Billionaire Bad Boy: The Complete Collection Read online

  Ashleigh makes a face I’ve yet to see – a mix of disbelief and condescension. “That’s how it usually goes. Guys like her a lot. You two seemed to hit it off, so…”

  “Hit it off? Were you even there?”

  “Your provoked a huge reaction out of her. She’s usually a lot more in control of her emotions. The only time she lashes out at guys like that is when she thinks they’re worth her time.”

  “I see.”

  Ashleigh readjusts her purse strap. “I’ve gotta get going. Thanks for lunch. I’m sorry for making this awkward.”

  “Hey, don’t apologize. I kinda led you on.”

  She looks at me as if I’m the sorriest fucker around. “Yeah, you did. That’s okay, though. Better for you to reject me now than in the middle of doing it. That’s happened to me before.”

  “Yikes.” How do you respond to that?

  Ashleigh shows herself out. I’m left alone in my cozy apartment, and all I want to do is sit on the edge of my rumpled bed and think of Daphne. A woman I haven’t even seen since we had lunch hours ago.

  It didn’t matter if she was pissed or trying to contain herself. Her eyes were made of the iciest fire I had ever seen! I know it’s cliché to say a girl’s blue eyes are like ice. Well, it’s very true in Daphne DeMarco’s case. Every time I made eye contact with her, the room grew about ten degrees colder, as if someone drew an ice cube down my arm. You know what that means, though: she’s extra hot in the places that matter most.

  I can feel those chills now. They’re exploding from within, taking my heart down like the sinking ship it is.

  Before I know it, I’m lying back on my bed and unzipping my jeans. Surprise. My cock is already halfway to hard. The moment I touch it, I’m thinking of Daphne’s head on my lap, her breath terribly close to my cock.

  And imagining her pulling down the front of that breezy sundress.

  Showing me her breasts, which were more than nice to look at in a dress.

  Kissing me hard, relentlessly, turning me into a wild bear that only wants her hidden honey.

  Daphne would be the type of feisty woman who pulls off that tablecloth and all the cutlery on her own terms. She’d do it just to hop on the table in front of me and spread her legs, teasing me with her wet pussy that she touches in a rhythm only women know.

  “Fuck me, Logan. Put me in my place and make me yours. Show me what it’s like to be taken by a real man.”

  My hand moves up and down my length. I sigh, resting my head against the nearest pillow and imagining that it’s Daphne’s pussy I’m fucking instead of my own hand.

  The whole restaurant would watch. Or maybe not. Who cares? Time has stopped so we can have our rough and furious fuck on a dining table. I grab those long, silky brown locks and pull. Daphne cries out, my cock buried to the hilt in her tight pussy that only gets tighter as she readies to come.

  I can see it. The look of sheer, feisty ecstasy on her face as she starts to milk my cock of all its seed. I’m giving it to her, too, because that’s what the real man she craves does. It’s the only way to tame a spoiled heiress like her.

  My groans of pleasure are only interrupted as I’m rudely reminded of my own hand instead of her body wrapped around me. That I’m probably never going to experience a moment like this with one of the only women I’ve decided deserves my body inside of hers.

  Kill this fantasy, man. You’re only going to piss yourself off. There’s gotta be someone else. Find my little black book and call up the first available girl to come by so I can pound her, thoughts of Daphne constantly intruding.

  I don’t want another girl. I want her. I want Daphne DeMarco’s lips locked on mine… and possibly a few other place as well.

  I jerk up on my bed. The most brilliant idea has entered my mind.

  See, I’ve got an interview for my mother’s latest movie to do in an hour. It’s going to be the perfect opportunity to start setting in motion the only way I’ll get Daphne DeMarco’s hot, firm ass in my bed – and my cock inside of her.

  First, though, I’ve got something else to take care of.

  Chapter 3

  DAPHNE

  I am currently not on speaking terms with Ashleigh, so I’ve been ignoring her calls since that so-called date. That doesn’t explain why she’s been incessantly ringing me all day.

  Suffice to say, I am ignoring her. The first few times I merely put her on silent. After the tenth time, I blocked her – temporarily! I’ll be over this fit with her soon enough. It’s not the first time we’ve been on these kinds of terms. Probably won’t be the last, either.

  Text messages blow up my phone when it’s apparent I’m not answering. Fuuuck. I shove my phone beneath my pillow and go back to doing my nails and flipping through my favorite tabloid.

  I live and breathe for The Daily Social. Don’t believe me? It’s my homepage on all my devices. My maid knows to leave my physical copies on a silver tray outside my door, complete with iced tea and two Vanilla wafers for me to enjoy while I flip through the pages and see who is up to no good these days. See who is wearing what and who is dating whom.

  This month there is a page dedicated to the big wedding between Ethan Cole and his assistant-turned-fiancée Jasmine Bliss. I only know of Ethan Cole because Daddy does a lot of business with him. Don’t know anything about his pretty fiancée, but I love her fashion sense. This month’s big picture of her is some poufy pink dress and a fluffy white jacket. Her big, round sunglasses go great with her curly hair. Who does it for her? I bet it’s Raul. I can pick out his styling from a mile away!

  The next page is dedicated to the annual Domestic Violence Gala spearheaded by Monica Warren, who had the wedding of the year until her bff Jasmine upstaged her. Monica is the real winner if you ask me. She’s got a baby coming. Of course, she totally got knocked up before the wedding, but only Mama will say anything mean about it. Daddy agrees with her until he’s alone with his buddies. Then he can’t stop talking about what a catch both Henry and Monica Warren are. I hear she runs a fancy brothel. Mama hates her even more for that.

  Who is Damon Monroe dating this month? Speaking of perverts my mother hates! It’s funny. She was all gung-ho about trying to get me to date his thirty-year-old ass until she found out he was the co-owner of some kinky sex club. Too bad. He’s really good-looking if you like men who don’t wear a shade lighter than black. Just because he co-owns a sex club doesn’t mean he’s a pervert. It’s good business sense these days.

  I turn the page. Eep! Do my eyes deceive me, or is it a rare photo of Kathryn Alison and her boyfriend Ian Mathers? No way. You don’t understand. These two do everything they can to avoid the paps. Their relationship is so private that some speculate they’ve been secretly married for months. I hope they are. They’re such a darling couple, and the idea that they could hide something like that from the press makes me love Kathryn even more. I’ve had a major girl-crush on her ever since she gave the commencement speech at my graduation two years ago. She went to the Winchester Academy too, but is way older than me. I think she’s almost thirty.

  She’s the kind of woman I aspire to be. Not only is she a mega-rich heiress like me, but she’s so incredibly classy and humble. (I know, I’ve gotta work on that.) In fact, isn’t she the richest woman around here? Yet she’s never flaunted it, except to cut huge checks to her charity projects. I was shocked to find out she started dating playboy Ian Mathers a year ago. Never thought she would go for a guy like that. Isn’t it amazing how a woman can reign a guy in and seemingly change him? Oh, I know it’s not a good thought to have. Life doesn’t really work that way. Once an ass, always an ass. Yet it’s a fun fantasy, this business of taming a wild man who could have any woman in the world – but it’s you he’s committing to for the rest of his life.

  Ugh, and they look so good together. Why can’t I have something like that?

  One more time my cell phone rings. Fine, Ashleigh, have at it!

  “What?” Can she hear m
y ire? I bet she can hear my ire.

  “Hey, Daphne…” Ashleigh’s more sheepish than Mary’s little lamb. “What’s up?”

  “Calling to grovel?” My voice is syrupy sweet. I instantly regret saying that, but here’s hoping Ashleigh doesn’t take it too personally. When I’m pissed at someone, I tend to come off as a huge bitch even when I don’t mean to. All I know right now is that I hope she’s sorry about what transpired the other day at the restaurant.

  “Actually,” she begins, making my blood turn cold in my veins. Her tone is only a little strange. I am so not in the mood for whatever is going to come slap me in the face.

  “Well? Spit it out already.”

  Throat clearing. Shuffling the phone. Cracks over the line. Get. To. The. Point.

  “Have you seen The Big Hello yet today?”

  I flip The Daily Social shut and look at my stack of weekly magazines accumulating on a coffee table near my bed. I have a ritual. I read one first, then the next, then the next, all in a certain order. The Big Hello is at the bottom of the list. One time some fucker wrote an article that I was pregnant with twins by two different guys at my university, so it can burn for all I care.

  Some women gobble up romance novels every day. I need a hardcore dose of trash to start my day off well.

  “Not yet,” I admit. “Why? Am I in it?” My nail polish almost falls out of my hand. “They didn’t say I’m pregnant again, did they? Last time Daddy and Mama almost sent me to a nunnery at the mere prospect that I’m not a virgin.” It’s been three years, y’all. Getting my cherry popped was one of the best decisions I ever made. College has been so much sweeter for it.

  Some tawdry giggle comes over my line. “There’s an interview with Logan Dean in it. Don’t get too upset, okay?”

  “Upset?” My mouth twists into a sneer. “Why would I be upset? Like I give a fuck about that guy.”

  Yet I’m already off my bed and rummaging through the stacks of magazines on my coffee table. When I find the right logo, I flip the magazine open and turn until I find a giant spread of Logan Dean looking like the smarmiest fucker in the world.

  Asshole. Of course he’s got a full portrait. The media loves their Hollywood darling. I bet the interviewer was a single woman who had to clench her legs shut so she wouldn’t jump his bones for some answers. It’s hard to not imagine her riding his lap while she asks these asinine questions on the page.

  “How are you enjoying the east coast again? Any girls you have your eye on?”

  Oh, good, it’s not only women who get grilled about their dating lives.

  “Definitely. I’ve had a few flings here and there, you know, the usual… but I have my eye on someone right now.”

  “Who might that lucky lady be?” Don’t ooze any more jealousy, lady. Otherwise you might have to go to the gynecologist to get that checked out.

  “Do you know Daphne DeMarco? She’s always showing up in your fashion column, I believe. What I hear, though, is that she’s nothing like the other prissy princesses of New England. I hear she’s quite [omitted] and likes to [omitted], even with a few people at a time. So, yeah, you could say that I’m interested in her! She sounds pretty kinky.”

  The magazine lands by my recently-painted toenails.

  “Daphne? You there?” My phone is still glued to my ear, although I don’t think I’m moving anytime soon. “You okay? Should I come over? Maybe I can call my family’s publicist to help you deal with this.”

  “I… he… that… asshole!” I pick up the magazine so I can throw it at the nearest wall. I’m not exactly a softball pitcher, and the wall isn’t exactly close by. The magazine lands in the middle of the floor, opened to the smiling, guffawing picture of a darling boy straight from the bowels of LA. What the fuck has he done! “How could he do this to me?”

  “Look, Daphne, there’s something you should know…”

  I can no longer pay attention to Ashleigh. Down goes my phone onto my couch. My mind is racing with terrifying images: like my super traditional and conservative parents finding out about this quote and losing their utter shit in my direction.

  Be absolutely assured that everything Logan Dean has said about me is a lie! Not only have I never had sex with more than one person at a time, I certainly have never… whatever he is implying! Fuck! Why are words omitted! What did he say? What is he trying to get at? Furthermore, why is he torturing me long after we met? Leaving the restaurant should’ve been the last I ever heard from him.

  We are far beyond that now. Oh, he’s about to get me in his face!

  First, I must ground myself. Yes, this fucking sucks. But I can’t storm out of my apartment. There’s probably an army of paps out there ready to snap pictures of me in complete disarray over what Logan said in that tabloid trash.

  I must set aside my rage for now. Deep breaths, girl. Prioritize, then rage.

  My closet opens to reveal the outfits my stylist has put together for this week. I grab the one that was supposed to be for tomorrow: a mosaic black and white silk halter top with a short black skirt. I throw some of my nicer diamonds with it and start attacking my hair with a brush. Wear it down? Pull it back? Fuck it. I’m leaving it down and my hair can be happy tucked behind my ears. I double-check that I look presentable in my mirror, and on second thought add some subdued red lipstick and my tortoiseshell cat-eye sunglasses. Bam. Badass bitch and still ready to be papped for those stupid fashion columns.

  After snatching some black pumps out of my shoe closet and picking up a black Chanel bag, I finally decide I’m ready to leave.

  Ashleigh has kept calling me this whole time. I decide to answer on my way out the door. I need the fucker’s address, right? She’s ready to give it to me. Sounds like she’s got it memorized, honestly. I bet you a thousand bucks she slept with Logan. You may not be able to tell from meeting the mousy socialite, but she gets around. She was on a date with one of the nation’s most notorious playboys. Of course she slept with him!

  Why she’s in such a hurry to give me his address so I can take his ass down is the real mystery. Maybe he was bad in bed or insulted her. More ammunition for me to want to kill him.

  As I suspected, a flurry of photographers await me outside. They snap pictures on both sides of me as I ignore them, stepping calmly to the sidewalk and hailing the first cab to come by. Usually, I would have a driver to cart me around the city, since Daddy is always going on about the Evils of Public Transport. (Cabs qualify, in his mind.) No time for the driver today. I have things to accomplish, complete with me taking out a baby wipe to rub down the leather seat I’m about to sit on.

  Someone save me. The cab driver is looking at me in his mirror, ready for some conversation. “Dressed to kill, huh?” I glare at him through my sunglasses.

  The man won’t shut up after I give him the address and we leave the pap-ridden street. I’m trapped in this hell-hole for half an hour as we get caught up in traffic and the driver swears he’s lost in a town he should know inside and out. I think he wants to keep staring at me. Does he think he has a chance with me? Sorry, pal. I only fuck strapping college athletes (so many little dicks) and loaded heirs (they’re just dicks.)

  This whole time I’m thinking of something unsavory. Something my father mentioned about a month ago when he called me into his office and dropped a huge bomb.

  Going to see Logan Dean isn’t about my personal pride. It’s about my family’s pride, too. I swallow and start counting out bills as we reach our destination. Thankfully, I don’t see any paps. Then again, who knows how they’re hiding out these days.

  After paying the ungrateful driver handsomely, I steal into the building, hoping to avoid any paps who might be lurking about. A doorman and receptionist both greet me. I can tell from the female receptionist’s face that she recognizes me. Sure enough, a copy of The Big Hello is turned over on her desk. Great.

  The doorman hurries to escort me up to Logan’s apartment on the third floor. The building is short and sq
uat, a Mediterranean style complex that could either be brand new or recently updated, who damn well knows. I didn’t even know they had Mediterranean luxury apartments out this way. Of course Logan would live here. Probably makes him think of California.

  As soon as the doorman is back down the hall, I slam my finger against Logan’s buzzer. And hold it. Hold it.

  “Coming!” comes a groggy voice. Don’t care. Still holding down this buzzer. I hope he’s internally screaming from the obnoxious sound. “For fuck’s sake! Could you…” The door unlocks. I finally pull my hand back and cross my arms, face as stony as I can muster.

  When he opens that door, he will see the Queen Bitch of his nightmares.

  The door swings open. He’s… shirtless.

  My mouth drops open. Fuck it, I admit I’m gawking, because he’s like a marble statue. Fucking. Delicious.

  “Eyes up here,” he says, leaning in his doorway. I raise my flushed cheeks to his face. He’s wearing jeans, low-slung on his hips, and that perpetual grin is driving me crazy.

  What kind of crazy? That I do not wish to admit.

  “Well, well, well.” Logan matches my crossed arms, covering half of that sculpted chest. Naturally, this flexes more than a few muscles. Kill me. “What a lovely surprise this is.”

  Chapter 4

  DAPHNE

  Curses speckle my lips as I shove my way into his apartment. Logan Dean will not be showing me the exit today. I’ve got a new asshole to rip this perverted jackoff, and…

  Is it warm in this apartment? It’s warm in this apartment. I think steam might be exuding from my skin.

  Oh, wait. That’s his skin. Apparently, he has emerged from the shower. A towel litters the floor and that thick hair is sopping wet. Are those water droplets on his chest?

  Hello, there.

  No! No hellos!

  Logan strolls in behind me, closing the front door with a soft click. “I take it you saw the article.” His cheeks keep puffing out in contained laughter. He looks like a squirrel who thinks he’s oh-so-funny.