A Bad Boy Billionaire: Forbidden Alpha Male Romance (4 page)

She opened her eyes about an hour later, just as I was finishing up my science fiction fantasy of her. I would write the notes up later. She smiled at me as she looked up, yawning. I reached down and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and behind her ear.

“I can't believe I fell asleep,” she said.

“You're probably tired.”

“You don't know how tired.” I saw a hardness come back over her, enveloping her like a cloud of dark, dank smog.

“Well, you can sleep all you want now. But...” I lifted her head gently. “I need you to move because I think my feet fell asleep.” I could feel a thousand pins in my legs as I tried to wake them up.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, panicking.

“It's okay. Really. It happens.”

She seemed worried and upset, so I made her another drink. She declined and asked if she could sleep there for the night. I agreed and we buried ourselves under the covers, both in our underwear. She reached out and placed her arm over my chest as she moved as close as she could. I fell asleep to the sound of her breathing.

We spent the next morning and afternoon shopping. She was ready to go, but I felt a desire to buy her some clothes and get her started on her new life. I didn't want to leave her side. I had the means to protect her and I wanted to do that more than anything else. My money meant nothing if I couldn't help people. She seemed worthy of my attention – and not just because I found myself attracted to her.

I wanted to kiss her face in the morning when I woke up before her, but instead I untangled myself and ordered us breakfast. She ate almost as much as me. After eating, we had coffee on the patio and looked out at the city. I saw the entire world to explore and she saw Paris and wondered how she could escape. I could see the fear of the unknown in her eyes, in the wrinkles on her forehead. How to reassure her?

“Let's go shopping today,” I said, sitting up. “I haven't been in a while and I can get you some clothes and what-not so you can start your new life properly.”

“I couldn't accept. You've already done so much.”

I insisted. I bought her clothes, and jewelry, and a car, and an apartment building so she would have a place to live and an income. During this entire month of shopping, we slept in the same bed but only cuddled. She tried to come on to me, but I turned her away. I assured her I wasn't gay but that I wasn't ready to take her yet. She would know when I was ready, I promised.

She took to her new life really well. An idea of hers increased income of the apartment complex and made me money from the small percentage of the company I still owned. This is what made me want her. She was a hustler and smart – street smart and book smart. She had a college degree in fashion design and used some of her new money to launch a line of clothes that quickly became popular.

After this, I couldn't resist her any longer. In her penthouse and overlooking the city where I'd rescued her, I took her on the balcony from behind. I raised the dress she was wearing – one she had designed – and pulled down my zipper. My cock sprang out and pressed against the cheeks of her ass. I grabbed hold of it and guided it to the entrance of her pussy.

She pressed back against me and I entered her – just an inch. I slowly pressed in further and she opened up, inviting me in deeper. As she grabbed the rail, I began pounding into her. I reached around and started massaging and teasing her clit with my fingers as I moved in and out. I didn't last long, cumming inside her as she screamed.

I didn't pull out right away and kept stimulating her with my hand. Her breathing got faster as she finally reached an orgasm and I felt her body shake as I slipped out of her. She rushed off to the bathroom to clean up, but I followed her. She jumped in the shower, giggling, and I started licking her legs, her lower lips.

As the water sprayed down, I knelt in front of her and used my tongue to clean her out as she held onto my head and came again. I joined her standing and we soaped each other and rinsed off, planning what we were going to do the rest of the day. She had to work, and I had to walk around the city and think about my next book. We went our separate ways with an agreement to meet again that evening.

I took her to a fancy restaurant so she could show off another of her dresses in public. She was becoming quite the local celebrity. She was really talented when it came to fashion – and when it came to cumming. She had many talents. After dinner in our private room in the restaurant, we shared a bottle of wine and talked.

And then time did strange things as Einstein rolled over in his grave. I didn't know how to tell her the truth, so I didn't. She was doing so well I let her treat me to a trip around the world. We started in Asia but soon moved to Eastern Europe and then her home. I met her parents who were both nice. I was really beginning to think she was the one.

Then, when we returned to Paris, she dove into work and stopped calling as much. I found out through a trusted source she had taken two lovers. She was spending on them lavishly. I wasn't upset that she wanted someone else, I was mad she hadn't told me the truth. What could I expect when I lied to every woman I met? I couldn't tell them I was part of the one percent or I would never knew why they truly loved me.

She was a lot younger than me anyway. And I had saved her and maybe shouldn't have slept with her at all. I couldn't help she had insisted that morning on her balcony. I remembered her tightness fondly for a long time afterward, even as I plunged my penis into fresh pussy. Hemingway said the best way to forget a woman was to find a new one, which is what I did. Papa had a way of knowing what to say at the right moment.

Whether her tears were real or not when I told her I was leaving never to return I won't ever know. Who can know the mind of a woman? You can memorize every curve of her body and every inch of her womanhood, but the most precious part – her mind – is a mystery even to the most effeminate man. She paid back all the money I had spent on her, wishing truly to be free, and I had to let her fly away like a bird. If she loved me, she would come back to me.

Pussy and Poetry

I flip the notebook over and write,
“I flip her over and enter her from
behind.” And in the back of my mind,
I see this as a way to unwind after a day
or a month or a year of chasing a project to
the very end. And the way her hips fit so per-
fectly with the way she purrs at me as she
rocks back and forth and forward and
backwards in words and motions
as sounds like the Ocean
rocking like the Stones
who can't get satellite
satisfaction or any
sort of traction.
Am I dumb or am I just happy?
Nirvana around the corner or
another meaningless sexual
escapade or chapter to turn
into a poem for later release
over and over I analyze all the
time I spend chasing the perfect
woman to have and to hold and to
love and not obsess over or write a-
bout. A long bout with writer's block
and then pussy and poetry as the waves
of emotion wash over me and I thrust while
in the back of my mind I'm already composing
the lines to make the memory of the moment more
concrete. Sitting on the edge of your seat you wait
to feel the weight of me on top of her between her
legs and the way the feeling exceeds all expectations
excites me even more. She's a slut and not a whore. The
latter do it for money while the former like the sexual as
much or maybe even more than men. That urge to reproduce
built upon a feeling that lasts only minutes or maybe half an
hour for most but those others – throughout time – spending
all their time learning the positions and the defensive postures
necessary to score well and often, aka sport fucking and with
so much money it's not even a fair fight although in some
ways it's even harder for me. And my cock is the same
size no matter what. One scientist guy said he could
install a rod and make it larger – length AND girth -
but that I would need batteries, oil and lots of
check-ups. My plan to retire to the island
would have to be put on hold so I
hold onto my penis the same size
now, maybe a little stretched out,
and the head a little to the left. I
don't want to leave out any of the
rest so I picture her chest in my
mind and all time slips away as
if her clothes and the blood once
again flows to a central spot – my
cock tightens and hardens and it
now has a mind of its own as with
my eyes closed I grip tightly and
slowly move up and down as if
on the deck of a ship in a novel
by Melville and I remember the
walk from English Lit Class w/
one of the name not forgotten
hers of my past and we should
have dipped into the tree farm
and tasted the fruit so sweet &
delicious – there in the refrig-
erator. An orator as poet so red
and simple in the sun. Guess
which one? Succulent gasps
of air as the mind clouds and
release draws near I start to
float and fly in my mind as
my fingers grip and now
glide precum flowing
from the tip of my
head like a mush-
room the sound
of an ancient
boom sounds
and echoes and
rebounds as that
final moment draws
near and up and out and
my chest feels the warmth
as I can once again breathe
and think and wonder if she
thinks of me the same way.
A billion dollars times many
and I still love the way my
own hand feels on my
body so familiar
but i'm not
quite done
and ring up
someone -
another
woman.
“You got here fast.”
“I like you.”
“You're just saying that.”
“Don't start acting like that.”
“I like that you're honest. Come in.”
She walks in the room and looks around.
“No food or freaky shit? What's up? Stocks down?”
“Money doesn't matter Monica. You know what I want.”
“Rhymes with bunt?”
“Teases my tongue.”
“Miss the taste?”
“I did. I did.”
“You smell of sex.”
“I need to take a shower.”
“Not going to tell me who?”
“Smell my hand?”
“No thanks.”
“Didn't think so.”
“You think too damn much. Shower
and that soap I sent you and then you
can go down on me outside or maybe
in here. It's a bit chilly.”
“Your nipples are hard.”
“And you get smaller.”
“Hey!”
“Honestly, you're small enough already. You pay extra for honesty.”
“I know. Let's not talk. Let's wash.”
Short walk and we're in a room of jets and streams of water and she's washing my back and me hers and I reach up and soap her tits. We kiss, the water streaming down as we rinse. Towels and a short walk to the master bedroom. We're on the bed.
“Did you miss my pussy?”
“I did.”
“A lot?”
“I missed your pussy a lot.”
“Not your pussy. My pussy.”
“I said your pussy.”
“I know. I just like to hear you say it.”
“You like dirty talk too?”
“I do.”
“I want to eat your pussy and taste your
juices I want to make you forget the
world and take you to the edge
of the waterfall and make you
go over the edge and fall in
bliss and I want to
kiss...”
“Actions are louder than words.”

And I move down and the smell is
intensely wonderful some type of
Amazon fruit maybe and her legs
spread as I kiss the top of her foot
and make my way down the leg as
her chest rises and falls my hands
reach out and find her nipples as
i'm at her inner thighs and kiss
and press my lips and tongue
against her sensitive spots
lightly at first and her
body moves as I am
watching her open
up down there and
I stare into the primal
essence of her being and
my mouth becomes one with
her and I move my head and
make sure to mix it up just
enough to keep her guessing
as to what's coming next. She
is who is coming next, but she
doesn't know about the final
barrage of kisses and the
dance I have planned
with my tongue across
her lips and then up to
her clit cutting her off
at the pass as she gasps
for air and I press firmly
and stroke it as if some-
thing larger and my hands
now sore from stroking her
breasts snake back down and
I use two fingers at her entrance
and wiggle them as I work my way
in and I know she's on the edge as she
thrusts her hips up trying to get me to
go faster or harder or longer or shorter
or whatever it takes to get her to that
magical place where you can forget
your face as the space around you is
the land that time forgot.
“Yes, that's it. Right there,” she moans,
encouraging me to continue the struggle
to get here there and show her pleasure.
She gives me further directions to find
the final destination and I push through
with all I have and her back arches into
the air as she screams into the hollow
and empty mansion. She settles down
and I crawl up, kissing her stomach
and then each breast tenderly and
she puts her hands on my cheeks
and pulls me in for a kiss and
her taste is in her mouth and
this excites her even more.
She's a slut not a whore.
And she's gone to wait
for the next time I
ring her up for
some other
type of
fun.
I run
further
away and
stay in Italy
for two months
to sample a few.
Monique close
to Monica in
name but the
way they're
different is
evident in
the bedroom
as Monique
isn't paid
to tell the
truth and
yet she
gives it
to me as
she gives
me head on
the edge of the
bed my hands in
her dark and curly
hair not pressing or
guiding, but riding so
as to feel even more the
sensation of total release
of control.
Her mouth is
in control of my body and
her hands twist my nipples
quick and hard then she
rubs them all the while
I am in her mouth and
aware i'm in there and
she looks up at me
suddenly and stares
into my eyes and I
know she's in control.
Her hands on my thighs
as we break eye contact
and she goes back to
concentrating on my
cock as if it was the
only source of
sustenance in
world so cold
and cruel and
the way her
tongue
played
with the
tip while
it was in
there was
enough to
send me
over the
edge
and I
shot a
load and
then another
one came and
three and four
were less, but
I felt each and
everyone as my
body rocked and
shook and then
she looked up
and smiled
with these
eyes – her
eyes open
so wide
she was
in her
30s and
know how
to make a man
happy in more ways
than one and she climbed
into bed with me and we
stared at the ceiling and
I asked about her life
when she wasn't
with me – her
real life as
it was
called
between us
and Monique
told me stories
of love and life
that made me
laugh & cry
and love her
even more and
then a knock on
the door and it's
her female friend
who wants to play
and I say I don't
know, not today
and send them
both away so
I can write a
missive
anonymously
to you, the world,
the 99 percent
buying my
thoughts
for pennies
a word in order
to somehow know
or understand me who
is a collage of literary
styles and sexual
persuasions.
Perversions?
After pussy and poetry the come down. The other cum that's not as much fun. I need to run away from society and head to the chain of islands I own. I climb the trees and feed the plants and smoke the weed and sit on the beach. Poetry is my perversion. None of the current line-up of women seem to understand the need to release with words just as often. Maybe this is a problem. I can't fathom another reason as I sit for one then two seasons on the beach near the equator and my only fear is pirates, but money can buy a private army. Just ask John McAfee. No, he's not me. I'm not him.
After the beach for so long I move on. I check the stats. The money grows despite myself. I hired good people to manage and people to manage the managers and so on. The machine grew daily. In the meantime, I needed pussy to replenish the poetry. Or maybe it was the other way around. Most of the women didn't know I was a poet. Most did know I was rich. But not how much. Never that. A little misdirection and diamond earrings go a long way.
After finding Holly, I took her to the island to
bask in the sun and have some fun and I loved
to watch her run and giggle and she was 42 but
she had the ass of a 27 year old and the mind of
a 92 year old. She got me. She knew that I wrote
poetry, but not what kind, or that she was the muse
with whom I wanted to hitch my ship and drop my
anchor into her depths. Moby Dick again. As the sun
goes down and lowers beneath the water on the horizon
I go down on her on a blanket on top of the sand and her
hands reach down and grab my hair and guide me here or
there until I find the rhythm of her waves and after she's
over the edge the first time, I crawl up and slowly enter
her like a pirate entering a trapped treasure cave with
so much booty a rapscallion could retire with the
wealth. While she knew I wrote poetry I told
her I didn't own the island but was island
sitting for my rich friend I was just the
poet and as I was inside her I wanted
to look into her eyes so missionary
it was in the beginning and her
eyes stared into mine and
in between moments
now etched into
memory I was
starting to
get tired
so she
switched
and was on
top of me as
I was inside of
her and she began
to skillfully ride my
cock as if a master
of the ring and
she even began
to sing a song
made up mainly
of moans and
groans and a
few “Oh yes,
like that. Fill
me up.” And
I suppose the
sand cushioned
our landing as I
shot into her just
as she tightened up
in midst of an orgasm
and the white capped
waves crashed up
against both of us.
Half a bottle of rum
later we chased each
other naked through
the island first me
her and then her
me when she
realized as
my muse
she was
powerful
in her own
way. And the
waves came in
and out with the
tide as we came
together on a path
and didn't need a
map to get to where
we both needed to be.
I was sad to leave the island,
but the story couldn't last
forever. The poem had
to have an end and
a plane flew in
and took us
to Miami
and this
hotel
I like
when i'm
there and we
shared a few more
days, but I had to write
so I told her to go and maybe
I would see her again someday.
And the poems became a stage
play and then a novel and nearly
toward the end it became a poem
again. Neatly fitting onto an elec-
tronic reading device this missive
typed on an electric monstrosity
from years gone by and transcribed
by modern monks I pay to copy my
words and thoughts, my words are
yours. Wisdom from the one percent
drips down. Or maybe I'm just a clown.
As I've said before, it's the 99-percenters
who have the power to find true happiness.
I can be comfortable but never truly happy.
Or maybe I'm wrong. These Tropics of the
Moon may trigger a few comments or sighs
of admiration from afar. Your words turn me
on at night when I need to sleep. I keep your
words on my nightstand they say to me and
they never see me weep. The rich should
never weep as if emotions would hamper
the ability to get so far and amass so much
wealth. I don't talk about the way to the top
because I'm looking for something besides
the next step up. I went too many levels
and now I need to settle for pussy or
poetry but never the two combined.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked.
“Tobacco or green?”
“Both preferably.”
“I don't mind...I'm sorry. I've forgotten your name.”
“You don't know my real name.”
“That's right. I don't. Not from lack of trying.”
“Or crying.”
“I've wept for you?”
“In front of me in your sleep.”
“Bad dream probably.”
“May you have more wet dreams.”
“I get too much action in waking hours.”
“You do, do you?”
“Wouldn't you?”
“I guess I would. Doesn't it get old?”
“Everything ages. Entropy is all around us.”
“Wisdom from an old timer.”
“I'm not that old.”
“You're wise beyond your years.”
“Thanks, dear. Can I put my penis in your mouth?”
“Why yes, yes you can.”
From there the descent and the ascent.
The words and the looks and the gestures
and facial expressions as the orgasm builds
up and screams for release. I reach the
moment of no return and remember
suddenly the beach, the beaches.
Plural. Rural women from
Russia give good head.
I saw that somewhere
once. A train station
maybe. Although I
haven't taken the
train in years.
“What are you thinking about,” she asked.
“Your pussy.”
“You were not. I can tell.”
“You can, can you?”
“Sometimes but not always.”
“I was thinking about sex and words, pussy and poetry.”
“You should write a poem called pussy and poetry.”
“I think I just did.”
“Am I in it?”
“If you want to be.”
When she left I had to leave the room
to write because I could smell her still
and see her on the bed out of the corner
of my eye and I couldn't get any work
done or any words down at all. Then a
call and she's suddenly present again,
wanting a present perhaps, but I have
only me to give her on this night as I
stand and she wraps her legs around
my waist and we waste many moons
in the room as we try to learn enough
about each other to know whether or
not we'll be able to stand each other
until the end of time. I no longer
know if I can break the cycle I
find myself in anymore. The
door opens and closes again
and again as an infinite loop.