On top: Billionaire bachelor romance (The Playgirls Book 1) (3 page)

He couldn’t get his mind around that cluster fuck. He’d made her fucking
fly
, so why would she be back-peddling?

He tried to put himself in her place to understand.

She’d come to him, which meant that she was attracted to him. She’d asked for a favor that did involve repetitive intercourse with him; yet, after the first orgasm, she was running.

That thought did niggle him, somehow.

The
first
orgasm. Her very first.

She’d been overwhelmed, he’d seen as much. But he’d just left her to it, rather than trying to discuss it. Women liked talking about shit.

Fuck.

“I need Alice’s contact details,” he sent; not to Tamsin, he wasn’t a total idiot.

“Why?”

Oh, for Christ’s sake!

“Now, Xander. Don’t make me go to the IT department. Brothers don’t let brothers turn into creepy stalkers.”

Chapter 5

She’d made a run for it, dressing herself as quickly as humanly possible, escaping the office less than a full minute after Colt had closed the door; she’d pressed on the button three, four times, but as the elevator doors remained decidedly closed, she’d found the staircase and raced down the thirty-one levels. One short, overpriced taxi ride later, she was home.

Her place was swanky; a large penthouse at the heart of Beverly Hills, the kind of apartment no twenty-five-year-old could afford on their own – well, unless their faces were plastered on a billboard somewhere.

Her secret: flatshare. Yep, it was still allowed after college, despite what her parents thought.

Alice had been sharing with her two best friends since sophomore year; when they’d arrived to LA three years ago, they’d gone for a downtown dump, at first, but as soon as they’d landed decent jobs, they’d moved on to bigger and better things – such as running water and the noticeable absence of the sleazy landlord.

There was Emma, the most gorgeous woman in LA. No, seriously: she was.

Of all places, she worked at Colburn Finance – under Kane’s iron fist, rather than Colt’s. Alice was very grateful for that small grace. The thought of Emma anywhere near Colt was making her feel sick:
everyone
fancied her. Red hair, big boobs and pouty lips did tend to have that effect.

Her second roommate was Lucy, a photographer. She’d gone for the usual, at first – wedding pictures, dogs and the occasional baby, but she was up to something
quite
different, these days.

The setup was perfect. Unless you came back in the middle of the afternoon – completely blanched, in need of quiet, calm, solitude – and found a couple fucking on your couch.

Lucy had been thoughtful: there was a protective sheet to cover the damask.

It wasn’t unusual; regardless of how many pets, couples, penguins, parties she shot, it was her erotic art that paid the bills.

Lucy exposed her art in various galleries and whenever a new piece emerged, it was always auctioned for
thousands.
As in, hundreds and hundreds of thousands, which was why, the youngest amongst the three roommates, Lucy Prius was also their landlord.

Lucy hired model to shoot her oeuvres, but occasionally, she was commissioned by rich couples who wanted naughty pictures for their wedding anniversaries or whatever; as Alice recognized the couple currently going at it, she imagined they were part of the latter lot.

Alice wouldn’t have minded, if her pussy hadn’t already been dripping so much she wondered if there was a wet spot between her legs.

“Don’t mind her, she’s just passing through,” Lucy told her clients, all the while clicking away, her objective straight on their genitals, probably capturing their embarrassment at being caught fucking by someone who wasn’t being paid to watch them. 

Alice made it to her room as quickly as possible and collapsed on her bed, finally allowing the reality of the situation hit the mark.

In her mind, she clearly visualized Colt’s heated gaze when she’d told him what she wanted from him, heard his voice – oh, god, his voice – and relived what she felt when his face had been buried deep between her legs.

She just laughed, so much she couldn’t have stopped herself if she’d tried. Damn. That had been incredible. Disturbingly intense, but incredible nonetheless.

What had he said afterwards? Shit. Suddenly, it seemed important. She hadn’t paid it a blink of attention, lost as she’d been, in a world of her own, but he’d talked.

Men didn’t talk unless they had something important to say, so she assumed it hadn’t been about the weather. She moved towards her computer and started typing, but stopped halfway. She just had his generic company email, and they were probably filtered by his assistant; how was she supposed to make any communication business appropriate?

She’d been pondering over it for close to five minutes when a new email popped up.

              From: Tamsin Martin-Colburn.

To: Alice A. Vaughan.

Subject: Murder.

Is there any reason why my husband should be sneakily looking for your phone number, and do I need to murder you?

Love,

T.

PS: If you’re not a backstabbing slut, bring chocolate cake tomorrow night.

From: Alice A. Vaughan

To: Tamsin Martin-Colburn.

Subject: Think before you speak.

I’m your friend. We’re close to Christmas. Husbands suck at shopping. You wanna be
very
nice to me, right now. 

Love,

Alice.

PS: Oh, that was sneaky. You just want cake, admit it.

The excuse was entirely likely, although considering the timing, she had to assume that Xander was acting on behalf of his brother; Alice wasn’t about to put herself in a situation where she had to explain it to Tamsin, though.

From: Tamsin Martin-Colburn.

To: Alice A. Vaughan.

Subject: Dear, Dear Alice,

Did I ever mention how pretty your hair is? Because it is. So Bobby, and straight and black and… Ok, it sucks, you looked better in blonde, but I fully intend to compliment whatever you’re wearing as soon as you cross the threshold. Just don’t let him anywhere near a home décor section, and I’ll swear my undying devotion to you,

Love,

T.

PS: Yes to cake.

She’d been reading that last one when another message popped up; Alice absentmindedly pressed on
next
, expecting either a spam or another silly note from one of her friends. It wasn’t.

From: Colton Henri Colburn.

To: Alice A. Vaughan.

Subject: Great start. 

I don’t do games, Alice. I don’t have the patience or the inclination for it. A responsible adult would have left some sort of response. You haven’t. You just left.

The way I see it, that leaves us two options. We can either stop this agreement right away because of our incompatibility, or you’re going to have to prove to me that you’re a grown up and freaking apologize. Appropriately. Yes, that means on your knees.

See the little button with an arrow right there? Yep. It’s called reply. Press it now.

C. Colburn,

Colburn Global, CEO

Alice stared at the computer screen in complete shock. What. The. Hell. How dared he speak to her as though she was a little girl who’d been naughty? How
dared
he!

She’d composed a thousand words, amongst which three hundred and seventy were quite rude, by the time she’d stopped long enough to think.

The thing was, he had spoken to her, and she’d completely, utterly ignored what was coming out of his mouth; not voluntarily, perhaps, but she could have either asked him to repeat himself or left a note. She hadn’t, because she hadn’t believed he’d care either way.

She tried to imagine how she would have taken it, had she pleasured him, and then told him something – something she expected a response to – and been ignored.

Yes, she would have already been shopping for undetectable poisons and spades on eBay.

From: Alice A. Vaughan

To: Colton Henri Colburn

Subject: re: Great start.

Sorry. You made me come so hard I have no idea what you said, but you’re right. I should have asked. I’ll be on my knees and giving you a very appropriate apology. 

Alice Arabella Vaughan

On Top, Journalist,

As we’re doing the snobbish signature thing.

Chapter 6

Was he hallucinating?

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, more games, probably, but Alice had apologized. Said he was
right.
He couldn’t recall any woman ever admitting to that without a hell of a fight. Actually, even then, everything somehow ended up being his fault. Her explanation did convince him, too: she’d looked completely out of it.

Fuck, he was the one who had made her lose it like that. Right now, he felt on the very top of the world, invincible.

“Colton?”

He forced his attention back on the present issue.

Kimberly had brought up the New Year Gala three times, so far, insisting that they needed to present a united front after the fiasco back in September.

Kim and he had dated on and off here and there – she was the reason he’d implemented the don’t shit where you eat rule he generally lived by – and the previous season, they’d made a scene when she’d got herself completely plastered and decided to leave the party with Adrian Turner, notorious playboy.

Colt had stopped her; he knew she wasn’t that girl, she would have regretted it. What
he
regretted was the attention of the media after that event. They were assuming that they were back together.

He knew what she was angling for: she’d suggested getting back together a few times after the event.

Sleeping with her might not have given the right idea.

“Remember that this is a work function, keep the drinks to a minimum, and we’ll be fine,” he replied curtly.

He wasn’t going there again; Kim was a bad habit – easy to fall into, but detrimental to his wellbeing. Been there, done that. He’d dealt with the drama, the manipulation and the lies for over two years, if one added up the couple of months they’d spent together here and there over the course of the last decade.

“Lighten up, Colt,” his mother told him, her dark smoky eyes narrowing. She’d raised a gentleman and acting like anything else wasn’t wise in her presence. “It’s a party to thank our employees. Kimberly is free to let her hair down; she works very hard.”

He knew he’d crossed the line if The Dragon was defending Kim: she couldn’t stand her – never had.

“And she does have a point: your response to her behavior did put us into a bit of a situation. Both of you could have been wiser, that night.”

H
ow did mothers do it? She
knew
. She always knew what they were up to. Seriously, was he walking around with secret cameras on his underwear?

“It won’t happen again,” he ensured them both. Then, taken by a sudden inspiration, he added: “besides, I’m sure Alice will keep me fairly occupied. Kimberly will be at leisure to act as she sees fit.”

The hint had been solely aimed at Kim, but she took in without any visible reaction; his mother, however, was another story.

Her eyes popped out, practically displaying stars, and she clasped her hands together before
giggling.

The Dragon giggled. 

“Oh dear, that’s
delightful.
I thought I saw something between you two when you were waltzing, I was discussing it with Margaret, just the other day... Tell me you’ll bring Alice for brunch very soon? How
wonderful.”

What. The. Fucking. Hell.

His mother had absolutely hated every single woman he – and his brother – had ever introduced to her, Tamsin included. After witnessing a year of marital bliss, she’d reluctantly relented, but it had taken dozens of Sunday Roasts and a promise to name the first child after her.

But Alice was
delightful.

“Alice Vaughan is a journalist for that quirky little magazine, you know. The one my sons have figured in,” Gia Colburn was yapping away, proving that, indeed, even at thirty-two, men could still be embarrassed by their mothers.

The members of the board nodded, as if his dating life had been of some sort of interest to them.

“She’s a delight, Patrick, a
delight.
When are you next seeing her, Colt, sweetheart?”

Fuck. The Dragon hadn’t looked at him with so much pride when he’d made valedictorian, or when his goal had won a championship back in school.

“Tonight, if we get through this at a decent time,” he replied, gesturing to the pile of work in front of them. It was six and they’d barely touched the surface.

“Oh, I’m sure we can leave that until the new year, sweet. We’ve addressed every issue likely to be of importance within the next couple of weeks. How about adjourning this session, hm?”

That’s when he first thought he might have to marry Alice Vaughan. That, or he’d need to move to another state to escape his mother’s wrath when they broke up.

From: Colt Colburn

To: Alice A. Vaughan

Subject: Arabella? Ahahah. Arabella.

Dear Alice ARABELLA Vaughan,

You’re forgiven. You’ll find contact details attached. Kindly make use of the address, first, in order to get your sweet, wet, demure little cunt here.

Sent from my iPhone.

She didn’t reply; by eight, he was itching to send a text, see where she was, whether she’d decided to come, or not. She would have just texted if she couldn’t make it, right?

Colt’s mind went a few months back, to his last breakup. “
You never answer your texts,”
she’d accused him, amongst the many sins he’d committed against their relationship. He’d shrugged it off. What was the point of texting when they were seeing each other three to five times a week? He’d told her what he’d needed to say when they’d met.

Well played, karma.

He looked at his phone for the seventh time, wondering if he’d somehow missed the ring or the vibration – although the bloody thing had been on loud, in his pocket.

When it became clear that, unlike every other woman he’d dated, she wasn’t going to materialize herself as soon as he beckoned her, he tried to distract himself. Shower, beer, sports channel on TV. After half an hour, he called for a pizza, ordering an extra large, just in case she ended up coming. 

Jesus, he was going to grow a vagina.

Colt was just about to take a bite when the doorbell rang; he almost ran to the door.

Turned out the delivery guy had forgotten to deliver his free can of Coke.

Great.

He’d barely closed the door when it rang again; what was it, this time, fucking side salad?

He opened it with a scowl the poor guy probably didn’t deserve, and all but fell off when he took in the creature in front of him.

It wasn’t the pizza man. It also wasn’t Alice Vaughan – not the one he knew, in any case.

“Fuck me.”

“I just might,” she said, pushing past him, a little smile at the corner of her mouth.

Over the knee boots, fishnets, and her perfect legs were on display under the smallest pair of shorts, showcasting half of her freaking ass cheeks; then nothing. Her top might as well have been a bra.

Her make up was harsher than the norm – there was a black line making her purple eyes pop out, and her mouth, that delicious mouth, was deep red.

“Shit, tell me you took a fucking taxi.”

She’d gone completely overboard; it was a miracle she hadn’t been stopped in the street. She looked like a she charged for a round.

His trousers got uncomfortable as he fought between an unexpected protective strike and arousal.

Arousal won.

“Yes, I took a cab,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I also wore this.”

She was waving the long beige coat he was familiar with – it was a knee length mac.

But those
boots.
Fuck, everyone seeing her would have imagined exactly what he was seeing right now.

“Colton Colburn, you gave me an ultimatum earlier today. That’s my turn now. You can either come here or carry on making me feel like I shouldn’t have played with mama’s makeup. You have three seconds. Then, I’ll either blow you until my throat hurts, or I’ll be gone.”