Be My Babygirl: A Billionaire Romance

by Jane Henry

  It’s pretty basic stuff, really. Name, email address. Like signing up for the grocery store discount card. I fill out the information sheet on the clipboard. Sasha peers over my shoulder with the diligence of a mother hen and under her watchful eye, I find myself putting my real name, address, and phone number on the sheet.

  I figure, no big deal, I’ll never see this place again, and I take another bite from my plate.

  The girls around me talk, idle chatter flows as I devour my food. They take dainty bites, moving morsels about their plates with the prongs of their forks.

  A woman who looks to be in her early thirties with perfectly coiffed ice blonde hair and five-inch stilettos glides across the stage in a crimson red dress. It’s perfectly cut to encase her curves, made of what looks to be a fine silk, the material slipping and sliding over her skin as she moves.

  Making my own red dress suddenly feel like a burlap sack.

  “Welcome, Empowered Women of Vegas.” She raises her hands in the air and a cheer rises in the room to meet them. “I’m Miranda, founder of Sugar Daddies Escort Service and sole company owner for over ten years running.”

  Sasha leans over, whispering into my ear. “She’s a legend. Can you believe she came in person to address us?” Light shines from Sasha’s eyes as she gazes on Miranda, clearly a heroine of hers.

  Miranda wastes no time getting down to business. “I like all my girls to hear the rules from me, first and foremost.”

  “The rules for being an escort?” I whisper to Sasha to clarify.

  “Mmhmm,” she nods, never taking her gaze from the stage.

  “First of all, professionalism. Though you may be dressed as a duckling in cosplay, or wearing handcuffs around your wrists, always remember to maintain that professional air. Though the world may look down upon us as working girls, we know we are, in fact, career women.”

  Another huge cheer erupts in the room.

  Wait, what? Duckling?

  Handcuffs?

  She holds out a manicured hand to tame the crowd. “Secondly, always be polite. Retain control but know your limits. It’s a tricky balance but after you get a few dates under your belt, you’ll be a pro.”

  Sasha nods. “It’s true.”

  Miranda makes a stern face, her gaze heavy as it scans the crowd. “And the final rule, albeit the most important… say it with me ladies—”

  The room is filled with the deafening sound of the women chanting in unison. “Never! Fall! In! Love!”

  “Good girls,” she says, a smile of pride on her face. “Now, I’ll let you finish your meals, and then we’ll hear from our etiquette master, who will go over the most important points of manners in the bedroom.”

  When Miranda steps down from the stage, the other girls dab at their mouths with their linen napkins, taking the break to refresh their lipsticks and glosses.

  I take another approach, shoveling in my last piece of bread and going up to the buffet for a refill.

  When I return to my seat, I find a man in a black tuxedo standing by my chair. He stares directly at me. Sasha stands by his side, giving me a curious look. “Katie?” she says.

  Busted. Damn. Now I’m going to be kicked out in front of all of these people. Should I take my plate of food with me?

  “Yes,” I answer, offering a sweet smile. I place my plate on the table, licking off a bit of gravy that’s dribbled onto my thumb. “Can I help you?”

  She gives a side nod to the waiter. “This gentleman has come down here looking for you. Apparently, Mr. Morrow’s requested you.” Her words cause a stir at the table, women whispering between themselves, their kohl-lined eyes looking up at me, wide in disbelief.

  Brushing breadcrumbs from my lips, I manage an, “Um... what?”

  Morrow... now why do I find that name to be familiar?

  Sasha puts a hand on my shoulder, leaning in and whispers into my ear, “Darius Morrow.” When she sees my blank stare, she rolls her eyes. “The owner of the hotel. Babe, the billionaire? You mustn’t keep him waiting.”

  Darius Morrow… the man who tripped my heart across a computer screen... wants… me?

  Chapter 2

  Darius

  So much for my resolve.

  Jesus.

  It was just another night of work, supervising the going ons at my hotel, until... her. I’ve told myself I’m done with dating. I’ll focus my energies on amassing wealth, buying properties, and leave the whoring around to my brother.

  She isn’t my type, but the second I got one look at the gorgeous, curvy little blonde, I lost my mind. Gold glitter shimmers on her lids, a hint at a playful personality, and her full lips are bright, cherry red. I want to bite those lips and suck them until she keens with pleasure and begs for more.

  Pulling Miranda’s assistant to the side, I make my wishes clear. Giving me a tight nod, she hurries off to do my bidding. Leaving me with a few moments to return to my penthouse and prepare for my dessert.

  It’s been so long since I’ve taken a woman to the privacy of my own room, I can’t help but cast a discriminating eye around the place. The large plate-glass windows in front of me overlook the enormous pools below, lit up with amethyst lights at night, dancing with an ethereal glow on the white tiles around the perimeter.

  I hired a decorator and told her what I like. Simple lines, modern furniture, elegant and functional. But this is Vegas, Baby. And in Vegas, we do things right. There’s a whirlpool tub that overlooks the pools, beside the fully stocked bar. Plush towels sit in a basket beside the pool, with understated vases of greenery lending an air of sophistication.

  The furniture is sleek leather, the wall art simple but meaningful. A print of Monet’s starry night, and an authentic Georgia O’Keefe above the mantel. The gas fireplace lends a romantic feel as well. I walk to the mantel and realize there’s a candle there I’ve never lit.

  I’m not a sentimental guy.

  And I don’t mix business with pleasure.

  Why am I doing this?

  Downstairs, I stood on the sidelines, watching the gorgeous women march in like they were on a runway, but none grabbed my attention. I wondered what the hell was wrong with me, why I couldn’t manage to get my shit together and find a single one of these beautiful women attractive.

  Then, I saw her.

  Easily a foot shorter than the rest of them, she walked on heels like a girl playing dress-up, uncertain and wobbly on her feet.

  Adorable.

  Her dress hugs her curves in all the right places, showing cleavage but hinting at more beneath that fabric.

  Stunning.

  She filled her plate with food, and then came back for seconds, looking around furtively as if Miranda would come marching over any moment, wagging a finger and telling her to eat her leafy greens.

  She was obviously hungry. Why?

  Are there other things she’s hungry for?

  She isn’t like the others. There’s something markedly different about her, a winsome wholeness I can’t put my finger on. She seems sweet, shy, like a lost little kitten. What the hell am I doing?

  I call Rawley, my brother.

  “Yo.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yo,” I say with a grimace. “You need to tell me I’m not making a mistake.”

  “Well that’s easy. You’re not making a mistake. Do it. Do it twice. Buy it! Buy three.”

  I close my eyes, shake my head, and contemplate hanging up the phone. He must sense my hesitation, for he presses on.

  “Okay, Darius. Fess up. You can tell Uncle Rawley what’s got you all in a tither.”

  I shake my head. Jesus.

  “I hired an escort for the night,” I groan. “In my own fucking hotel.”

  “‘Bout damn time.”

  I sigh. A part of me knew that he’d practically congratulate me, which is probably why I called him to begin with.

  “You need that, bro. Do it. If you don’t, I’ll fly all the way to that swanky fucking rooftop whatever you ow
n and kick your ass.”

  “Like hell you will.” I’d like to see him try.

  “Do it, Darius. You have to live a little. Fill the well, and whatever other sentimental bullshit’s written in the latest inspirational poster on your office wall.”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes and shake my head. Framed college degrees are the only things hung up on my office walls, but he loves to give me shit.

  “Make it good, bro.” He sighs. “Listen, I’ve gotta go.”

  “Yeah. Alright, you go. Thanks, man.”

  I hang up the phone, honestly no more at ease than I was before. Another shot helps, when my door buzzes.

  I walk to the intercom.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Morrow, I’ve arrived with your guest.”

  My guest.

  “You may enter.” Logan has access to my apartment, but only enters after he asks permission.

  A moment later, the door opens, and Logan comes in, followed by the stunning blonde. Her bright eyes take in the details of my penthouse, likely noting the opulence. She doesn’t speak for long moments, nor does she meet my eyes. I wonder if she’s intimidated.

  “Thank you, Logan,” I say. “You may leave us.”

  He gracefully exits, and the door shuts.

  She stands just inside the door, clutching her small bag as if it will defend her against me. It won’t, but she’s cute.

  “Come in.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Morrow,” she says, her voice wobbly. “Your… your home is beautiful, sir.”

  Sir.

  I fucking like that.

  “Thank you.”

  I offer nothing else at first. I want to note as much about her as possible. The way she walks. Unaccustomed to heels? The gentle wave of her hair. Natural? The way she looks about as if to find a place to sit as far away from me as possible. Nervous?

  My fingers tighten on the glass in my hand. It will be so goddamn hard keeping myself in check around her. Perhaps even harder to send her home in the morning.

  She opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it and blushes. She’s so nervous, it’s enticing, and a little voice in the back of my mind whispers, tempting me.

  Could she be the one?

  The one who doesn’t run.

  The one who doesn’t call me sick or twisted.

  I dismiss the thought with a scowl, and she must take it as my disapproval, for her cheeks flush hotter.

  It doesn’t fucking matter who she is or what she likes, I’ll pay her well for her time with me and send her home in the morning.

  She sits, then quickly rises again. “I’m sorry,” she stutters, getting to her feet. “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t think I’m —”

  “Sit down.” The command is sharp and rasping, and it makes her jump. She trips on the carpet, her heel snags, and falls toward the coffee table, banging her knee. She winces, cries out, and steadies herself on the glass table, both hands splayed out to steady herself, her full breasts nearly spilling out of her top.

  I immediately regret my sharp tone, and I admit, that’s a fucking first. I like people jumping to my commands. I like them to be afraid of me. I haven’t risen to where I am by being Mr. Nice Guy.

  But this girl… she’s a skittish little thing, and the very knowledge makes the low coil of arousal in my belly tighten. There’s something about her that’s so authentic and vibrant, it makes me feel alive.

  “Be careful,” I scold. “Sit.” Then my conscience pricks me. “You alright?” She winces at my gruff tone.

  She reaches for her knee with a wince. “Well… I think I’m okay,” she says, but her voice is pained. “I just… it’s just…”

  Her voice trails off when I take her smaller hand in mine. She’s cold, but her hands are soft and feminine. An unbidden thought rushes in.

  I could take this hand and lead her well.

  I swallow hard, sit on the sofa, and gently tug her hand so she’s sitting beside me.

  “Show me.”

  She blinks, and her mouth parts. She finally whispers, “Show you what, sir?”

  Everything.

  “Your knee, please.”

  She blinks, then wordlessly points to her banged-up knee.

  “That’ll bruise,” I murmur. My fingers find her thigh as I bend my head, brushing my lips against the lightly bruised skin in a soft kiss. A tremble runs through her at my touch. I’m no gentleman, but I can play the part.

  She’s so responsive.

  “I have some lotion that will help.” I rise and point my index finger at her. “You stay right there.”

  She blinks, swallows, and nods, but doesn’t speak.

  The irrational part of my brain fears that if I leave her, she’ll fly away, like a caged bird, and I must not let that happen.

  I return later with a small tube of arnica cream and a bandage. I sit beside her, patting my knee. “Give me your leg.”

  She bites her lip but obeys.

  “Good girl.” She drapes her leg over mine, and my cock tightens against my zipper. Her nearness, her scent, and her utter trust is intoxicating. She trusts me.

  She shouldn’t.

  I frown at the little bruise and dab the lotion on. When my fingers touch her skin, she gasps. I freeze.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No, sir,” she whispers.

  I will.

  “What is that you’re… putting on me?”

  “It’s arnica. Will help prevent bruising.”

  On your ass, on your thighs… I don’t have this here for typical first aid. I haven’t even seen her skin yet but can already imagine what it looks like striped red.

  “How clever. I never heard of it.”

  A kink virgin, then?

  Is anything else about her virginal?

  Jesus.

  When she’s doctored up, I lean back and observe her.

  “How long have you worked with… the escort company?”

  If I call it by name, I’ll lose the little self-control I still have.

  Her eyes flit left as she looks away. “Oh, I’m a new… hire.”

  Of course she is. There’s no way a woman like her would’ve passed my attention. But I don’t like her looking away from me. I reach for her chin and place it between my thumb and forefinger, dragging her gaze to mine.

  It’s time we set the ground rules.

  “Eyes on me when we’re speaking.” Time for her first test. “I didn’t give you permission to look away.”

  Her eyes grow even wider, but she nods and holds my gaze.

  “Now answer the question. How long?”

  “Today’s my first day,” she whispers, eyes still on me. “And what do you mean by permission?”

  “You’ll see soon enough. First day? So you’ve never had another client?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Jealous possession flares through me. I move my hand so I’m cupping the back of her head, my fingers lacing through the silky soft curls.

  “I like that answer,” I tell her truthfully. I could teach her.

  Hell yes.

  She needs to relax. “Would you like a drink?”

  She nods, her soft curls bouncing. “Yes, please.”

  “Your name?”

  She swallows hard. “Katie.”

  I release her reluctantly and get to my feet. “What’s your drink?”

  “Um… do you have wine?”

  “Of course. What kind?”

  “White?”

  “No preference?”

  “Not too dry?”

  Adorable.

  I pour her a generous glass of white Zinfandel and rejoin her. I want to test her, to really see if she has what I’m looking for.

  I hold the glass just out of her reach.

  “Um. Thank you?” she says tentatively.

  “Say ‘please, sir.’”

  I watch her response. She shifts on the couch, her pupils dilate, and she wipes her palms on her dress. Her ey
es widen even further, and her lips part.

  “Please, sir?” she asks.

  I nod and give her the wine. “Good girl.” I sit back down beside her. “Let’s talk about the rules here.”

  “Rules?”

  “Yes, Katie. Rules.” And consequences. “Our contract will begin this evening and end in the morning. While under my roof, you’ll obey what I tell you and do what I ask. I have certain… tastes. But I’ll pay you well.”

  I’ll make her come until she’s hoarse, until she forgets to breathe, until my touch is branded on her skin.

  She nods. “Well,” she says, as if to herself. “I’m here for a reason, and I—” She looks back to me. “Yes, sir.”

  What is her reason?

  She shouldn’t cave so easily. She should at least have doubts, but it doesn’t seem that she does.

  I place my hand deliberately on her thigh, where the dress rides up and bares her skin. She shivers under my touch and takes a long drink from her wine glass. I squeeze her thigh, a gentle pressure to show I’m in control of this.

  “And then in the morning, after your contract is complete, I’ll pay you the flat rate of ten thousand dollars.”

  She sputters the wine and nearly chokes. “For one night?”

  It’s more than twice what a typical escort gets paid, but something tells me she’s worth it.

  “Yes, at the hourly rate of one thousand dollars per hour.”

  “Oh my God,” she says, not even bothering to hide her shock. She downs the rest of her wine glass in one fell swoop. “When do we start?”

  Good. Good girl.

  “From the moment I first touched you,” I say, “by contract, which I’ll arrange shortly.” I glance at my watch. “So by my estimation, fifteen minutes ago.”

  I check my email on my phone. The contract’s sitting right there, ready for our signatures.

  “Read it.” I hold my phone to her. She squints, scrolls, then nods.

  “Done and done,” she says.

  I should be happy. I’m not. She could hurt herself being so reckless.