Curvy Delights: Billionaire Romance BBW Boxset

by Tara Brent

  I am certain that Jimmy means it when he says “Any time, day or night.” By the time we pay the check, Jimmy is practically floating.

  We haven’t been back at the office for ten minutes when he starts up.

  “See? Isn’t he just so dreamy?”

  “I don’t think I have ever met such a handsome, studly computer programmer in my life.”

  “Do you think I should learn Fortran?”

  “No. I think Harold should learn how to arrange a centerpiece.”

  “I haven’t heard from him... Do you think he lost my card?”

  “Maybe he lost the key to his closet.”

  “He doesn’t have the key. He doesn’t even know there’s a closet.”

  “Maybe there isn’t.”

  “Am I ever wrong?”

  “Define ‘wrong’.”

  “‘Wrong’ is that beautiful young man never knowing who he is.”

  “Or, ‘wrong’ is forcing someone who clearly has issues meeting that secret self and taking him out into the open.”

  Jimmy actually thinks about that one. “You think that’s wrong? Really?”

  “I think – no, I know, and so do you – that there are an awful lot of factors that go into being comfortable with yourself, and who you are.”

  “Well...” Jimmy stares at the desk. I can’t tell what he’s thinking, but if he thinks any harder, smoke will start to pour out his ears.

  “I think I know you pretty well, Jimmy.”

  “Too damn well.”

  “You’re brilliant, and can do stupid things. You’re handsome and built like a model, but you can be so self-shaming sometimes you won’t even look in the mirror. You are organized and efficient – and you’re reckless and impulsive. You are a seething snake pit of contradictions, Jimmy.”

  “Me? Thus spoke the kettle. Or are you the pot?”

  “You’re right. I am just as confounding as you are. And as far as I can tell, so is everybody else.”

  “I don’t know. Even Kanye?”

  “Even the Notorious R.B.G. Everyone.”

  “I don’t care about everyone else. I care about Harold.”

  “Do you really?”

  “Yes! He’s wonderful. He’s... He’s...”

  Jimmy tries to find the right words and I know he can’t find them. For one simple reason. He has no idea who that man is. He’s had exactly one conversation. With Seb Okoye and Yours Truly present at that. So I tell him this:

  “He’s Harold Parker. And before you make up your mind he’s the love of your life— No, wait. Before you decide you know what’s best for him, you need to do something first.”

  “Okay, Ann Landers. What’s that?”

  “You need to take the time to get to know him.”

  “Of course! That’s what I want!”

  “You love the Harold you want him to become. And maybe he will get somewhere closer to that our real Harold of today. But you have to respect that this Harold may have a thousand reasons why he isn’t ‘your’ version of Harold.”

  “Well, maybe he needs just a teeny weeny push in the right direction.”

  “Right for him? Or for you?”

  “How do you know those aren’t the same things?”

  “I don’t. And neither do you.”

  The pout is back, but only for a moment. Inside his head, the reckless, impulsive Jimmy is arguing with the sensitive, thoughtful Jimmy. So I do the worst thing you can do to someone: I throw his own words of wisdom back in his face. “Remember what you told me about Blake?” I ask him. “Shut up? Leave it alone? Do not stick it under a microscope? You gave be the best advice: Just let it happen. Give it a fucking chance. Because if you try to push it into something else, you don’t stand a chance. Well you were right. Just let it happen, or you have no chance. And neither does he.”

  Jimmy glares at me. It was a low blow, I’ll admit, but he doesn’t argue. Then I try to be positive, to make up. “Look, you two will see quite a bit of each other over the next few days. Especially at the wedding. Right?”

  “I guess. Yeah.”

  “So, make the most of it. Just get to know him. Let him find out just how wonderful you are. And then, whatever happens, happens.”

  Of course he hates to hear it. And, just like I knew he was right about Blake, he knows I’m right about this. I could let it go at that...

  “Oh, and one more thing...”

  “Yes?”

  “Remember not to suck his dick.”

  And when he can laugh at that, I know Jimmy’s back on track.

  Chapter 17: Finishing Touches

  The last few days are a blur.

  Somewhere in there, my mom let Cici talk her into dumping my shack to move into the North Guest House (the nicer of two) at the Ol’ Okoye Spread. Just until after the wedding. Cici tells her it would mean so much to have my Mom around to keep Seb’s Mom (Cici) from losing her mind during the final countdown. I think Mom would have liked it if I had put up at least a token resistance. Just a trace of disappointment. But I was busier than I’ve ever been. I was secretly as happy as a beagle at an all you can eat sushi bar. Ecstatic that she wasn’t going to be haunting my condo, ironing my undies and scrubbing tile grout. And it would have been tough on her to be at my place anyway, since I almost never was. She says she can handle that, and she usually does. But I would have had to ignore her. And no matter what she says, that would break her heart.

  Instead, she’s right in the center of the Wedding Whirlwind, keeping her best friend from chewing the sofa. I was glad I didn’t have to worry about her. Didn’t have to hang up the wet towels in my bathroom, polish all the light switches, or floss between the levolor blinds. If Mom wants to hector somebody about housekeeping, she’d have to settle for Igor.

  Kicking Mom to the curb to get some work done, that’s one thing. Holding a randy billionaire who has lived all his forty-two and a quarter years treating his sexual urges like a call to Grub Hub is quite something else. This is a guy who is born and raised with the idea he can stick his thumb into any pie in the window, and pull out all the plums he wants, when he wants them.

  And, to be fair, I kind of like it when he sticks his thumb in me. But after I have spent nineteen hours on my feet counting heads, writing checks, sampling frosting, discussing bouquets, ass-testing rental chairs, renting industrial strength electrical generators, praying for clear weather, screening waiters and bartenders and bus boys, running sound checks, mapping seating charts, taste-testing chocolate truffles (okay, that part’s not too bad), offering psychotherapy to the bride, the bride’s mother, the groom’s mother (yeah, Mom was actually a help with that part), having health inspectors go through a score of food trucks for a clean bill of health, hiring private nurses and EMT wagons and a doctor to staff the gig just in case, sending every neighbor in a three block radius a gigantic Tower ‘O Treats basket from Harry and David, coordinating luxury shuttles from the Del Coronado, The Grant Hotel, and bus service between Kishnev and Eckveldt (okay, I made that up), sent a bottle of complimentary champagne to six hundred and seventeen different hotel guests, out of town friends and relatives, glad-handers, and schnoorers, hired a separate video crew for the after-dinner dance soirée, set up a listening post with claymore mines and a machine gun nest to guard the wedding gifts (with blank loads, I would never use live ammo or kill some glue-fingered third cousin over a purloined Cuisinart or a set of flatware), and taught Igor the lyrics to ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ (don’t ask), and then crawl home to catch a few winks in my inner sanctum... Well, after all that, not even my very healthy libido is in the mood for a midnight booty call.

  I think that’s not unreasonable.

  While Blake did not disagree in principle, when he did show up at the condo at 1:15 a.m. with making whoopee on his mind, there was a definite strain on the understanding of terms.

  So when I stood in my doorway and said the equivalent of “Not tonight, I have a headache, due to this spike embedded in t
he base of my skull,” he got all sulky. Poor baby.

  So, on Wedding Night minus two, I had to take a firm stand with Romeo, and tell him to go rent a video.

  “Can I watch it here, with you?”

  “You can watch it here. Not with me. I’ll be asleep, preferably in an induced coma.”

  “But, baby...”

  “Yes, infantile narcissist?”

  “You know how bad my cock is wanting you?”

  “It’s not the wanting, big boy. It’s only the getting. Not tonight.”

  Oh, the look.

  God almighty, you’d think someone told him he had testicular cancer, and the surgery team was all scrubbed in. I guess it takes a certain amount of practice to handle the reins when you have a six-horse team of stallions pulling your lust buggy, and he didn’t have any. It was like he could not believe I was saying no. Frankly, neither did I.

  Because, damn my nostrils, I could literally smell the pheromones rising off both of us like a swamp mist. I course I wanted his gold standard dick in my hand. My mouth. My pussy. I was aching with the wanting of it. But I knew him, and I knew myself. We would fuck like a pair of minks on Molly, grinding away until dawn’s early light. Then, he’d toddle off to golf, or tennis, or yacht polo, or whatever the fuck billionaire playboys do when they aren’t fucking their brains out. But me? I would stagger around in a fugue state, stumbling through one mindless error after another, and fucking the goat. I need to rest up, or I’d be as worthless as a halibut with a ten speed.

  So, I kissed him chastely on his forehead and sent the horny dreamboat packing. Then I went upstairs to my bedroom and got some sleep. After wearing out the battery on my trusty vibrator. Just to take the edge off.

  Good thing I was well-rested and fresh as a daisy in the morning. Otherwise, I would have opened a vein and ended it all when I got the tearful call from Michelle. Was the blushing bride getting cold feet? Not exactly. She was getting an offer to come to Geneva and take over a complex of pharmaceutical labs doing advanced cancer research. Now.

  In my years as a wedding planner, I’ve had girls who got second thoughts when their old college flame showed up on the arm of their matron of honor. I have coddled one bride through what she thought was a miscarriage (it was actually some questionable oysters from the rehearsal dinner). I’ve had a whole bridal party get stranded in Mexico with Montezuma’s revenge after a bachelorette party. There was even one girl who was afraid of the Honeymoon because she thought she might be a lesbian. Why? Because she loved watching women’s volleyball.

  But never had I faced the impending crisis of having the bride hop on a plane to Switzerland to cure cancer. I mean, how do you talk somebody out of that? I can ask her ‘What’s more important in the grand scheme of things? Saving millions of lives, or tossing a bouquet over her shoulder to start a melee between a dozen tipsy bridesmaids. Only that version of Sophie’s Choice might not go the way I wanted it to. Tough luck, carcinoma.

  The worst part was, she had Seb on her side. Don’t you just hate an altruistic scientist? Who did he think he was, Albert Fucking Schweitzer? His job should have been to take that bitch by the hair and throw her into the kitchen. Barefoot. And pregnant. Not save countless men and women from hideous, painful death. Can’t somebody else do that? Why screw up my plans for their happiness, just for their own happiness? It just isn’t reasonable.

  But, sadly, I knew I didn’t have a chance to convince either one of them of what was really important here. Throwing a massive party, getting hundreds of guests fatter and stinking drunk, and making their parents happy.

  And this is where my Mom saved my ass. Sort of.

  No human being on earth can best Mommy Dearest when it comes to pushing the envelope on creating a guilty false equivalence. She had even convinced me once to give up college Lacrosse. The Men’s team wasn’t happy to have the first woman they ever had on the team go and quit on them. And honestly? It turned out you can hardly tell how bad my nose was broken. So I knew, theoretically at least, of her magical powers of guilty persuasion.

  What I didn’t anticipate, though, was how much more effective she could be when she worked for a Tag Team. She and Cici together? With all the manipulative skills they had developed together in high school? Cancer research never stood a chance.

  First, they lobbied Michelle directly. That was a waste. The girl had these fundamentally ridiculous notions about the value of human life. Like that it was more important than dancing in the moonlight. Girls these days.

  Shoveling maternal guilt on Sebastian was just as ineffective. He harbored an unreasonable, outdated idea that he could be proud of his wife for overlooking her personal gratification, just to advance medical science and curtail universal human suffering. I’m just glad a guy like that will never make it to the White House. He would ruin everything that Makes America Great Again.

  And lobbying Dr. Annette Miller-Conroy, the Mother of the Bride? Why that silly Fliberty-Jibbet actually made her push in the wrong direction. She explained that when she and James had skipped a traditional wedding ceremony altogether, donating the cost of a nuptial celebration to Greenpeace, setting off on a voyage to stop the clubbing of baby harp seals instead, and being married at sea by the crusty old salt who captained the ship, it was the proudest moment of their lives. What kind of people are they, you have to wonder.

  But hand it to Mom. When all her schemes and arguments failed, she turned to the last, best hope of any parent.

  Bribery.

  Actually, they would have failed miserably on their own, if they had been selfish and stubborn. I can say this for Mom. She knows when she’s licked. She just doesn’t know when to quit.

  So she enlisted the real hero , Big Daddy, Joseph Okoye. Fortunately, being a genius and billionaire is still worth something in this crazy world. And Joseph being on the board of the largest medical research charity on the planet did have its upside. When guilt, logic, and personal pleasure failed, it was Joseph’s offer to triple the $80 Gazillion Dollar research grant for the Swiss clinic, if they could just put off Michelle’s start date for a month. It was a bribe only a mother could love. Well, not just a mother. I loved it, too. Because she saved my ass as well.

  The wedding was on again.

  There were other fires to put out. The Groom’s men, for one. Jimmy had gotten it in his head that the look of their tuxedos was all wrong. He simply had to go shopping for a total new look. With Harold. Of course, the only motivation was so Jimmy could get a look at Harold changing pants in the dressing room. Once that was accomplished, they rethought the whole thing, and decided to stick with the original outfits. Surprise, surprise.

  Then, two of the best roach coaches got into a feud. Eddie’s Ethiopian Express had been dueling over a prime spot next to the Padres’ Petco Park Parking Lot with Barry Zilijian, of Barry’s Bear Burgers fame. To be fair, Eddie was correct in his assertion that Barry almost never had any ground bear meat for his exotic bill of fare. But that argument fell on deaf ears to the eating public. Barry did land office business with ostrich burgers, venison burgers, and his scrumptious duck burgers. And honestly? I’ve had one of his bear burgers on a rare occasion when Barry had real bear meat on hand. It was dreadful. Although it was pretty decent smothered with salsa, wrapped in a tortilla, and served up as a Bearito.

  Anyway, the day before the wedding, the two vendors had arrived at the one and only parking spot available to Roach Coaches within walking distance of the baseball stadium. Eddie tried to slide into it first, but Barry set his galley on ramming speed, and both trucks ended up in the garage for extensive repairs.

  And finally, there was the Great Wine War. Our master wine man, Dave Fuller, had delivered in plenty of time. However, when he took the temperature of our warehouse, he proclaimed it was nearly two degrees too warm to properly store his magnificent vintages. He refused to release the four thousand bottles he had in his temperature-controlled, refrigerated wine galleon. Fine, says I. Keep them in t
he truck, and deliver them directly to the wedding.

  That was agreed, but, as I pointed out earlier, once Dave gets where he is going, the sampling begins. By noon of the day before, Dave was so well lubricated that driving was not an option; and no one, he said , was allowed to drive his truck, except Dave himself. And to prove his point, he tossed the keys into a storm sewer.

  And here is where Jimmy truly shined.

  I knew he could charm the fur coat off a Beverly Hills Drag Queen. He could wheedle a deal with any hotel, ballroom, conference center, country club, or historical / architectural building. He could make fair deals with vendors, never overpay, but never nickel and dime them, he could work permits, wrangle flowers, and once he even filled in as a sous chef.

  But I had no idea how fast he could “Jimmy” a lock, and hot wire a truck. So even the Wine War ended in victory.

  At the end of that last day before the wedding, I got home at 11:15 pm, and folks, I was ready to plotz. I barely had the strength to turn the key and let myself into the condo. I forced myself to take a shower before I collapsed in bed. And I would have been asleep thirty seconds later...

  ...Except for that doorbell.

  Blake started talking before I had the door all the way open. “Kira, I want to—”

  I pulled him inside the condo by the collar.

  I pulled his dick out with both hands.

  “I don’t have the energy to argue,” I said. “Fuck me six ways to stupid.”

  It turned out four and a half ways was plenty. It would have been five ways. In fact, maybe it was. I wouldn’t know. I fell fast asleep in the middle of number five. Actually, we did get to six ways, but not until we woke up in the morning. We thought about going for seven rounds, but I had a big day ahead of me. Besides, Jimmy was calling...

  Chapter 18: The Blessed Day Arrives, Tra-La Tra-La

  I’m on my cell with Jimmy, as I’m on my way over the Coronado Bridge. He is practically bouncing up and down, from the way he sounds.