by Alexis Angel
1
Malcolm
Her face is pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office and her breath is making fogged, heart-shaped patterns on the glass.
"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?
2
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 t
hat guy on the corner, with one foot from the fucking gutter. Just thinking about 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.
I've known him long enough to know that when he's deep in thought, it's best not to break his concentration. The man has always been a deep thinker, which is why he's one of the best attorneys this city's got.
I pace the office, quiet but tense.
Finally, Andrew breaks the silence. "I might have a solution."
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. "Really? If so, I'm all ears. Give it to me."
"Have you heard of Athena's company?" he asks, his eyes locked on mine.
"Wait, you mean Athena Hawke? The Athena Hawke of Millionaire Matches, Inc.? Of course I've heard of her. She eats men for breakfast. She's ruthless, which explains why she's so successful."
"You scared of her or something?" Andrew laughs.
"Of course not. I'm Malcolm fucking Bane. Women don't scare me—not even women like Athena. It's just an observation."
"Good, because her entire business model on matchmaking is like a contest you could enter.”
"Contest?"
"She calls it 100 Days," Andrew says. "And only Manhattan's richest are invited to play."
"Why is that?"
"Because the buy in is $100 million per person," he smiles.
I let out a shrill whistle. "Pretty steep for a contest. You gotta to be fucking kidding me, Andrew.”
"I'm serious as a heart attack," Andrew says. "Of course, you're supposed to be going there to find love … but you can be like those people who go to her to play this like a game. “
"I'm in no fucking position to be playing $100 million dollar games, Andrew. C'mon, man. This is serious. I need to make money, not spend it."
"Just hear me out—let me finish. There's more. If you win, the payout is $4 billion dollars."
"Okay, now you've got my attention," I say, turning to face him.
“That’s the total amount that has been paid in through the buy-ins to date,” Andrew says. “Minus whatever Athena takes as her cut. But people go in thinking they’re been able to not fall in love. They bet $100 million they’ll win. They come out happy to pay because they find they’re happier losing.”
“Fuck that,” I say with a snort. “No such fucking thing.”
"I told you," Andrew says, his grin widening. "If you win this pot, your problems are solved. It's that simple."
"But what makes you think I even have a shot at winning this?" I ask. If I'm fucking honest, this sounds too good to be true. And when something sounds too good to be true, it usually is.
"Because this is a game you know all too well," he says, standing up and clapping his hand across my back.
"And what game is that?" I ask.
He turns to me, and smiles. "Women."
"Now I'm confused. Women? What about them?"
"Over the course of 100 days, Athena will be pairing you up with women—beautiful fucking women, gorgeous women—and to win this game, you can't fall in love with any of them. Not a single one."
I can't help but laugh out loud. "Is that fucking it? I just have to keep myself from falling in love with any of them?"
"That's it," Andrew says, shrugging his shoulders. "But it's harder than it sounds, believe me. I hope your cock doesn't get in the way, and make you lose it all."
"Let me tell you something," I say. "My cock doesn't do love."
"You say that now…" Andrew smirks, giving me a sideways glance.
"I mean it. Love is like a foreign word, from a language I don't fucking speak," I smile. "This will be the easiest fucking money I've ever made. Trust me."
“I got it up on my phone if you want to make an appointment to enter yourself,” Andrew says.
And before Andrew can say another word, I'm already taking his phone and signing up.
This is too easy.
$4 billion dollars here I come.
3
Athena
An African proverb has it that love is a despot who spares no one. I tend to agree, and that’s why I break men for a living.
Hey, don’t look at me like that.
You might think I’m an evil bitch, but men are the ones taking me up on this challenge. They come to me with high hopes and expectations, and they risk it all. And love, like the despot it is, crushes them under its heel. Okay, that might be too harsh of an expression; that’s just the way I see it, though. In truth, all of my clients leave me with a wide smile on their faces and a galloping heart. They come to me looking for love and that’s exactly what they find. In the process, I line my pockets with their hard-earned money.
Money for love—it isn’t such a bad trade off, is it? Money makes me happy, love makes them happy; in the end, everyone benefits.
There are two kinds of men that come and ask me for a meeting, though. The first type comes in with a full wallet and an empty heart, and they look at me like the gatekeeper to a happy life next to a woman they can love. The second type is pretty rare, and they come to me looking for an easy payday—they think they can dodge love and its traps (and take my money in the process) but, in the end, they surrender to it all the same.
Once again, love spares no one.
If I’m not mistaken (and I rarely am), the man I’m meeting today belongs to that second category. His reputation as a hedge fund manager precedes him, and the same can be said of his sexual escapades. Whenever you talk about Malcolm Bane, you also end up talking about money and sex—and that in the same breath.
“Your eleven o’clock is here,” my assistant tells me through the intercom. Leaning forward in my chair, I press the red button blinking there.
“Make him wait a couple of minutes and then send him in,” I say, even though I’m not doing anything right now. The first rule when dealing with men like Malcolm Bane is that you have to make them wait. And that’s exactly what I’m doing right now.
I lean back on my chair, take a deep breath and drum my fingertips against the surface of my desk. Sun is streaming through the open blinders, flooding the spacious roo
m with its warm light, and I stretch lazily as I ready myself mentally for the meeting.
I take another deep breath and that’s when I hear a knock at the door.
“Come in,” I say, and then the door swings open to reveal one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve already seen pictures of Malcolm before, but he looks so much better in the flesh. If the Gods ever walked the Earth, I doubt they looked as handsome as this.
With a perfectly symmetrical face, his jaw seems to have been chiseled in stone. And the same can be said of his body—standing at least a head taller than me, his dark suit clings to his body like a second skin, hinting at a rock-hard layer of muscles hiding under the fabric. And his eyes … piercing and smart, they’re the kind of eyes than can make a woman grow weak in the knees.
“Welcome. I’m Athena Hawke,” I say, pushing my chair back and going up to my feet as I introduce myself. I offer him my hand and, closing the distance between us, he takes it in his.
“Malcolm Bane. Nice to meet you,” he replies, looking into my eyes and allowing his gaze to wander around the room, one of his eyebrows cocked. The décor in my office is minimalist and sleek, a warm and bright white coating the walls, just like the tight blue dress I’m wearing right now, and everything in this room was designed to appeal to the senses.
First impressions are important, right? Especially when you’re dealing with love and seduction. That’s why, when choosing an office for me, I settled on one that was both intimate and intimidating at the same time. Small and comfortable, but still big enough to tell everyone I’m meeting that in here, I’m the one in charge. “So, I’ve heard you’re quite the miracle maker,” Malcolm says as he sits down in the chair facing my desk, putting an end to the first niceties that are inevitable in meetings of this kind.
“When it comes to love, yes, that’s right. That’s what you want to find, right? Love,” I ask him, locking eyes with him and showing him the hint of a smile.
“Well, I had already given up on finding a woman I could love. But then I heard about you and your miracles … and, well, here I am,” he replies, but his tone is so confident that I can’t help but feel doubt stirring inside of me: did he really come here looking for love? Or is he after the guarantee I provide to all of my clients? If I can’t deliver on my promises, they receive a hefty payment. That's never happened, of course, and it won’t be Malcolm who’ll change that.
