My Ex-Boyfriend's Billionaire Daddy

by Ella Brooke

  What? He’s already decided my future without even asking? Well, technically he’s asking, but not really giving me an alternative—pawning me off to another department, one that he has to bribe in order to take me on! That’s almost more insulting than firing me outright. My stomach twists. Is this his own smarmy way of saying he doesn’t want me around anymore? That he’s scaled Mount Cassidy and is moving on? I don’t want to believe that.

  Then it hits me. I’ve been lying to myself all along. Saying I took the job strictly for the money, to kickstart my art career. The truth is I wanted to be around him, get close to him. The thought of working here without him, even for the money, feels hollow and meaningless. I can’t do this.

  “Cassie?” he prompts, tilting his head in concern. I haven’t answered. I’ve just sat here silently mired in my own thought processes.

  I sit up straight, like a steel rod has just been thrust down my spine. “I see,” I say tightly. Very clearly. “To be honest, Mr. Baxter, I planned to give you my notice today. I feel I need the time to devote to my sculpture exhibition. Thank you for the opportunity, but I really can’t accept. Consider my two-weeks notice as given.”

  Brent’s eyes seem to darken, like a storm is brewing behind them, pinning me to the spot in their intensity. “Notice?” he says, as though he misheard. “You want to resign?”

  “Yes.”

  “I assure you that’s not necessary,” he continues, a nervous smile punctuating his serious countenance. “I only thought it would make us . . . you . . . more at ease with the situation. You’re welcome to stay as my assistant; I have no issues with your work. None at all. You’ve been indispensable, really. I’d be happy to have you stay on.”

  His speech seems to accelerate; almost as if he’s panicking that I want to leave rather than pander to his generosity. In this, he and Ryan are alike. I hate this kind of manipulation, and this attitude that somehow I’m incapable of surviving without the Baxter’s intervention. I clear my throat. “That’s good to know, but it’s in my best interest to leave the company. If two weeks isn’t enough to find a suitable a replacement, I’m willing to see out the rest of the probationary period.” I reply, lifting my chin in self-righteous defiance.

  Brent’s handsome face is transfigured with a mix of shock and . . . a little anger? Yes. He’s not happy. That wasn’t my intention, but so be it. He can’t make me stay. One way or another I’m out of here.

  After a moment, his expression softens. “If you feel that strongly, I respect your decision,” he says, his lips—that were all over me just forty-eight hours earlier—forming a hard line. An inconvenient sliver of regret slashes through me. Being in bed with him was a pivotal, earth-shaking experience; one I’ll never forget, and sadly, will never have again. I have to believe I’m doing the right thing and stick to my guns, or I might start to cry.

  “I think you’ll do great with your art,” Brent says, nodding. “I wouldn’t want to jeopardize that by having you struggle for money. I’ll pay out the remainder of your contract immediately; you don’t need to stay unless you want to. Today can be your last day.”

  That’s it. End of discussion. It’s all over. I won. Or did I? “I think that would be best,” I say, and rise from my perch. Brent stands as well, his intense gaze of earlier appearing glazed over in abject indifference, shutting me out as surely as slamming a door.

  “I’ll clear out my desk now.”

  Fall from Grace

  Brent

  My lunch sits untouched on its tray. I’m not hungry. Not for food, anyway. How dare she walk out on me? my inflated ego demands. Women don’t turn down offers from Brent Baxter; they lap them up like cream from a saucer. The may cry, beg, dangle phony promises to get what they want from me, but one thing they don’t do is say no. Certainly not when I’ve just handed one who has virtually nothing her whole world on a plate.

  But my deeper self, the part that retains some shred of conscience, isn’t insulted. It’s whiplashed. Injured and dizzy; trying to regain balance after being knocked flat on its ass by a sucker punch it never saw coming. Maybe I deserved it. I felt like a complete shit seeing Ryan so heartbroken over Cassie, and there’s no greater heartbreak than seeing your child in pain, knowing you’ve contributed to it. But Ryan’s not the only one smarting over the girl.

  It occurs to me she’s brushed both of us off . . . father and son. Have we gotten her all wrong? That under the seemingly innocent exterior lurks a calculating femme fatale . . . a habitual cock tease? I have no idea about her previous relationships prior to Ryan. Fuck, I know nothing about her at all, really. But did I stop to find out? No. I went straight for the goods. Led directly there by my midlife-inflamed gonads, to a place I had no business going.

  Lust. It boils down to plain, unadulterated lust. Infatuation with something I couldn’t have, which made me want it all the more. In business terms, shiny object syndrome. I cringe inwardly. Is it as simple as that? Reducing my feelings toward her into something so trite and puerile as lust? Over someone I spent less time researching than the performance of a commodities fund? I’d never make a business decision so recklessly.

  I sit sulking in my oversized, ergonomically perfect executive chair, angry with myself, feeling rejected, frustrated and unfortunately, horny as hell. The picture of Cassie’s perfect ass walking out my door, sashaying out of reach forever, only served to rouse my desire for her even further. I remember her moving toward me on that first day, and all the fantasies entering my mind. “Why have you called me here so early, Mr. Baxter . . .” Fuck it. My cock’s so hard it hurts just thinking about what could have been; about what we shared in her bed less than three days ago. I don’t want to let those visions go; let her go. I close my eyes and attempt to massage away the ache in my crotch.

  She saunters up to the edge of my desk wearing that tight pencil skirt, leaning one glorious, round ass cheek on its glossy surface. ‘You asked to see me, sir?’ she says in a low, breathy voice, her bent leg swinging playfully back and forth. ‘Why yes, Miss Keaton. I do want to see you. All of you.’ She flashes a coy smile. ‘Whatever do you mean, Mr. Baxter?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Show me those tits.’ She reaches for the buttons on her blouse, popping them one at a time. ‘I’m sure this is very inappropriate, sir,’ she says, parting the material to reveal a low-cut push up bra. ‘But you’re the boss . . .’ She unhooks the front clasp and holds the cups aside, presenting her magnificent breasts to me.

  I lick my lips in anticipation of sucking on those lovely mounds of flesh, circling her taut nipples with my tongue. My cock strains against the fabric of my pants as I rub it harder. My door is card-keyed. No-one but Cassie has access to this room, and she’s unlikely to return. I release my belt and unzip my non-wrinkle designer slacks. The release of pressure is welcome as I free my stiffened rod and slip my fingers around its swollen, rippled girth, stroking from root to tip.

  ‘That’s right, I am. Now come here.’ She lifts off my desktop and steps around the side of the desk, moving in close to me as I swivel in her direction. ‘Anything else I can do for you, sir?’ she asks, tilting her head in that adorable way of hers. ‘Why yes. Would you be so good as to take your panties off, please?’ She draws her tight skirt all the way up her thighs and removes a pair of silk panties, letting them drop to the floor in a pink puddle. I feel my balls tighten as I stroke harder and faster. ‘Very good, Miss Keaton. Would you put you hand here, please?’

  I imagine it’s her delicate little hands wrapping around my dick and stroking wildly. ‘You’ve done this before,’ I say with a groan of pleasure. ‘Oh yes, sir; am I doing it alright?’ ‘Perfectly, Miss Keaton. You catch on quick.’ ‘I do other things too,’ she coos, releasing her grip and straddling me in my chair, her skirt bunched up around her waist. ‘Unless you’d rather I suck you off?’ she says, her pussy hovering over my quivering, upright rod. ‘Just fuck me, baby,’ I growl, slamming her down hard. ‘Fuck me hard.’ I suppress
a groan as I jerk myself over the edge, my mind going blank except for the image of Cassie Keaton rocking up and down over my slick, throbbing cock, screaming my name. ‘That’s a good girl. Come for Daddy, sweetheart . . .’

  My cock pumps hot cum into the palm of my hand as I freeze-frame the image of Cassie, my name on her lips as she comes hard in my lap. I don’t want it to end. I don’t want us to end. There has to be a way. The thought of never touching her, tasting her, making love to her again feels like a death sentence.

  I don’t care what I have to do, my mind swears in the hazy wake of getting myself off. I will have Cassidy Keaton again.

  Exhibit A

  Cassidy

  I can’t believe this day has actually arrived. I’m standing inside a boutique Manhattan gallery staring at my four best sculpture works, showcased atop columned pedestals. More incredible still are the many members of New York’s art community that have turned up and are milling about, pointing at my pieces and speculating on their future investment value. I take a deep breath to counteract the light-headedness I’m feeling; fainting dead away in front of prospective collectors at my debut event would definitely not be cool.

  “You’ve made it, Cass. You’re a hit!” Candice exclaims, gripping my arm so hard I think my fingers are going numb.

  “Curb the enthusiasm, will you? They’re just looking; nothing says anyone is going to buy,” I caution her.

  “That’s beside the point,” she says. “It’s about exposure, brand recognition. They’ll be talking about you in the morning papers whether you sell anything or not.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I say with an exhausted sigh, the stress of preparing for this event over the last week catching up with me. I’d never have had the energy if I’d stayed working full time at Baxter Securities. Luckily, one of my profs contacted me not long after, asking if I would teach some night classes at the university. It doesn’t pay that much but I’m doing what I love, which only underscores the fact that I made the right decision.

  True to his word, Brent had the full three-month salary equivalent transferred to my bank account the same day I left. I’m thankful for that; not worrying about money allowed me to focus on my art, but I can’t shake a twinge of guilt in taking money under what felt like false pretenses, and even more guilty for spending some of it on the outrageously expensive outfit I’m wearing tonight. Candice helped me pick out a gorgeous red gown with diagonal shoulder straps that look like the strings of a harp criss-crossing my chest, but still revealing a good amount of cleavage. “Sex sells, girl,” Candice had said. She didn’t have to do much convincing in any case. The scarlet waves of glittering fabric draping to my ankles already had me sold.

  “Champagne?” a voice asks, interrupting my thoughts. The catering staff is roving about serving refreshments, most notably alcohol. I suppose the more people drink, the more they buy.

  “Absolutely,” Candice says heartily, grabbing not one, but two glasses from the passing tray.

  “Glutton,” I say with a chuckle.

  Candice throws me a hurt look. “One’s for you,” she declares, handing me a slim-stemmed flute. “You look like you need to relax.”

  “You’re right. I’m nervous.” I take a sip of the amber-colored bubbly. Delicious. I don’t think I’ve eaten all day, and the tingling buzz of champagne seems to filter all the way down to my toes.

  “Look,” gasps Ana, a former co-worker of mine from Marco’s who’s come to support me at this event. We all look in the direction she’s pointing.

  “Oh, my God,” Candice says as we watch a gallery staff member place a card in front of my best sculpture, entitled “Interspace,” an abstract representation of the human soul.

  “It’s been sold!” Ana says excitedly. “You’ve sold your first piece . . . and we’re barely an hour into the show! Oh, congrats Cassie!”

  I want so badly to run over and make sure it’s for real, but that just isn’t done at an art exhibit. I’d look like some naïve amateur—which I am—but I’d rather die than show it. I squint to try and read it from a distance. Sure enough, I can make out SOLD in bold letters, but the name of the buyer and other details are too small to read. Now I think I really will faint, and grab onto Candice for support.

  “What was the price tag on that?” Candice whispers.

  “Two thousand,” I answer, the words catching in my throat.

  “That’s it, you’re buying groceries next week,” she states. I giggle like a lunatic.

  “A toast,” Ana says, gathering us in a circle and raising her champagne glass. “To Cassidy Keaton, famous artist!” The clink of crystal sounds like all the bells of Notre Dame ringing. We down our drinks and grab more from a passing server. This is definitely the best night of my life, if I didn’t count the night I had Brent Baxter in my bed. Both major turning points; one to celebrate and the other to be purged from history.

  Several patrons approach me to ‘meet the artist.’ I want to sound sophisticated and avant-garde, but I feel like I’m babbling incoherently. They ask about other mediums I work in, how long have I studied art, and am I available for commissioned work. Dear God—a commission piece? Any artist would kill for that, and here I am, discussing it like I might deign to consider it if the price were right.

  I lose track of time in all the excitement and soon make my way back to Candice and Ana. “Sorry guys,” I say. “I didn’t mean to ditch you. I’m so grateful that you’re here. Thanks for coming with me.”

  “We wouldn’t miss it. And you have your public now; we know we’ll have to take a back seat from here on in,” Candice teases.

  “And I think you have an admirer,” Ana says, casting her eyes sidelong. “There’s a guy over there who’s been watching you for the last half-hour. A little older, but holy hell he’s hot. You know him?”

  I follow her line of sight into the crowd on the other side of the room, and then I freeze. The champagne seems to have crystallized in my veins, stopping my heart cold. Standing there, taller than everyone around him and impossible to miss in his impeccable suit, is none other than Brent Baxter.

  What the fuck is he doing here?

  “Are you going to go talk to him?” Ana’s voice pierces through my waves of panic. “He might be a buyer.”

  Shit. Instinct tells me to turn my back and ignore him, but he’s seen me and I’ve seen him. It would be rude and childish to turn away. Ana’s right. I can’t treat him any differently than the other patrons. The trouble is, looking at him makes me realize how much I’ve missed the handsome asshole. My body begins to thaw and I find my feet carrying me toward him.

  He flashes his brilliant smile as I draw near, his eyes traveling the length of my body. “Hi,” I say, clasping my hands firmly in front of me to let him know he’s not welcome. He may have known the place and date of my exhibition, but I sure as hell never invited him. “What are you doing here?”

  He gives a slight shrug and spreads his hands apart in a broad gesture. “Can’t a man appreciate beauty when he sees it? What better place than an art gallery?”

  I nod, conceding his obtuse point even as I feel an inconvenient blush rise to my cheeks. It’s open to the public, after all. “Well, I thank you for coming. The arts do rely on corporate support. Enjoy the show,” I say, preparing to return to my friends.

  “You’re welcome,” he says. “I am a great admirer of the arts. But I believe you know that.”

  “Yes,” I say, moving away. “Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Baxter.”

  “Cassie,” he says softly. “Won’t you stay and talk with me a bit? I came here for more than just the art. I wanted to see how you were doing. I see one of your pieces has already sold. Congratulations. I want to hear about your work. Do you have other prospects beyond the show? Any works in progress?”

  I haven’t heard from him in almost a month. If he wanted to know how I was doing he could have called. He’s got some nerve showing up here, making small talk like nothing ever ha
ppened between us. I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted, but I can’t deny the magnetic force of his presence that quickens my pulse the closer I get to him. It would be so easy to fall back into his clutches. “Not really. I’ve been teaching some art classes part-time at NYU. So I don’t have as much time for my own work as I’d like, but I’m doing well, actually.”

  “That’s great. I’m glad,” he says, nodding. Try as I might, I can’t seem to tear my vision away from the man, scenes of our lovemaking flashing through my brain with annoying clarity. If only he hadn’t been my boss . . .

  Another server approaches us, and Brent takes two more champagnes off the tray. “Let’s have a toast,” he says, handing me one. I take it just to be polite. “To a successful night, and your continued success. I have no doubt the rest of your pieces will be bought before the evening’s out.” He tilts his glass toward mine, and our rims touch with a delicate ping.

  “Thank you,” I reply and take a small sip. Brent takes a generous swallow then fixes me once more with his hypnotic, hazel gaze. No, no, no! Look away!

  “Cassie,” he says in that silken voice I both dread and adore. “I have a confession to make. I’ve been thinking about you a lot since you left. Not just about your welfare, but you.”

  “Have you?” I say in a flat, monotone that intimates I don’t believe him. I glance aside as I take another sip from my glass to underscore the point.

  “Yes, I have. I can’t help wondering if we couldn’t have made some other kind of compromise. I feel like I failed you, and I’m sorry. The truth is, I miss you, and I want to see you again. Be with you again.”