A Bad Boy Billionaire: Forbidden Alpha Male Romance (2 page)

“...And who is rich and powerful,” I added.

“Well, that too.”

“But not gay.” I took another drink of wine then stood up and walked over to her. “Would a gay guy do this?”

I knelt next to her wicker lounger and put my hands on her knees, moving them apart ever so slightly. I bent down and kissed her knees gently, just brushing her skin with my lips still moist from the wine. She let out a sigh which I used as a sign to continue. I guided my hand up her thigh, higher and higher until I reached my prize. I stroked her gently through the fabric, letting her know how close I was to her special spot. She reached out and ran her hands through my thick black hair, trying to pull me closer to her. I resisted then stood up, looking down at her.

“Time for you to go, Tammy,” I said, simply, knowing it would drive her crazy to be rejected again. She had gotten closer, a little closer, but I wanted to call in a specialist and have a good night with no feelings or emotions tied to the sex.

Before I could stop her, she pulled down my swim trunks, revealing myself to her. “I want to taste you,” she said seductively.

“Don't start something you can't finish,” I said. I tried my hardest to stay soft, but when she took off her top and exposed her breasts, I began to lose the battle. When she placed her lips on me, I lost the war and expanded in her mouth as her hands roamed over my ass, pulling me closer to her.

I looked out over the manicured lawn as the last rays of sun disappeared behind the horizon. The darkening made the light from the tiki torches more dramatic with flickering shadows as her head bobbed up and down on my cock. She wasn't half bad. I just knew I was ready for a genuine relationship yet and that she was … “Ugh!” with a grunt and a final thrust, I shot my seed into her mouth.

She didn't move away, cleaning me up with her tongue, lapping like the creamy mixture was honey or chocolate. I didn't know which sweets she preferred. I didn't know a lot about her. I wanted to know more. That was the important thing. As she looked up at me with a satisfied smile on her face, I knew there was something special about her – something that went beyond her being a master at the oral arts.

As with most of my relationships in the early years of my being a member of the one percent, Tammy became obsessed with my money. I was fine letting her spend as much as she wanted, sure she would tire of the practice like I had, like everyone in the one percent eventually, but she went the other route. She began to hate my wealth. I didn't flaunt it or cause harm on the world, but she resented the fact I was so rich, that I was unable or unwilling to cut her in on what I had. Fucking women.

If I knew then what I know now things may have played out differently, but I wanted to tell you about Tammy to give you a taste of what those early years were like as I was swept up in a frenzy of lust. I don't regret those crazy years, but I'm not so sure I would repeat them all the same way. Maybe I will end up talking about it more in a future entry if I decide to continue. A lot of people are going to get upset that this is being published, but I have to say what needs to be said to the rest of the world, to everyone outside the inner circle of the movers and shakers in the world.

Peace out, homie.

Occupy This Moment in Time

Occupy this space in time. That's what I plan to do now. Sounds simple when you write it out, but what does it really mean? Certainly not being part of the 99%, the mundane rather than profane. Professional? Occasionally. When needed. As one at the very top, I have to create identities like in Ender's Game. You know. That one scene. Come to me. Cum with me.

Let's see. I have no way of knowing in what order you're going to read this post-post-modern and obsessively released (early and often) novel, so I need to pay careful attention to what I'm telling you. At this point you may or may not know more about me. Such is real life. Such is the novel. Sometimes. Maybe I'm channeling Hemingway or Chandler tonight. And no, I'm not talking about the actor. Rather, I want to skip ahead, like a rock over the water of the lake in the aforementioned Card novel. Cum first, then me.

Dirty? Erotic? The curves of her hips and the way her lips spoke to me. And, just now, remembering then quickly forgetting. Deep in the passage of text. I do not object. Abject reality. The thought was a review about 50 Shades of Grey. Some of them are quite funny. And yet she sells. The particular one I noted was one with an UPDATE:: with a breakdown of phrases used over and over and over again. I fall prey to, but I have to stop – as any good writer should – to wonder about why the novel grew wings and flew to the top of the list.

Listen up. Hear me moan – with words. Because of vowels and consonants I can construct around the C word of one of my compatriots. One outside the timeline and no, not Hemingway or Chandler but maybe my namesake. I hide and consume the crumbs on the plate. I wanted to fuck her. So bad. Magic orgasm fingers to make her cum with just a touch, just a look. And “Oh my” and gush, lush and a lack of trust. Only light spanking please.

But for real, I wanted to sleep next to her, but like Thompson said love without sex is as bad as sex without love. Or maybe I've messed his quote up. Fucked it up. On the edge. I hover at the spot just before the event horizon of the black hole in the center of the Milky Way. And I love the way her pink hole opens up like a flower at my touch. I thrust in, retreat, replenish and take another inch or two of ground. Inside her. I explode like the sun. Such fun.

I occupy her time like a 99-percenter waiting on the bus or mass transit. Perhaps by necessity. Perhaps telling themselves it's for a bigger cause. Slight pause as on the public transportation a unique cross section of society can be seen. But not in New York or Paris as in some story of old. Online. The new frontier. The Wild Wild (West) Web or World Wide Tubes of information – and naked pictures. Erotica? What must I write to cause you to think and in the act of thinking for yourself become wet – or hard.

Wet or hard? Contemplating possible positions before she arrives. It's well past the time she was supposed to be here and I know life never goes how you want it to go. And yet, at the same time, so flush with cash, I have come to expect certain treatments, a relaxing of the laws of physics for the right price. And what makes money make money! Laughter. Gay Paree. But not in that way. Giant search engine companies – mammoth corporations answer questions and allow people to ask them. Why is the city called that? A marketing flap? An oddly high occurrence of men and women both wearing hats?

When she arrives, I can't control myself and rush across the room – vast distances for the wealthy – and embrace her. I chase her with my thoughts, looking into the soul of her eyes. I see she is surprised. Usually the rich are not happy. I'm strangely rich, newly rich, and as the pop culture fans would say – ridiculously rich (as in Ritchie Rich) – but she senses a change in me demeanor. Since the last time we met. Her name was Toni. She put my pieces back together in the proper order. Man, she took a stand and would not let me penetrate her but she touched me.

My mood suddenly sinks. Then I blink. I often forget. Her smile ignites the mood and I'm able to continue. The back patio? The pool? The upstairs third floor room with a view? At the top of my very own fairy tale tower? So grim and prim usually but here in wonderland she opens up. She undresses and we wander the halls. We fuck against the walls. We use nasty words to convey the meaning. The dirty talk echoes through the emptiness of the wealth around us. I sent the staff home early. I was king of the castle.

I bed my princess more slowly in my bedroom. The tower awaits, but down here grounded in reality I can take my time to enjoy the shape of her nipples, the way they are located perfectly for the size and shape of her mounds of flesh. I kiss them, gently awakening them. The pop up slightly. So dark and delicious. Little nubs to rub my lips against and she moans, opening her legs. She directs me down there and I fall, overtaken by the gravity of her nebula. I lick. She likes.

No fight as I fall into her and fill her and feel her tightness grasp me. And I wonder what she's thinking, but then I see it's written on her face like a poem dashed off in a moment of drunken brilliance. Her eyes peer into mine. We lock gazes as our bodies begin to truly move as one. This is not me ramming her to get off. This is not her waiting for it to be over. This is both reaching toward the same goal. If not love forever then for the moment. This very moment. So close to the edge.

Our breathing is labored. The way she savors the taste of my tongue in her mouth as if it was oxygen. And I feel her grab me and pull me into her. The tower awaits, but for now we dance and move together as if meant to be this way forever and ever. And yet if we never separate, what's to make these moments when we come together – when we cum together – so special? There is meaning in the ultimate forms of sexual expression. Beyond the cheap and meant only to titillate variety.

And I stop thinking of Erotica Book Covers and come back to her. She looks up at me and then we switch without having to say a word which is a good sign. On top now and in control, she moves slow and deliberately. Her hands are pressed down on my chest for balance as I slide and move inch by inch and then faster and a slightly different angle as she finds the spot. Her spot. I see her face light up and know she's found it as I see if I can adjust and use this to cum as well and we have a match.

The last push toward the edge and then over. Quick spurts for me and a warm glow for her. Or so I've been told. And looking back I know now some women do pretend. The afterglow, though, is when you know when you have a good match, that otherworldly bliss of just a kiss and the orgasm can last light years. Her hand draped over my chest. She plays with my nipple absentmindedly. The tower awaits and I try to gather myself for the third.

Jumping up suddenly, she laughs and heads up the spiral staircase to my most sacred room of my castle. I follow, slower. Older. Ten years makes a lot of difference. I hear her laughing. I reach the top of the wooden stairs and the circular room with walls of one way glass look out at the spread of land. She landed on the round couch that went the circumference of the room. She tells me geometry turns her on but trigonometry puts her to sleep.

I take her from behind at an odd angle on the couch. She is my muse. She is ancient and young at the same time. I wonder how much time I could spend with her when we weren't locking bodies and trading fluids. I came back to the moment as she started to cum again as I pressed into her. Then, on her knees, I enter her from behind. We both stare out the window at my wealth. I swear she gets wetter when she sees something so big, so immense. I tense up and cum into her. I collapse on her for a brief second. We exchange a quick glance as we sit back.

“Drink?”

“Water.”

“Smoke?”

“Some pot would be nice.”

I walk over and hit a hidden button. A small refrigerator descends from the ceiling. I remove two bottles of water, a bottle of wine and an ounce of smoke. She rolls as she hydrates and I decide on the wine, a cheap red. The rich stay rich for a reason. At some point you begin to fear losing the money. This is a sad day and only the strong survive. But for now I'm with her and about to smoke and the fermented grapes dull my mind enough to be sociable. She hates when I ask her to leave immediately.

She's going nowhere in her life, but she doesn't want to hear that from me. In some ways, I think she's much happier than I am. The 99 percent bitch and moan but it's them who have the happiness – or the potential for happiness. And money does bring security and the ability to do more if you have the right mindset, but lucre can drive a man mad. Trust me on this one. I know. If not from experience than from seeing it happen to people around me. The higher up you get, the fewer people you have around. I'm on a pedestal to the heavens on my own.

As she smoked a big fatty, blowing the smoke into rings that float around the room, I go down on her as if her juices were an elixir of life and I was some Spanish explorer looking to make it big. Her lips get larger and opened up. She coughs then giggles. A little more firm, she says. I love when she tells me. I hate walking around blindly. I try not to as much as possible. She grabs the back of my head, running her fingers through my hair, pushing me closer to the spot she likes licked the most. “Oh fuck, that's it,” she moans and I know it's close.

I stop but don't pause. I don't want to cause her to cum quite yet. I let her take another hit or three and then come back with another volley of kisses that take her over the edge. She writhes and I move away, knowing she's too sensitive to be touched. I don't like to torture her. We've already been through so much tonight. And it's tight. The prose. The road to the rose between her legs. I finish the rest of the joint as she rolls another.

On the deck we look out and down. The moon is high in the sky. Almost as high as us. Maybe higher. I'm not good at science or math. That's not how I made my money. She talks to me of nothing really. We exchange words for a few minutes, but we do not connect on any inner level. She is a deep person at times – I think I see this in her – but together we do not match. Different voltages or something. Who knows. I enjoy her company for the night and in the morning when I wake she's gone.

A funny note on the refrigerator warns me about the plums being no longer around. I smile and don't save her words, tossing the paper into the garbage. I'll savor the memory – and the fresh pineapple – if not the plums. She gets me and inspires me. I want to be inside her pussy and inside her mind at the same time. Same place at the same time and the way we bump and grind until we cum and then snuggle and hold close and then mix it up again. She can read the many sides of me.