The Forbidden Billionaire

by Lexi Aurora

  “Eva…”

  Still, I avoid meeting her eye.

  “What?”

  “You know what. This is big. This is a chance—the chance you’ve been waiting for.”

  I shake my head, refusing to look at her. If I do, then her contagious optimism will become mine too, and right now, I’m not sure I can afford that. But Angel isn’t one to be easily dissuaded.

  “Don’t do this Eva. Don’t do that thing where you undersell yourself and give up before you even start. Your idea is good—great. You know it is.”

  “Yeah, but Allan Dane hasn’t even heard it yet. He probably won’t think so. The most interest he’s ever shown in cooking was when he publicly reprimanded some famous chef a few months back, okay? There’s no point in getting my hopes up just so they can be shot down.”

  Popper lets out a little yip.

  “Popper’s right—you’re giving up before you’ve even tried.”

  I frown at the blank TV screen. What I need to be doing right now is drowning my sorrows in some good old Vampire Diaries, not arguing over some pipe dream with my equally broke roommate.

  “Don’t do that thing where you pretend you can read the dog’s mind.”

  Another one of Popper’s yips. Angel grabs the TV remote my hand’s inching for.

  “C’mon, your idea is good, you know it is. An app that lets you enter in a list of ingredients you have on hand and then generates a delicious recipe? An app that you can use at home, at work, anywhere? It’s genius and you know it.”

  In spite of myself, a smile is making its way onto my face, while my gaze is being irresistibly drawn to Angel’s beaming, high-cheekboned face.

  “Maybe you’re right, but I don’t trust this Allan Dane.”

  “You don’t have to trust him; you just have to try. Maybe it won’t work, but there’s no harm in trying.”

  I stay silent. Truth be told, I can’t explain my exaggerated reticence myself. Why I think that, despite everything, there may be harm in trying at all, that there’s something about Allan Dane… Something about his ridiculous good looks, easy smile, and extended gaze that make me uneasy.

  “Eva,” Angel says, “Don’t make me give you the speech.”

  I sigh, hold out my hand.

  “Can you just give me the remote, please?”

  Now Angel’s on her feet.

  “Eva Angelica Lynn. Look around you. We are two people living in a 300-square-foot apartment in New York City, the most expensive city in the world. We have been trying, unsuccessfully, for over a year to save enough for a flat-screen TV to replace our bipolar, slowly dying, beast of a box TV. We trade cookies to the woman a few units down in exchange for her walking Popper, since we can’t afford an actual dog walker. Your father is in the shittiest nursing home New York has. If you have the slightest smallest hint of a chance at improving this situation and you don’t go for it, I’ll throw you out the window myself.”

  “It only opens halfway,” I remind her, and we crack up.

  Angel pokes me in the side.

  “I’m serious. I’m not going to let this rest.”

  I sigh. By now, I know Angel well enough to know that she’s not kidding. After all, I wouldn’t only do the same for her, I have. I was the one who’d convinced her not to drop out of school after her brother died. I was the one who had stood at her door, banging on it and yelling until she’d let me in and I’d said my piece. Not to mention that Angel and I have been best friends since we could walk and talk. So, the chances of her letting this rest are just about zero.

  “Fine, Angel. I’ll go tomorrow, okay? Now please, hand me the remote.”

  The rest of the night, we veg out in front of the TV—Angel, Popper, and me, chips and Vampire Diaries galore. I just about completely forget about Allan Dane. That is, until nighttime.

  I wake up back in there, the restaurant: Picklebucket, with its hideous red plastic booths and, yes, Allan Dane. He’s wearing the same gray suit as before, the same intense stare.

  This time, however, after he’s given me his business card and walked away, I slump into the booth to find myself right beside him. He’s in the booth next to me, laughing.

  “You think I’d let you go that easily?”

  Next thing I know his hand is on my thigh, under the table.

  “What are you doing?”

  I gape at him, but he only laughs.

  “What you want me to.”

  His hand is moving higher and higher as he speaks.

  “You knew my reputation, and it excited you; it was written all over your face. You want this.”

  I’m trying to move, but my body isn’t cooperating, only trembling with pleasure at his touch, his words.

  You’re wrong, is what I intend to say, but what comes out is “You’re right.”

  The restaurant is dead silent, and yet the customers are still here, the table of tourists from before; Geno must be somewhere too. I turn to Allan.

  “What about my boss?”

  Just then, Geno appears beside me. He’s sitting on my other side, and I’m wedged between them, Geno and Allan. Geno’s hip is digging into me, his voice, a singsong refrain.

  “The customer’s always right. The customer’s always right.”

  By now, Allan Dane’s hand is on my pussy. Over my pants, he strokes expertly, enjoying my discomfort with a pitiless grin. I jerk my head to the rest of the restaurant, which is packed.

  “But we’re in the middle of the restaurant.”

  Allan gives his chiseled head a nod.

  “I can take care of this.”

  With one swift sideways flick of his hip, he bops me to the side into Geno, who’s sent sprawling on the floor.

  As I gasp out apologies, Geno lolls out on the floor, grinning that horrible fake grin of his.

  “The customer’s always right. The customer’s always right.”

  Now, Allan Dane is shoving me out of the booth too. We step on Geno, and Allan rips open my blouse, tears it off, and tosses it to the table of cheering tourists.

  “The best dish! No burn!”

  Already Allan’s tracing the edges of my bra with his lips, his fingers following close behind. I’m rooted to the spot, terrified, and yet, undeniably aroused. We’re still standing on Geno, and when Allan rips down my pants, they fall on Geno’s flabby belly. Allan’s taking me in with a starving look.

  “God, you’re lucky I waited this long to do this.”

  And then his lips are proving the truth of his words, plastering over mine, his tongue continuing the dance, the round and round, the flick and slide, the in and out, the onward rhythm that can’t be stopped—won’t be.

  When Allan picks me up and shoves me onto the table, he rips my pants off all the way so I’m in just my underwear and apron. Allan grabs my chin, speaking right into my face.

  “Turn around.”

  And, the most shocking thing of all, is that I do.

  I turn around and he spanks me, so hard that it resounds around the room, sending the table of tourists into a fit of boisterous applause. At his next ass strike, he grabs my panties and pulls them down. I’m moaning and he’s groaning too, his hands delighting in my bare flesh.

  “Jesus, these curves of yours.”

  My bra is the next to go, flung behind somewhere, gone. I don’t care now. The worst has happened. No longer am I afraid of Allan continuing; now I’m afraid of him stopping.

  He shoves me around again, so my bare back’s on the table and I’m staring up as he engulfs my nipple with his mouth. Oh fuck, does it feel good. As if that wasn’t enough, his hand slides down, giving my other breast a squeeze, then farther down, over my belly, then farther, over my landing strip. Then, his hand’s on my pussy lips, then between them, timing his fingering perfectly to his sucking, in then out, round then round. Now my moans are almost shrieks, and he’s burying his face between my boobs, rocking himself back and forth, motorboating me to ecstasy. When he’s done, he’s gasping, r
ipping down his own pants, his briefs coming with it. And, just as he presses himself to me, just as I feel how thick and hard he is, just as he shoves himself into me and my whole body explodes into pleasure, he barks.

  We both freeze, then he licks me, barks again. As I stare at him, Popper’s head pops up where his face was. As I scream, I wake up.

  Angel’s in the doorway with a frying pan held high.

  “What the hell?”

  I take one look at Popper’s tongue-wagging face as he stands on my still-clothed body.

  “It was just a dream.”

  Angel lets out a big sigh of relief.

  “I thought it was…” She takes a dubious look at the rusty old frying pan still gripped in her hand, then shakes her head. “I don’t know what I thought.”

  We exchange a glance, then burst out laughing. Angel comes to the edge of my bed and plops down.

  “That must have been some dream—you tossed and turned your whole comforter off.”

  I looked at the fallen, crumpled-up thing on the floor, nodding without saying anything. Nope, that dream is one thing I’m not admitting to—not ever.

  With a heave, I throw myself out of bed.

  “I’m going to go.”

  “What, now?”

  I glance at the clock. It’s only 7 a.m., but I have to get ready and get over there too, after all.

  “Yep—first stop Allan Dane’s office. Dibs on the bathroom.”

  And then I’m in there, having escaped to the shower. In the tall, tiny box, I still manage to revel in the warm droplets and my now certainty. I’m not going to let some twisted erotic dream dissuade me from what I have to do. No, Angel was right. This wasn’t just for myself anymore or even for showing Geno; it was for the people I loved. Angel. Popper. Dad. I owe it to them to at least try, whatever the consequences. Though, as I step out of the shower and stare at my still-flushed face, something tells me that the consequences of what I’m about to do are even more serious than I can imagine.

  PREVIEW: Keeping Secrets from the Billionaire by Lexi Aurora

  Chapter One- Julie

  The red neon light for the motel was going bad. It buzzed and blinked all night long, turning my dingy two-bedroom room into a disco party. Tyler had danced himself into exhaustion, but then, that kid could sleep through anything. It was a blessing that he’d been a quiet baby, or I probably would have fallen apart. While I couldn’t even begin to imagine my life without him, the circumstances of his birth hadn’t exactly been the highlight of my life.

  When morning came, I dragged my exhausted, sweaty self out of bed and into the shower. The water was as cold as the air was hot, but even the lack of hot water and air conditioning wasn’t enough for me to try to find somewhere else to live. With my budget, the fact that the place was relatively bug-free and came with a mini-kitchen was more than I could ask for.

  “Baby, are you up?” I called out as I brushed my wet, strawberry-blonde hair into a ponytail. With a four-year-old son to chase after and very little money, I didn’t bother with make-up. It’d simply melt off anyway. I’d made my way to California thinking I could raise my son in warm and sunny climates, but Las Pameros was mostly desert, and the sun baked everything in its path.

  “Momma, did you get some blueberry Pop-Tarts? I think I’d like some blueberry Pop-Tarts.” My ever-so polite son rubbed his eyes as he walked into the bathroom and stared at me. With his blue eyes and blond hair, he was almost the spitting image of his father.

  Pretending to think it over, I narrowed my eyes and studied him. “If I remember correctly, I told you yesterday that I would only get some blueberry Pop-Tarts if you could recite the information that I gave you.”

  “My name is Tyler Garner Dennings. My mother’s name is Juliette Christie Dennings. I am four years old.” He went on to correctly announce his address and the new phone number that I’d given him to memorize since I’d lost my phone three days ago and had to get a new one. My stomach twisted as he correctly recited the number for the local police and went over the stranger danger rules. In a year, he would be five, and I’d have a decision to make. It wasn’t fair to keep moving him around when he started school, but it was also dangerous to stay in one place as well.

  My kid was smart, and I wasn’t just being a biased mother. He picked up things quickly, and he absorbed everything around him. It was almost a little terrifying.

  Stumbling over a few of the numbers, he righted himself and looked at me with hopeful eyes. “Well,” I declared loudly. “I think that might get you two blueberry Pop-Tarts!”

  “Two!” His eyes shined with excitement, and I nodded my head as he skipped from my bathroom into the kitchen. It was a good thing that he was already ready because I was running late.

  Pulling on a pair of jean shorts and a button-up plaid top, I slipped my sunglasses on my face and grabbed my things. My only friend and pretty much savior, Crystal, lived two doors down. Crystal didn’t have any kids, but she worked out of her motel room and was more than happy to keep an eye on Tyler for me while I was at work. There was some sort of unspoken rule around here about not asking people why they’d ended up at the Sunny Side Up Motel, so I never asked Crystal her story, and she never asked me mine, but I’d felt obliged to give her some details. She did look after my son, and there was always the slightest chance that his father might turn up.

  Crystal was about my age, twenty-seven, with the perfect body and a gorgeous face. I couldn’t help but sigh with a little jealousy when she opened the door and her perfect rack bounced ever so slightly when she bent to give Tyler a hug. While I had those childbearing hips and an ass that I still claimed carried some baby-weight, my tits were pretty small.

  Not like there was a damn thing I could do about it.

  “Are you giving me half of your blueberry tart?” Crystal gasped as she accepted the gift. “Well, that’s so sweet. You must know that I have something special planned for lunch.”

  “What’s that?’ Tyler asked while I whipped out my phone and connected with Crystal’s Wi-Fi. The motel internet was a joke, and Crystal had her own separate connection that she let me use.

  “If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise!” Crystal looked up expectantly. “Long day ahead of you?”

  I knew that she thought my job was weird, and the truth was that I knew it was a little strange myself. I needed a cash-under-the-table kind of job, and I found it when I’d answered an ad for someone to run errands. By errands, my boss basically wanted to pay me a sliver of what she made to do her job. Darleen Mason was the personal assistant for the sinfully wealthy and handsome Graham Porter, but it was obvious that Darleen wasn’t as interested in the work as she was the man. So while Mr. Porter paid her to keep his personal life organized, I was the one actually doing the work.

  The truth was that it was a helluva lot better than some of the other jobs I’d done in the past, and Darleen never missed a payment.

  “It looks like Darleen’s boss has a birthday coming up.” I’d signed a non-disclosure agreement, so I wasn’t allowed to say who I was working for, but Crystal knew that it was some bigwig. “I have to pick up a present for him.”

  Crystal pursed her lips in disapproval. “I keep telling you, Julie. Something doesn’t smell right about this job. How do you know you’re not working for some mobster or drug kingpin?”

  “You should be a writer,” I laughed. “I’m fairly certain that isn’t the case because things like that don’t happen to me. Tyler, baby, I’ve got to run. Come give me some sugar.” As always, when I left him, my emotions ran a little high, and my old Texas twang showed its ugly head. I’d worked hard to keep that accent down, but it popped up far more often than I would have liked.

  My perfect son ran into my arms and gave me a big kiss on my cheek. I held him tight and inhaled deeply into his hair. He was the reason that I still breathed, and the reason that I was even doing all of this.

  “Crystal says she’s got something special for lun
ch,” he whispered in my ear. “Last time she did that, we got McDonalds!”

  God help me when things like McDonalds thrilled my son. I let him go and paid Crystal for the day. The damn sign for the motel was still buzzing and blinking as I started my piece-of-crap car and drove to the boutique shops on Quarter and Main.

  When I first started working for her, Darleen had given me a credit card to authorize expenses. I worried that someone would ask to see some identification, but it would seem that all the employers on the strip knew Darleen by heart and were told that I wielded her card. I hated using it. While Darleen had given me a job and paid me on a regular basis, that woman had a mean streak a mile wide. She threatened hell on earth if I ever used the card for personal reasons or if I ever told her boss what was really happening. When we did meet, the woman did nothing by criticize me up and down, but I tried not to mind. After all, I wasn’t doing this for me.

  I was doing it for Tyler.

  Stepping into Matheson and Sons, the curio shop, my eyes immediately landed on a gorgeous wooden model ship that was encased in glass. The raw beauty of the ship spoke of someone’s love and expert craftsmanship. It was unique, and it’d make a perfect ship for Mr. Porter. Generations ago, his family had made billions off the shipping industry, and while they had their hands in different pies now, I knew from my research that Graham Porter had a thing for ships.

  “My nephew carved that,” a gravelly voice said with pride. “His father would rather him be a lawyer, but it’s rare to see that kind of talent these days. If you’re interested, we can personalize the ship with a name of your choice.”

  “Your nephew has a gift,” I said with a small smile. There was a time when I loved to be out on the water in a sailboat or kayak, but those days were long gone. “I’m actually here to pick up something that you’re holding for Darleen Mason?”

  The hope vanished from the man’s face, and I immediately felt bad. The ship was out of place in a shop like this, and I gathered the man was having a hard time selling it. Moving slowly, the owner rounded the desk and reached under to pull out a box. When I opened it an peered inside, I immediately grimaced.