile, grabbing the glass and downing its contents in one swig. "I'm in some deep shit."
I look out the windows of my office, across the city skyline, and over the steady river of traffic snaking between buildings. It's one thing to look out across the city from 50 floors up, and a whole other thing when you're viewing it from a cardboard box on a street corner. If I don't fix this shit I'm in, I'll be that guy on the corner, with one foot from the fucking gutter. Just thinking ab
out this causes a thin film of sweat to pool on the nape of my neck.
"You may be in some deep shit, but if you don't slow down, you'll be under this desk, drunker than you've been," Andrew chuckles, slapping his hand down on the mahogany, "instead of bending another intern over it."
"What makes you think I have plans to bang an intern today?"
"Are you kidding?" he says, eyes wide. "We've been best friends since college. That's long enough to really know a person. And I think the real question is: When do you not have plans to bang an intern?"
I watch as Andrew laughs again, this time, the laugh is deep enough to make his belly shake.
"Are you telling me you've never bent anyone over your desk?" I ask.
"Not like you, man. I don't think anyone can keep up with you. What's the official count now? 100—or maybe 1,000? Don't tell me it's more than that."
We both laugh and slam back another shot of whiskey.
"I'm just giving you a hard time," Andrew smiles. "But I'm not shocked its come to this. And you're like a brother to me, man. The last thing I want is to see you hit rock bottom. Sure, you play hard, but you work equally hard. I know that, and so does everyone else. I've watched you build this empire. I don't want to watch you lose it too."
He says this with a sincerity in his eyes that's touching.
"Unfortunately, I think I have more than a few enemies—unhappy rivals in the world of business, and any one of them would be more than fucking happy to see me fail," I say.
"I'm sure it's not that bad," Andrew shrugs. "It can't be all doom and gloom. You're painting a bleak picture, but I'm sure you'll think of something. You always do."
"This time is different," I say, shaking my head. "I think this time … I'm out of fucking options. I'm fucking serious."
Andrew sits back in the soft leather of my couch, deep in thought. He's flicking his wrist, swirling a few pieces of his remaining ice in his glass. It's making a repetitive clinking sound.
