Two Billionaires For Her: An MMF Romance

by Ellie Rowe

  “Glad we’re clear on that point, then.”

  “Like crystal.”

  There we are then. Except, I know that’s not everything. I know that for all the tough words we’ve just exchanged, something else is going on.

  We look at one another. It’s like a fucking staring contest. Who’s going to blink first?

  In this case, that means who’s going to say what we’re really thinking, hell, maybe even really feeling, first?

  The staring contest lasts longer than even I would have expected. No one shares a fucking thing. Because the truth is that we’re both a pair of alpha males. Proud dudes. Strong silent types. We’re not ones for confession.

  Not about this kind of shit.

  “I’m going,” I say.

  “Cool.”

  “You should, too, before she wakes up.”

  “What’s the matter?” Peter asks. “Afraid I might give it to her again and change her mind?”

  “I don’t think she’s that easily swayable.”

  “Yeah, neither do I,” Peter says after a moment of reflection. “Too bad.”

  “I’m gone.”

  “See ya,” he says with a curt wave.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I mutter as I walk out of the apartment.

  I stand outside and wait for my car. The ride home feels like it takes forever. We’re stuck in the city’s nighttime traffic. People going out for a show, some dinner, some sex.

  That really was wild. The kind of sex that the minute you get home from it, you’re horny just from the memory of it and want to get off again.

  The fact, though, that it’s not just a chick I’m thinking about is different. It’s not that there was also a guy involved. It wasn’t my first rodeo. Or second or third. I’m a swinging guy.

  It’s just that… it involved Peter. And Becky. They’re somehow making me catch feelings for them. That could be pretty fucking dangerous.

  The car pulls up to my house. I get out, still lost in my thoughts. I don’t even turn on the lights in the vestibule. I strip off my clothes as I go. Make my way quickly to the shower.

  I try to shower off thoughts of the two of them, as I literally scrub their sex off my bodies. The water is hot, almost scalding, but that’s good. Helps me focus.

  A short while later, I’m feeling more like myself. I’ve got a plush robe on and I’m standing at my kitchen island with a glass of wine in my hand. I’m fucking starving. After all, I’ve been exerting myself.

  While I’m debating whether to cook something or order in, my doorbell rings.

  For a split second, I wonder if it’s Becky. Then I remember she doesn’t know where the fuck I live.

  Could it be Peter? Did he follow me? And if so, why?

  I’m hesitant to open the door. Then I hear knocking. And an unfamiliar voice calls my name.

  “Who’s there?” I call back.

  “Courier, sir.”

  “Courier?” What the hell’s a courier doing dropping something off at this time of night. I glance at my cell phone to see if I missed a text from the board or something, letting me know they were sending me info.

  Nothing.

  I go to the front door and swing it open.

  “Sign, please,” the bike messenger says abruptly. He holds out an electronic pad. I run my finger sloppily over the line on the screen. “Here ya go,” he says, handing me a manilla envelope.

  “Who sent you?” I ask.

  The courier shrugs.

  “I just pick up and drop off, man.”

  “Where’d you pick it up?”

  “Just came to the main office of my company.”

  “Did they say who it was from?”

  “Hey man. Pick up and drop off. That’s all I do, OK?”

  “Sure.” I close the door in his face.

  Back in my kitchen, I toss the manilla envelope on the island’s marble top. It skids across it a little. I stare at it like it might try to harm me.

  Thing is, even without knowing what’s in there, I know it can’t be good news. I’m not sure I want to deal with more bullshit tonight.

  Yet there it sits. Fucking beckoning to me, like a cheap whore or something.

  So I down my glass of wine and pluck the envelope up. I tear it open and yank out what’s inside.

  Some sort of file. I glance in the envelope to see if there’s a goddamn note or something. Anything that might tell me who the fuck sent me this shit.

  There’s nothing.

  I look at the file again. Flip it over. And see that there’s something written on it, in big, black sharpy.

  Just one word. Just a name.

  “Becky.”

  Fourteen

  Peter

  With a thwump, a huge goddamn file lands on my desk. At first I’m kind of pissed. I was right in the middle of crunching some numbers.

  I look up to yell at whatever one of my inept workers ambushed me like that. Then I realize it’s Marshall, my VP of Security.

  That’s a different story. I actually respect this guy. Plus, if there’s one person in this company that I think is probably capable of taking me, it’s Marshall. Guy was part of the 101st in Afghanistan before he got out of the military and got into business. You can see from the way he holds himself, though, that he may have left the Army, but the Army never left him.

  “What do I have here?” I ask Marshall, leaning back in my plush leather office chair.

  “It’s the dossier I put together on Kleeberger.”

  “That was quick.”

  “What am I, new to this or something?” He doesn’t smile.

  Sometimes I wonder if Marshall was really in the 101st, or if that’s a cover for the spy work he was really doing. The guy’s got contacts no one else in the city could access. He’s quick. Smart. Professional.

  It’s a real fucking pleasure to work with people like him. If only there were ‘people’ like him. Marshall’s really one of a kind.

  Which is why I invite him to sit and discuss the dossier with me, rather than leave me to review myself.

  “Sit,” I say. He unbuttons his coat and sits in a chair opposite my desk. It’s an expensive as shit piece of furniture. Designed for maximum comfort. Marshall sits bolt upright in it, though.

  “Give me the highlights,” I say.

  Completely from memory, Marshall breaks down a bunch of the key details that are in the dossier. He rattles off names and dates like they were things that happened in his own life, not some sleazy stranger’s.

  “One interesting thing is the dancers at the club,” Marshall eventually says as he catches me up to the present day.

  “I’ve been to the club,” I say. “There’s a lot of interesting things about them.”

  “Not quite what I mean.”

  “I know. I was trying to loosen you up a little.”

  “Oh.” He stares flatly at me.

  “So?” I ask with a sigh, opening the dossier and paging through it. “What’s interesting about the dancers at the club, other than the obvious?”

  “They rotate in and out of there like the place had a revolving door instead of a stripper pole.”

  “I kind of imagine that’s par for the course at a place like that, isn’t it?” I ask, still looking through the documents and pictures in front of me. “I’d think stripping is hardly a career where people work at the same location until they’re old enough to retire and get a gold watch.”

  “No, you’re right about that,” Marshall says. “Except there seems to be one lady there in particular who’s holding out at least long enough for a promotion or some shit.”

  One lady. I have a terrible feeling I know what he’s going to say before he even says it. Still, I need to know.

  “And who’s that?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Woman by the name of Becky Brash. Turn the next page. There’s a picture.”

  Shit. I do turn the page, more to keep up appearances in front of Marshall than anything else.
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  And there’s a picture of Becky. She’s in one of her stripper outfits, leaving little to the imagination. Not that I have to imagine. I’ve now seen it all a couple of times. The memory of it starts to arouse me. I’m glad I’m behind my desk.

  “Well,” I say, forcing myself to meet Marshall’s gaze, “she’s pretty hot. I imagine she does well for herself. Probably brings back a lot of regulars, right? So that would be good for Max. I can see why she’d stay and why he wants her around.”

  “Yeah,” Marshall says with a hint of sarcasm, “he wants her around, alright. But less around the club and more around him. Keep looking.”

  Wonder what the fuck Marshall’s talking about. I flip through the dossier. I don’t like what I find.

  Page after page of photographs of Max Kleeberger. Out on the street. At parties. At clubs. And who’s on his arm in three-fourths of them?

  My Becky.

  It’s amazing how quick the jealousy rises up in me.

  Could it really be possible that Becky is fucking Max? I mean, banging Darian is one thing. I can even get on board, at least a little, with him being a part of my fucking her. But there is no way in hell I’m letting a goddamn sleeve like Max share that pussy.

  “You alright?” Marshall asks.

  I look up and see the concern in his face. It’s mixed with something else. There’s a penetrating aspect to his look. Like he’s seeing right through me. I need to get out of the glare of the spotlight of his eyes.

  “This is great work, as always, Marshall.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll take it from here.”

  Without a word, Marshall stands and buttons his suit coat. His eyes never break from staring at me. Like he’s continuing to size me up. He lingers a moment, as if deciding something. Then, his mind apparently made up, he goes.

  I let out a breath I didn’t even fucking realize I was holding. God, it’s no wonder he’s able to get so much information out of people. The guy works for me, and I nearly confessed everything to him without him so much as asking me a question.

  With another deep breath, I look back at the dossier. I force myself to flip through the rest of the information there, but I can’t really read any of it. All I can see is afterglows of the pictures of Becky on Max’s arm.

  Which leads to dark fantasies of Becky on Max’s cock.

  I slam the dossier closed. I immediately rip my desk phone off it’s hook and stab a button on it like I’m pissed at telecommunications and not myself and Becky and Max and Darian.

  “Yes, Mr. Silver?” my secretary immediately answers.

  “I need you to set up a meeting.”

  “Of course. With whom, sir?”

  “With Peter Strong.”

  “Certainly.” I can hear the trace of hesitation in her voice. She’s been with me for a few years. And anyone who’s been even in the orbit of my company for any length of time knows of my animosity toward that prick.

  Still, she’s a professional. Beyond that little hiccup, she doesn’t bat an eye. Just ask me if there’s anyone else who should be present.

  “Yes,” I say. “A woman by the name of Becky Brash.” I rattle off her number, followed by some more details about my plan.

  “Very good, Mr. Silver. I’ll set all that up right away.”

  “Thanks,” I say, even as I’m hanging up the phone again.

  I push away from my desk and from the file and turn my back on them. Instead, I turn my gaze to the city, sprawled out below me.

  But I’m not really seeing it. I’m still stuck on Max and Becky. And Becky and Darian. And me and Darian and Becky.

  It’s quite a hub of activity, I think. No, not a hub. A web. And webs are dangerous. You get caught in one and it’s sayonara motherfucker.

  Darian and I need to get to the bottom of Becky’s involvement with Max. It’s now or never.

  Fifteen

  Becky

  I walk up to Peter’s penthouse door and sigh. I have no idea why he’s brought me here, and I’d be lying if I said I’m not nervous. Things with Peter and Darian have been fun, but the longer shit like that goes on, the more complicated it seems to get, which is why I find myself silently hoping that the meeting is nothing more than a friendly rendezvous. I can’t afford to blow my cover, no matter how good things have been.

  Sighing slowly, I reach my hand out and give the door a slight rap with my fist. Peter opens the door after a couple seconds, and although I’m nervous, I can’t help but smile.

  “Peter,” I say, “Nice to see you.”

  I expect him to smile too, but he doesn’t, which only increases my nervousness. Peter mentioned on the phone that Darian was coming as well, but as I scan the penthouse with my eyes I make a quick mental note that he has yet to arrive.

  “Becky,” says Peter as he beckons to the couch, “Why don’t you have a seat?”

  I can tell that something is wrong. Peter is being much too formal, and it sounds like something is weighing heavily on his mind. Still though, I stay quiet. I just walked in, and it’s much too early to be making any sort of assumptions. It might put my cover in danger if I start questioning things too soon, so I only sit down on the couch and look up at him.

  He’s standing across from me, with only the coffee table separating us. It has a glass top, and I silently remark that Peter has probably fucked more than a few girls on that table.

  Get a hold of yourself. The minute you start thinking about shit like that, your cover gets put at risk, because you get jealous. And jealousy has a habit of leading to disaster.

  I knew that it was true, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. The sex with Peter and Darian had been nothing short of fantastic, and thinking about either of them with other women made the hair on my arms stand on end.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  I lift my head from its position examining the table and am surprised to see that Peter moved to prepare us drinks while I was daydreaming. He holds two glasses of champagne in either one of his hands, and I reach out to grab one.

  “Thanks Peter, this is nice.” I raise my glass slightly, making a small “cheers” gesture in the air. Peter only watches me through squinted eyes, and I realize that something must really be wrong.

  “Peter, what’s the matter? You’ve been weird ever since I came in. And where’s Darian? Didn’t you say he was coming?”

  “Yes. But before he does, I think we oughta talk about these, Becky.”

  Before I can ask what he’s talking about, Peter disappears into his office, reappearing seconds later with a beige colored folder in his hands. He carries the folder with purpose, and I can tell something big is coming. When I open my mouth to ask about the folder, he cuts me off and throws the whole thing down on the table.

  “Take a look at those and tell me what the fuck is going on here.”

  Peter sounds angry, but there’s another emotion underneath the anger that I can’t quite put my finger on. Jealousy? Maybe, but Peter never struck me as the jealous type. Not wanting to keep guessing, I lean forward and flip open the folder.

  Fuck. Where did he get these?

  A plethora of pictures slide out of the folder when I open it, all of them showing me with Max Kleeberger. There are pictures of the two of us at the club, along with several shots of the two of us in other bars and restaurants around the city. Looking at myself with Kleeberger makes my skin crawl, and I glance up at Peter. He’s still standing on the other side of the coffee table, taking careful, measured sips of his champagne. The expression on his face hasn’t changed.

  “It’s me and Max. What’s the problem? I don’t understand why you’re so worked up.”

  Even I know that the last part of that was a lie. Of course I understood. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out.

  “Why am I worked up? Why am I worked up?? Becky, one of these pictures shows you with Max the morning after we fucked! You went to work and had breakfast with this guy after spendi
ng the night with me?”

  Shit. Peter clearly thinks that there’s something romantic going on between Kleeberger and I, and that’s exactly what I was trying to avoid. When shit like this starts happening, keeping my cool as an undercover agent becomes more difficult. I lean forward and reach my hand out to Peter’s, but he takes a sharp step back so that he’s out of reach.

  “Don’t touch me, Becky. If there’s something going on between you and Max, I want nothing to do with it. If you really want to be sleeping around with Max Sleezeberger, that’s on you, but I want nothing to do with it.”

  Well, you were right about the jealousy. This guy is actually ready to call things off, and he doesn’t even know the full story.

  “Peter, c’mon,” I stand up and take a couple steps towards him, but he backs up again. “This isn’t what you think it is, really. The relationship I have with Max is strictly professional, nothing else. And frankly, the fact that you don’t believe me makes me more than a little upset. Do you really think I would do that?”

  The fire in Peter’s eyes softens a little, but I can tell his guard is still up, so I continue:

  “Have I been spending a lot of time with Max? Yes. I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t. But is there anything romantic going on between us? No. absolutely not. To tell you the honest truth, I don’t even like Max. But when you get yourself in a position like mine, sometimes professionalism comes before personal preference. The nicer I am to Max, the nicer he is to me. That’s all there is to it. It’s for the job, Peter.

  “And what job would that be?”

  I turn my head at the sound of a new voice and am surprised to see that Darian let himself in while we were talking, and apparently managed to do so undetected. Before I can ask him what he means, he throws another file in my direction.

  “I think you have some explaining to do, Beck. It’s not just Peter that wants answers. Take a look at that file. It’s got your name written all over it, but that isn’t the Becky Brash that I know.”

  Without even looking at the file, I feel my stomach sink. I know exactly what’s happening. Both Peter and Darian apparently did some digging, and Darian had dug in the right spot.