Wanted_Big Bad Single Dad_A Billionaire Matchmaker Romance

by Daphne Dawn

  Still inside of my pussy, he places his long fingers over my cheeks from side to side, and a shiver goes up my side as I feel his fingertips over my crack. Noticing it, he spreads my cheeks wide and then starts caressing the gap. He stops right over my asshole then, pressing gently there.

  “Oh, God,” I gasp as he starts pushing his finger inside my ass, the movement of my body growing more erratic and violent. He truly drives me crazy, there’s no doubt about it. And that’s exactly the way I want it.

  He starts fingering me as I rock my body back and forth, waves of pleasure crashing against my body as I forget to breathe.

  Then, he pulls his cock out of pussy and his fingers off my crack, and presses his tip on my ass hole.

  He goes all the way deep inside me, and I scream with pleasure. He starts thrusting and I push my ass back, allowing him to go deeper and deeper.

  With one hand he holds my waist, and with the other he reaches for my clit, rubbing it with his almost magical fingertips.

  After that, his fingers leave my clit and start running over the length of my pussy, up and down, while he fucks my ass good, no mercy left to his movements.

  I can´t even describe what I’m feeling right know. I’m dizzy, my whole body focused on his movements as I try to keep up with his pace. I’m drunk in sex, sweating pleasure through my bare pores.

  He starts fingering my pussy at the same time, and I don’t think I can hold much longer without coming, that wave of pleasure forming itself on every cell of my body.

  His body is becoming tense too, the hand he had placed on my waist now running up through my body, reaching for my breasts.

  “Don´t stop…Don´t…you…fucking…stop!” I scream at the same rhythm he thrusts.

  He groans and doesn´t stop, going even harder than before. As my insides tighten around his shaft, I can feel him spasming inside my ass, unleashing a torrent of cum that starts dripping down my legs.

  Still with my back turned to him, I close my eyes.

  He pulls out of me and my skin prickles as I hear his hard breathing. A fraction of a second later and I feel thick ropes of cum falling on my back, crisscrossing over my naked skin.

  “Oh, God,” I moan, throwing myself on top of the mattress as I try to catch my breath, my body being devoured by flames of pleasure.

  “This was so fucking good,” he whispers, throwing himself on top of the mattress as if he’s about to pass out. I guess I’m not the only exhausted person in here.

  “Everything’s good when I’m with you,” I find myself saying, and my heart grows tight as I realize what I’ve just said.

  First Scott, now Brad…what’s happening to me?

  Scott

  Left, right, right left—I move my feet quickly. My hands pommel the little punching bag hanging on my veranda in the same rhythm. Little beads of sweat are forming at the base of my neck.

  The ding on my phone lets me know I’ve done five minutes. I stop, take a sip of water, and start again.

  Another twenty of these and I’ve done my workout for the day. I might even go for a bit of a run.

  It takes me some time to realize the strange sound I’ve been trying to ignore is someone knocking at my front door.

  I bounce through my apartment, trying not to lose my momentum. I’m not expecting anyone, so I know I’ll be short and quick. If it’s religious recruiters, I’ll be short and rude, and if it’s charity collectors, I’ll be reasonably polite and short.

  Either way, I’ll be short.

  “Hey, man. How’s it going?”

  I stop dancing on the spot. I’m not going to be quick after all.

  “Not bad. And you?”

  Brad pats me on the shoulder.

  “Great.”

  “Do you want to come in?”

  He nods, and I lead the way.

  Brad looks at my punching bag.

  “Those any good?”

  I nod and take another sip of water.

  “They’re great for letting off steam.” And boy have I been letting off steam. I could have powered an entire steam train for a hundred miles or so over the last few days.

  Brad throws little punches at it. The bag barely moves.

  I walk over and give him a demo.

  “Nice moves, showoff,” Brad says and sits down. “Seen Kayla lately?”

  The question throws me off.

  “I see her everyday…like you, at work.”

  Brad laughs. “Come on, man, I know she’s hot for you. I mean, after the punch-up the other day and the fallout.”

  “She said she was okay.”

  Brad nods.

  “She’s a tough one. But I think she’s really suffering the way Ed treats her. And that dead shit Ian.”

  “Don’t get me started on those two.” I hold up my hands. “They don’t deserve to be working with someone like Kayla. She loves her job and takes it really serious.”

  “I know.” Brad nods. “I think we need to help her.”

  I look at Brad.

  “Really? What’d you have in mind?”

  Brad leans forward and stares at his hands.

  “We need to find stuff on those two.”

  “What sort of stuff?” I hadn’t heard anything bad about Ed or Ian, except that Ian was fucking hopeless and Ed a dickhead. It’s hardly the sort of thing you can use against someone.

  “You know we need to find their weak spot. Get someone to dig up some dirt on them.” Brad seems to have given this a lot of thought.

  I scratch my head.

  “I guess. But what if they don’t have anything?”

  Brad laughs.

  “Trust me, dude, they’re bound to have some dirt on them. We need to dig. He who shall dig will find.”

  We both laugh.

  “You just made that up.”

  Brad nods.

  “Duh, but it sounds good.”

  “Drink?”

  Brad looks at his watch.

  “Suppose. It’s after lunch.”

  When I come back with two beers, Brad is standing in the living room, studying my music collection.

  “Does Kayla know?” I ask and hand Brad his beer.

  Brad looks over at me.

  “Know what?”

  “Your plan of digging up some dirt.”

  Brad takes a drink before he replies,

  “Nope, she wouldn’t agree to it anyway. You know what’s she’s like—too nice for her own good.”

  I nod.

  “She’s great, isn’t she? Gorgeous, sexy, smart, and so goddamn hot.”

  “Not to mention a fantastic fuck.”

  We toast Kayla with our beer bottles.

  “We need to look after her.”

  I agree. “We all want the same thing. Kayla wants us to stay on the show, and we want to stay on the show and want Kayla to stay as head writer.”

  “And we all want Ian to piss off and for Ed to disappear off the face of the earth.”

  “So how do we get rid of Ian?” I persist.

  I think Brad has more of a plan than he’s telling me. If this is the case, I think he should share. After all, two minds can be better than one.

  “I haven’t worked out all the details yet. But I think the first step is to find someone to get any dirt on both Ian and Ed. With any luck, there’s some kind of connection.”

  I cringe at the word connection.

  “You’re not suggesting a connection as in Ed and Ian, are you?” I’m not against two blokes at all. I’ve even played a gay guy once, but the thought of those two gives me the creeps.

  Brad laughs.

  “No way. No man or woman would want either of those jerks.”

  I think to back on everything I’ve read about Ian. I draw a blank.

  “I think we’ll be scratching to find something on Ian. He’s so dull I’ve never read anything about him in any of the gossip columns.”

  “Me neither, but there must be something there.” Brad takes another swig
out of his bottle. “It’s odd that Ian only works on series or films Ed has something to do with.”

  I hadn’t picked this up. Smart man, our Brad.

  “Okay, so let’s see what we can find.” I agree.

  “I’ve got my assistant trying to dig up as much as she can.”

  I scratch my neck.

  “I know this PI. He’s good, very good. I’ll pay him a visit, and we’ll see what he can find.”

  “To Kayla,” we both toast again.

  “Let’s vow to make sure nothing happens to our Kayla,” I say.

  Brad echoes, “Hear, hear.”

  Scott

  As I walk out the door, I look one last time in the mirror. Not bad. Instead of my usual jeans and tight T-shirt, I’m wearing dark loose-fitting trousers, a dark shirt, a coat, and a cap.

  I pull the cap down to cover my face. No one should recognize me in this getup.

  Instead of driving, I take the bus and walk the rest of the way.

  Outside a double-story building with broken shutters and a crocked sign, I look around. There appears to be no one around. With any luck, no one will see me go in.

  I press the bell where it says “Keyhole Antics” and wait for someone to open the door.

  When it does, I almost sprint up the stairs. I make sure I touch nothing. The germs are practically staring at me from the railing and walls.

  On the second floor, I turn left and spot the large green lettered sign straightaway.

  Richard Burstfly, Director.

  Keyhole Antics and Co.

  I cringe.

  If Kayla didn’t mean so much to me, I wouldn’t be here.

  Carefully I walk to the door. A cockroach glares at me I nearly step on him. I would step on him if I didn’t want to get my shoes dirty. The damn thing is so huge I wonder if it’s some kind of mutant.

  Once I’m past it, I half turn to look at it again. I swear I thought it talked to me.

  Luckily, Richard opens the door before I can work out how to touch the handle without catching the plague or something worse. I don’t want to be walking out of here with two heads and four legs, or something weird like that.

  “Me man Scott,” Richard greets me like a long-lost friend.

  “Hey, Richard.” I lift my hand in a hello type of wave. There’s no way I’m touching his hand. Who knows where it has been.

  “Call me Dick Scott. Everyone else does.”

  I follow the PI into his office.

  To describe the shit heap as an office was an exaggeration—a massive overstatement.

  The couch against the back wall was so full of stains I wondered what had been going on there before deciding I probably did no really want to know. Those stains could be anything.

  A single light globe hung from the ceiling; the paint was peeling off, and every space was covered in either papers or some other shit.

  Dick shoves a pile of stuff off a chair and invites me to sit down. He himself heaves his mass of fat onto one of those swivel chairs behind his desk. As his weight descends on the unsuspecting chair, there’s an almighty racket.

  In anticipation, I hold my breath.

  Nothing happens. Judging by the noise, I thought the chair was going to collapse and Dick end up sprawled on the ground.

  “Now, my man,” says Dick, and his stained sausage fingers fumble through some papers on his desk. “Is it the wife? Girlfriend? Bitch on heat straying and you want to find the bastard for castration?”

  At the word castration, I feel a twinge in my penis.

  “No.” I shake my head. I feel something crawl over the back of my neck, and I swiftly brush it off. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see a cockroach.

  No, wait a minute, not just any cockroach, but the one from the corridor. Is he staring at me? I glare at him and lift my foot in a threatening manner.

  The roach gets the message and disappears behind a bundle of papers.

  “Sorry,” Dick says. “Boyfriend straying? Same thing really, isn’t it?”

  I shake my head.

  “Sorry?” I have missed what he said, too distracted by the fucking bug.

  “You want me to find who your boyfriend is fucking?”

  Now I roll my eyes.

  “No.” I hold up my hand to stop him from talking. “It’s not that sort of investigation. I need you to find dirt.”

  Dick leans forward on his desk. Is he drooling? He is all ears.

  “What type of dirt?”

  “I need you to find what you can on these two people.”

  I pull out a photo of Ian and Ed. I have written their names under each of their photographs.

  “That dude looks familiar.” Dick’s meaty finger points at Ian and leaves a fat stain right on his cheek.

  “He’s an actor on a daytime television series.”

  The PI scribbles something in his notebook.

  “And this one?” Now the same fat stain can be seen on Ed’s chin.

  “He’s the producer on the same show,” I explain.

  Dick scratches his chin.

  “They’re together?” His fingers entwine as if to get his point across a little clearer.

  I shake my head.

  “No, it won’t be that easy. Ian, the actor, seems to only be in stuff where Ed is the producer.”

  More notes are scribbled in the notepad, emphasis on scribbled because to me it looks more like one of the many bugs in this room crawled across the page in drunken stupor than legible writing. Maybe Dick couldn’t write?

  “It’ll cost.” Dick rubs his hands together, and it looks like his nose is glowing.

  “I’ll pay. I’ll pay top dollar, particularly if you can deliver.”

  The hands stop rubbing and come to rest on the desk.

  “Keyhole Antics will deliver, Scott. It always does.”

  I pull out some notes and throw them onto the desk. I don’t want to touch anything.

  “Down payment, Dick. There’ll be more once you give me the dirt.”

  Now I’m sure there’s spit trickling down the PI’s chin.

  “Don’t you worry.” Dick stands, and I make for the door.

  I see his outstretched hand and manage to avoid being patted on the back by it. Even in the dim light and from where I’m standing, I can see the black dirt under the fingernails.

  I cannot get down those stairs fast enough. Once I’m outside the building, I take a deep breath. The odor was so strong in there I had barely been able to breathe.

  I know the man is brilliant and he gets paid well. What the fuck does he do with his money? I know what he should do with it: invest in a new office, a cleaner, and a makeover team.

  Kayla

  With a sigh, I delete the last thousand words I’ve typed onto the screen and watch them disappear. Ed’s words about a car accident ruin anything I want to write.

  I glance at my handwritten notes. During one night this week, I couldn’t sleep, and some good ideas came to my mind. So as not to forget, I jotted them down.

  I’ve decided the brothers’ relationship needs to become the focus. They are going to stop doing their old tricks. It’s time to decide to do something bigger than they have ever done before.

  My notes went on to describe how they masquerade as antique dealers to con this mega rich single woman into buying a very valuable manuscript from them.

  I try again.

  The car accident scene refuses to take shape. Any time I start with a car, it turns into an old antique thing—one this lady drives and the two brothers have their eye on.

  I shake my head and decide there’s only one thing I can do right now.

  When I come back with my strong hot coffee, I sit down and put fingers to keyboard again.

  As I type the opening of the scene, I sigh.

  Blast Ed into outer space, I think. Why is he trying to ruin my life? He and Ian, together they are the odd couple determined to make sure I fail.

  I think about the last few days. It’s been g
reat. Scott and I had amazing sex.

  And then there had been the mind-blowing sex with Brad.

  I shake my head as I stare at my screen, notes, and back at the screen again.

  I slam my hand onto my desk. Fuck Ed, I think.

  If there’s one thing I know, killing Brad and Scott is not the answer. And I know I don’t only hold this opinion because I’ve got feelings for both of them.

  During my soul searching, I’ve realized I’m more professional than Ed. It might appear to Ed or some of the others that I am letting my feelings get the better of me, but I disagree.

  And what had Ange said to me? It had been something about standing up for what I believe in.

  I believe in Scott, and I believe in Brad, and more importantly, I believe in this show.

  Drinking my coffee, I curse both Ian and Ed. Instead of sitting here and reveling in all the good things in my life, I’m sitting here being miserable.

  This is a time when I should be enjoying falling in love with two men, and I should be drinking up my success in the screenwriting world.

  Less than two years ago, no one had heard of Kayla, and now over a million viewers watch the show on which I’m head writer. Not that bad for someone who didn’t like English and whose fifth grade teacher told her to get ready for a career in hospitality.

  I sigh.

  I know what I must do. I must write the script the way I want to write it. And then somehow Ed needs to be…needs to be what?

  It’s good neither one of them are here right now because I’m so tempted to lash out physically. I ache all over.

  Next time Ian makes some smart-ass remark about my writing, I swear I won’t be held responsible if I hit him.

  My gaze moves around the office. What suitable object could I use? I don’t want to hurt my hands or get blood on them.

  I shake my head migthought. What’s happening to me? What level am I stooping to?

  I don’t believe in violence.

  And yet thoughts of smashing something heavy over Ed’s head are overwhelming.

  With a sigh and another sip of my coffee, I straighten up and start typing again.

  If I want to change the show, I had to get writing.