Romance: The Billionaires Collection (Watched By A Billionaire, Stranded With A Billionaire, Caught By A Billionaire, Billionaire Stepbrother)

by Lexi Duval

  Romance: The Billionaires Collection (Watched By A Billionaire, Stranded With A Billionaire, Caught By A Billionaire, Billionaire Stepbrother)

  Lexi Duval

  ©2015 Lexi Duval

  This book is a work of fiction. Any names, places, events, and incidents that occur are entirely a result of the author's imagination and any resemblance to real people, events, and places is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright 2015 Lexi Duval

  All right reserved.

  First edition: March 2015

  No part of this book may be scanned, reproduced, or distributed in any printed or electronic form.

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  Table of Contents

  WATCHED BY A BILLIONAIRE

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

  STRANDED WITH A BILLIONAIRE

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

  CAUGHT BY A BILLIONAIRE

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

  BILLIONAIRE STEPBROTHER

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

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  WATCHED BY A BILLIONAIRE

  PART ONE

  Prologue

  “This is it, Ashley, your first performance. Nervous?”

  I nod, my hands shaking, but try to force a smile onto my face.

  “Well, don't be. Just do what comes natural to you. I can assure you, the guy will help coax you through it, and he's very good looking.”

  Randall Taylor steps toward me, a gentle, fatherly expression on his face. He's about 40, wearing a beige suit and white shirt that compliments his dusty brown hair and hazel eyes.

  He reaches out and takes me by the hand, pulling me up out of the chair. I leave my reflection in the mirror behind me; my long blonde hair, styled into beautiful waves, my soft blue eyes, shallow and clear like water. Around me is wrapped a white gown, and underneath, a set of lacy, sexy lingerie that clings tight to my slim but curvy frame.

  I'm lifted to my feet, and take a final look at myself, see the well of nerves in my eyes.

  You can do this, Ashley...

  Randall leads me to the door of the plush dressing room, and my heart moves up another gear, rattling like a child's toy inside my ribcage.

  “Now you know the set up, don't you Ashley? The performance will go on for about 30 minutes. If you cannot orgasm naturally, please make sure you're good at faking it. Our clients can spot a fake easily, and they're here for the real thing.”

  I nod, hardly able to speak. He's told me this all before, but he seems like a man who's meticulous in his work.

  “Your partner this evening is called Brett. He's about 8 inches, so make sure you're ready to receive him and try not to grimace too much if you feel any pain. He's a professional, so will ensure that everything goes OK.”

  He keeps leading me down a corridor toward a door at the end marked 'stage'. Yet this is no play, no performance for the masses. This is one for a very specific group of men who have specific tastes and needs.

  But most of all, they demand privacy and complete discretion. That's why I'm being paid a small fortune to be here.

  “You won't see the men watching you,” continues Randall. “The walls will be mirrored on your side, so you'll only see yourself and Brett until your performance is over. The room may spin, though, so be prepared for that.”

  Spin?

  Before I can ask what he means, he's already reached the door and has stopped outside.

  He turns to me again, half smile on his face.

  “Ashley, remember how beautiful and sexy you are. That's why you're here, OK. If you perform well, you'll be invited back, and a few more of these and you'll be set up for life.”

  He puts his hand to my cheek and gives me a reassuring nod.

  “Now, go, Brett's waiting for you. Think only of him, and not of the men on the other side of the walls. Forget it all, and just have some fun. Brett will make sure you enjoy yourself.”

  My heart thunders harder, my body all but threatening to collapse under the weight of my nerves. Randall looks me deep in the eye, and pulls a small hip flask from his jacket.

  “Take a swig of this, it will help.”

  I gratefully take the metal container and suck down some harsh whiskey. The liquid makes me cough, my voice echoing down the corridor, before warming my insides and dampening my anxiety a touch.

  I take another before Randall retrieves his flask and returns it to his jacket.

  “Now, it's time. Remove your robe, and be sure to smile when you enter.”

  I slip out of my robe, leaving me in nothing but my frilly bra and panties, and pass it to Randall

  “Good luck, beautiful Ashley.”

  Then he turns, and I turn, and my hand grips the door handle.

  Here we go Ash...no time to turn back now.

  And with that, I pull down, take a big breath, plaster a smile to my face, and go through the door.

  Chapter One

  One Month Earlier

  I never quite thought that having sex with my boss would have such drastic repercussions.

  It never really crossed my mind that jumping into bed with him would lead me to lose my job and have to leave LA. I mean, Jesus, talk about your bad luck.

  It's his fucking wife, really. Although, to be fair, I suppose she has some reason to be mad at me.

  The problem is, I never knew he even had a wife. The guy was all charm and sexy looks at work, and I did what I often do when given such attention – I sucked him dry and let him fuck me every which way in his office.

  That went on for about 3 weeks before I was suddenly fired, literally thrown out of the office by some meat head security guard, and left with no job and no place to live because my apartment in LA was part of my employment package.

  It became quickly clear that it was the guy's wife who was to blame. And, unfortunately for me, she's a high flier in the fashion world herself, and holds enough sway to make it pretty difficult for me to get another job in LA.

  For now, at least.

  I mean, perhaps over time she'll cool down and realize that it's her damn husband who's the real villain, but for now I'm the one copping all the blame and seeing my entire life disintegrate around me like a wet paper towel.

  Right now, I'm in my apartment and I'm packing my things with a couple of the girls from work who live with me. They seem even more depressed than I am about what's going on, and are trying to reassure me that things will blow over soon and I'll be able to resume the career that was starting to go well.

  The job had been almost perfect. Junior fashion editor for a local fashion magazine might not be something to set the world alight, but it was ideal for me as a stepping stone into the industry.

  The way I saw it, my trajectory was mapped out, from my current role all the way up to fashion editor at vogue or another of the major international magazines. Those hopes, right now, seem to have been dashed like waves on a rock.

 
I continue to pack my things, however, without showing much emotion. Life is always going to throw you these hurdles and sometimes you're going to have to try to leap them. If you don't, you'll come crashing into a heap on the floor.

  Self pity and a tendency to sulk and mope have never been a part of my repertoire.

  Get up, get on with it, and leave the past where it belongs.

  That's my motto.

  By mid afternoon I've got my entire life packed into the back of my Ford Fiesta and am preparing a significant drive across country back home to New Jersey. My flatmates, who I've been sharing the apartment with for the last year, give me warm hugs and more words of support before I shut the door, never expecting to see them again.

  “Ah, honey, we'll be in touch,” they tell me, although I'm fairly sure that won't.

  They'll just turn their attention back to their work and will most like be distracted by whoever fills my position in the apartment and the office. I will, most likely, be quickly forgotten in an industry that is filled with pretentious people who live in the vacuum of their own lives.

  One day, Ash, you'll have your own fashion label...

  The dream I had as a kid still lingers in the back of my head, sprouting forward at times like these when I need some self-encouragement.

  Perhaps now I can turn my attention to my own designs, rather that focusing on the media and journalism side of things?

  That was always the original plan before I found the junior editor job, although even I'd admit that it was a fanciful one. For such a thing you need a studio and money for materials and the time to actually work on your designs.

  Such things don't just grow on trees, and the bitter sting of reality was always going to defeat such a romantic notion as having my designs hanging off beautiful woman as they traipse down the catwalk.

  Still, I resolve to remain optimistic about my life as I type my parent's address into my satnav and pull out onto the road. Inside the car it's hot and humid, the air stiff from several says of pulsing summer sunshine that's created an interior akin to what you'd find in a sauna.

  With my air conditioning unit having decided to pack up, I quickly wind down the window beside me to get a draft rushing through. With the newly manufactured wind comes the sound of the city; the honking horns and rush of engines and the general chatter of pedestrians as they shoot this way and that.

  Soon enough, however, I'm escaping the city and am being deafened by the roar of the open window as I clatter down the highway, my car's engine straining under the weight of my possessions neatly packed into trunk and the back seat.

  I put some music on, try to forget about my troubles for a while, and let the hypnotic motion of the open road suck me into another world.

  Right now, perhaps a 3 day drive across the country is just what I need to clear my head...

  Again, I try to find the positives in something that most people would happily agree is an horrendous chore. I'll be driving until late, staying overnight at some cheap motel, then driving all day, another motel, and then a final day on the road before finally returning to the house I haven't seen in over a year.

  I can't imagine many people would look forward to such a trip, but the more distance I put between me and my former boss's embittered wife, the better.

  The day drags, and any enthusiasm I had managed to cling to gradually begins to weaken to the point where I'm half in a daze as the rain begins to fall and the light starts to fade. The change in weather seems strangely symbolic to me. Only last week my life was marching forward just how I'd wanted it to. And now I'm retreating back to New Jersey with my tail between my legs and a crazy, powerful, and influential fashionista with a serious grudge against me shooing me out of LA.

  By the time I reach my motel, I'm wiped, and hardly have time to wait for my takeaway dinner before passing out on the unexpectedly comfortable bed. I sleep, my mind tormented, and wake to a day that's even darker and wetter than before.

  And that continues all day.

  Wet, miserable, and growing colder by the hour. My optimism fades to the point of no return and I begin the trend of stopping every few hours at gas stations to fill up, not only on fuel, but on comfort foods to try to help to lighten my mood.

  By the second night, I'm beginning to wallow in my own misery and feel like a completely different person to before. As if the further I get from LA, from the life that held such promise, the worse I feel.

  In many ways I feel like I'm throwing in the towel. And even when I tell myself not to think like that, that things will be fine, I begin to find myself disagreeing with my inner dialogue more than usual.

  Slowly, but surely, the negative, pessimistic person inside me, who rarely comes forward, starts to hold more sway.

  So, I drive for three days in the wind and rain, trying to stay upbeat but finding it increasingly difficult to do so. And when I finally reach home, the night growing dark on my third day of travel, I'm greeted with a sight that makes me burst out crying.

  It's nothing more than my mom, waiting up later than normal to let me into the house, a weak and consoling smile on her face. It's that look that finally breaks me. That look only a mother can give and one that says in an instant that everything will be OK.

  And as I cry and fall into her arms, I realize that maybe, just maybe, it will be.

  Chapter Two

  “Did you sleep well darling?”

  I've just managed to rouse myself from a deep sleep, and have risen to find my mom preparing breakfast downstairs, wrapped in an apron and looking every bit the homemaker she's always been.

  “Yeah, thanks mom. I always forget how comfy my old bed is.”

  “Nothing like home,” says my mom with a note of reflection, flipping a couple of fried eggs.

  “You hungry sweetheart?”

  I'm not, but I tell her yes. My dad, I know, has already gone off to work and I'm fully aware that my mom's cooking only for me. Bacon and eggs don't agree with her palate, but have always been one of my favorites.

  She dishes me up a full place of goodness and I forget my lack of appetite and sink every last mouthful. She sits with me for a few moments, sipping on a coffee, before setting about cleaning up and putting the kitchen back into order.

  “So what's your plan?”

  My mom isn't a forward person. She's the sort of woman who hates confrontation and rarely asks any questions that might lead to an argument. So I'm fairly surprised when she comes right and asks me what exactly my plan is.

  Still, I don't hesitate to answer.

  “Find another job.” I say it forcefully, with conviction, although inside I know it's going to be a struggle.

  The entire reason I moved from here was because I'd canvassed the entire East Coast and found nothing to suit me. Only in LA was I granted an opportunity to show what I could do.

  Only, showing what you can do isn't supposed to involve swallowing your boss's dick in his office every night...

  Stupid fucking girl Ashley, always thinking with your pussy...

  As if knowing what's running through my mind, my mom poses another question that she'd never usually ask.

  “So, what actually happened...with your job. They can't just fire you for nothing?”

  She still doesn't turn to me. That would be too much for her, too confrontational. She just keeps on washing the dishes, merrily setting about her day to day tasks as if I'm not there.

  “I wasn't fired, mom, not really,” comes my rehearsed reply. “The magazine was downsizing and my position was lost in the process. Just bad luck really.”

  The truth, of course, will remain hidden from my parents forever. They've always thought I was their perfect, innocent, little Ashley, a girl who only lost her virginity to her first real boyfriend at 18 and had never had a one night stand.

  The reality of my life would shock them. Because no, I didn't lose my virginity to my first boyfriend but to a guy at school when I was only 15 and he was a few years older.
That was the one time we hooked up, so I both lost my virginity and had my first one night stand at precisely the same time.

  Since then, I've been open with my sexuality and, outside of my parents, proud of it. I don't see anything wrong with a girl who enjoys to fuck, and not just their boyfriends but random guys as well.

  I mean, I have a criteria, of course. It's not completely strict, but it's enough to know that I don't just fuck anything with a dick. In general, if a guy looks good and can make me laugh or there's any chemistry between us, I'll happy tuck his cock between my lips and have some fun with him.

  And what's wrong with that?

  Fuck all, I say. But...I'd never say it to my parents.

  “Ah, that's terrible honey. Well, at least they'll give you a good reference, right? I mean, you were doing well there weren't you?”

  “I'd hope so mom.”

  With my mom seemingly satisfied with my short explanations, I get on with my dad, hitting the Internet and looking for jobs.

  Starting with fashion media jobs, I quickly widen the field and mine deeper, searching for anything available over the Hudson in Manhattan and in the various smaller urban areas around my parents home in East Orange.

  Over the next week, I send my resume off to a hundred employers and fill in just as many forms online. I send emails, make phone calls, and even spend a day in Manhattan canvassing for work face to face.

  Slowly, surely, my renewed verve starts to weaken again and I'm quickly reminded of the difficulty I had in finding work the last time.

  After the first week, however, I get somewhere, setting up two interviews for the following few days.

  Both are disasters.

  During one, I find myself digging a hole when I'm asked why my previous job ended. The poise I displayed when lying to my mother suddenly abandons me, and the interviewer digs to such an extent that I end up blurting out the truth in the hope that, somehow, he'll find my candor refreshing and give me the job.