Spring Break Bride: A Virgin For The Billionaire Fake Marriage Romance

by Vivien Vale

  “Kayla we love you and we want to spend the rest of our lives with you. Will you marry us?’

  I blink. What? Did I hear correctly?

  “Will you?” they repeat and now I start to cry.

  No words pass my lips and so I simply nod.

  We melt into each other’s arms and Scott kisses me. Brad’s mouth is traveling downward where my wet pussy waits for him. And both my hands are busy with needy dicks.

  I can’t believe it, but this is my life now.

  I’ve been blessed.

  Double Dealing

  A Two Billionaire MFM Menage Romance

  By Daphne Dawn

  Copyright 2017 by Crimson Vixens

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work intended for adults only.

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  Kevin

  We are at The Exchange in Minneapolis, and it is busier than usual. There are some nights where everyone wants to let their hair down, and apparently, this is one of them.

  Scot and I sit on the upright beige stools at the bar, sipping whiskey and checking out the talent. Scantily clad women shimmy around, waiting for guys to ogle them, and we are more than happy to oblige.

  There’s nothing more beautiful than a sexy woman. Sure, okay – some men don’t know how to appreciate the fine things in life, but that’s not a description you can apply to me. I love the fine things in life, especially when their shape is a feminine one.

  The Exchange is the kind of place I like to go to wind down. It’s an upscale place with classy décor and people that get drunk enough to have fun, but not so drunk they get trashy. Music thumps over the speakers, loud enough on the dance floor to keep the writhing bodies happy, but far enough away from the bar so that Scott and I can talk comfortably.

  “How’s your search for a new secretary going?” Scott asks.

  I sip the last of my whiskey and wave to the bartender so he can get me a refill. I’m on my third glass and finally starting to buzz.

  The problem with drinking more often is how tolerant you become, but I have the time and money to get myself properly lubricated tonight.

  “I found someone,” I say.

  “Yeah? Hot?”

  I nod. “Fucking hot. She’s a full ten.”

  “That doesn’t exist,” Scott says.

  “You haven’t seen this one.”

  There aren’t a lot of women as hot as Carly Brown. I’d spent the week interviewing one woman after the other, looking for a personal assistant. They’d been mostly good looking in one way or another and more than capable of doing the job, but I hadn’t felt that connection I believe in when I hire someone to work with me on a full-time basis.

  When Carly walked into my office, I’d known before going over her qualifications with her that she was the one. She was banging hot, with curves that made my mouth water and plump, kissable lips.

  Of course, her ability to assist me is really what I should be after, but if a woman walks into your office looking like a wet dream, you seriously consider hiring her. It was a total bonus that Carly has all the credentials I need.

  More than just that, she was overqualified. I should feel bad about it, but I’ve never been happier about the market pushing a smart young woman inside my office.

  “When is she starting?” Scott asks.

  “Monday.” My whiskey refill arrives, and I sip it. The more I drink of the stuff, the better it tastes. I never really like whiskey when I start out, but by the end of the night, I always love it.

  “So, I’m going to see her around, then?” Scott asks.

  “For sure,” I say. “You’ll see what I mean. Seriously, I would take her.”

  Scott chuckles and sips his own whiskey. His dark hair flops into his face, and his green eyes are hungry as he looks women up and down like he is trying to picture them naked.

  We work together. Scott is involved in my HR department, and thanks to him, a lot of things go right with Raven Publishers. My publishing company is doing well enough for investors to get on board and a lot of it has to do with Scott.

  Of course, the board has been acting rather mutinous as of late, but that has nothing to do with him. Hell, without him they’d just mutiny and chop my head off. Figuratively speaking.

  But Scott’s more than just my HR man. He is my best friend and my wingman since college. We had the same interests from the start: sports, alcohol, and women. The latter, we talk about shamelessly. When we come across a hot piece of ass, we are more than willing to share.

  It sounds bad, but hey, what are best friends for?

  “Does she look like the type that will let you fuck her?” Scott asks.

  I nod. “I can’t tell for sure. You know how uptight some of them are, but I think so. She caught me staring at her tits, and she arched her back instead of blushing.”

  Scott nods. “You know I’m gunning for her too, right?” he asks.

  I laugh. “Not if I get there first. But when has that ever stopped you?”

  Scott shrugs. “It’s my genetic makeup, man. I can’t help it,” he says, flashing me a grin. “But I read her files. What the hell is she doing as a secretary?”

  “Who knows?” I reply, and now’s my turn to shrug. “Stanford, graduated magna cum laude…She should be aiming for VP, not secretary. But, hey, it’s not like I’m complaining.”

  “Yeah, VP,” Scott snorts. “Like the board would ever go for something like that. These old bastards are just looking to set their nieces up for life.”

  “You think I can’t work around these guys?”

  “Not to brag, but I could whip them into submission easily,” he laughs at me, and I realize what’s about to happen.

  We’re about to make a bet.

  “No fucking way. I’m not betting on something I’m going to win. It’s like taking candy from a baby.”

  “Scared?”

  “Yeah, scared,” I roll my eyes. “I’m terrified, Scott, can’t you see it?” I laugh, showing him my hand and make it twitch as if I’m having a nervous breaking. “If you want to bet, let’s bet. I’ll make a VP out of her.”

  Scott laughs. “We’ll see who gets that done first. Challenge accepted,” he says. He looks around at the people walking around us. We both stare at the same pair of legs and rolling hips that passes us before Scott turns his attention back to me.

  Bets – it’s been like this ever since college. It didn’t matter what the subject was; if we could bet on it, we would. Especially if the subject matter was an outrageous one.

  We once bet that we could make a vegan eat a steak. By the time we were finished, our poor victim went through a four-course meal of the finest meats New York has to offer.

  Once, I made Scott stroll inside a courthouse and present himself as the lawyer while the court was in session. That earned him an overnight stay on a comfortable prison cell, but he won that bet.

  So far, I’d say we’re fifty-fifty. What can I say? You can’t win them all.

  But turning a secretary into a Vice-President, and having the board agree to it? Now that’s something. Sure, I’m the CEO – but it’s not like I’m the Louis XIV of the publishing world. A CEO has to show his reports, after all, even if that means bowing down a board full of assholes.

  Secretary to VP…I’ll have to put her to work fast.

  I just can’t decide – should I make her focus on all the paperwork, or on my dick? Ah, whoever said being a CEO is an easy job had no idea what they were talking about. Tough choices all around.

  Besides, what makes it so interesting is the fact that Scott wants her as well. So, really, this isn’t just a bet – this is a competition.

  I shift in my seat, imaginin
g Carly sandwiched between us with both our dicks buried inside her. Scott and I have fucked in the same room before, but never the same girl. I wonder if that would be the way to go – a friendly draw.

  “Let’s try it then. We’ll see who makes a VP out of her.” I smile, looking down at my whisky, and then add, “And we’ll see who makes her moan the loudest.” I want to give it a shot, though. God, thinking of Carly naked, her mouth and her pussy occupied by a dick, her long dark hair falling over my chest or my hands on her ass. I shift, trying to get comfortable around the erection in my pants.

  “You’re on,” Scott says. He throws back the last of his whiskey and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “One dollar?”

  “One dollar it is,” I reply with a laugh, taking his hand in mine and shaking it. It’s not about the money with us. It’s about who gets to beat the other. It’s about bragging rights.

  Another woman comes past, and she wears a dress so short it is more like a belt. She is more drunk than sexy, falling over her own heels. She has a drink in her hand, and it is more than half full.

  Alcohol is great in moderation–just enough to drop your inhibitions can make for a fantastic night–but there is a limit, and after that, it is easier just to walk away.

  In this case, drunk-and-weaving heads toward us. Scott glances at me. Neither of us are in the business of taking advantage of women. Do I love sex? You bet I do. But this drunk needs a greasy meal and a warm bed to sleep it off.

  She stumbles past us. I see it happen in slow-motion–she loses control of her drink, and it splashes onto my knee.

  “Goddammit,” I say, jumping up. She starts toppling toward me. I grab her arm, trying to steady her.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Someone says right behind me. When I turn around, I come face to face with a brick wall of a man. “That’s my woman.”

  I unhand the drunk girl.

  “Ow,” she says, rubbing her arm.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to hurt her, at all.”

  “Are you okay, baby?” he asks.

  Scott stands up and comes over to me so that we are side by side.

  “It’s sore,” she says, except she is slurring so it sounds more like it’sh shaw.

  “You think you’re funny, getting frisky with another man’s woman?” he asks.

  “Hey, now,” Scott says. “He was just trying to help. She’s had a little more than she can handle.”

  “Stay out of it, asshole,” the guy sneers at Scott.

  I shake my head, pissed off now. First, his girlfriend is a problem, and now it’s escalating into name-calling.

  Just another night out, it seems. What am I? An asshole-magnet?

  “That’s not necessary,” I say. “It’s nothing more than a misunderstanding.”

  “Oh yeah?” the guy says, and he looks just as pissed as I feel. Maybe he had a lot to drink, too.

  “Come on now, let’s just talk about this,” Scott says, holding up his hands in a defensive gesture.

  The guy turns away a little, shaking his head. He spins around and his fist flies out, hooking me in the jaw.

  For a moment, I see stars, and I fall backward and crash into someone else. I’m aware of Scott jumping the guy and the drunk girl screaming above the music. It doesn’t take me too long to recover. The guy had only clipped my jaw and done no real damage.

  “Sorry,” I say to whoever is behind me.

  Scott is in a full-on fist fight with this guy. The girl is still screaming, and I become aware of the bouncers circling us. We’ve attracted a crowd, and there are phones out. This is going to get ugly, whether we carry on fighting or get banned from the club. I want to get in a hit before we are thrown out. I run toward them and jump up, punching the guy in the nose over Scott’s shoulder.

  None of us can do more damage. One moment, our attacker is angry, with blood blooming from his nose, and the next, we are all being dragged out by security, my knuckles throbbing.

  We are thrown into the road outside, and all that is missing from the way we’ve been discarded is the bouncers dusting their hands before turning around and walking away.

  I push myself up from the asphalt and get to my feet.

  “Well, that wasn’t humiliating,” Scott says.

  I shake my head. “At least we still got it.”

  Scott laughs, and we high-five like teenagers.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I say. “I have to get home, anyway. I want to hit the gym in the morning, and my body is not going to like the whiskey as it is.”

  Scott nods. “I’ll see you in the gym bright and early then, bro.”

  On Monday morning, I leave my apartment dressed in my suit and tie, ready to take on the week, when my phone rings.

  “Meyers,” I say, holding the phone against my ear.

  “Kevin,” a deep voice says. I recognize Mr. Franklin Hull right away. He is one of my investors, one of the most important members on the board, and I deal with him directly most of the time.

  “Mr. Hull,” I say. “I trust you’re well?”

  If there is anyone whose ass I have to kiss, it’s Hull’s.

  “I’m not as well as I’d like to be, Kevin,” he says, and his voice is serious.

  Oh shit, what happened now? “What can I do to fix it?” I ask.

  “You can tell me why the hell I’m supposed to invest in a person who ends up in the tabloids for a fist fight in a club. This is work, not a playground. We’re all adults trying to achieve something here.”

  “Of course, Mr. Hull,” I say, thinking feverishly. “It’s all one big misunderstanding.”

  “Well, then you can explain yourself in our meeting at nine.”

  Shit. They are calling me in for a meeting. What a way to start the week. When he hangs up without saying goodbye, I get in my car and open Twitter. It doesn’t take me long to find the link to the post where a crude photo of me and Scott is posted alongside a photo with two security guys and the guy with the bloody nose.

  Fuck.

  I’m in the tabloids for this shit? It had to be one of those assholes who stood around us with the cellphones. What am I going to do, now?

  I start the car and pull into the road. My stomach is knotted in a tight fist of nerves. “Call Scott Collins,” I tell my hands-free system, and it dials Scott’s number right away.

  “Yeah?” he answers, sounding like he is still asleep.

  “We’re all over the net for that fight at the club on Friday.”

  “What?” he asks, suddenly a lot more alert.

  “Yeah, Hull just called me in to a meeting to shit all over me. Just thought I’d give you a heads up.”

  “Fuck,” Scott says with feeling.

  “Yeah, that’s what I said,” I respond. “I’m being cross-examined at nine. I’ll let you know how it goes. Be on standby. Hopefully, it won’t be too hectic, but you never know if we need to think of something like a press release.”

  “Got it,” he says. “Good luck.”

  I hang up without responding. This is a load of bullshit.

  I got a bet to win, and this just makes it hard.

  Carly

  The first day of the job is always the worst. I was so happy when I got the job, but now, I am sick to my stomach. I handle stress well, but making an impression and having to prove myself are something different entirely.

  Sure, after all the years of studying at Stanford, after all the money I’ve spent on tuition…. you’d think I’d do better than a secretary position. But what can I tell you? It’s not like job offers are raining down on me. Besides, I’m ambitious – I’ll just get my foot on the door and then start climbing up.

  Still, yeah, I’m nervous.

  I also feel a little uncomfortable in my shoes. They are brand new–I’d gone shopping to celebrate the moment I’d gotten the job–and I should have broken them in first.

  When I walk through the lobby to the stairs, Kevin Meyers comes out
of the men’s room and reaches the foot of the stairs the same time I do.

  “Morning, Carly,” he says.

  I smile nervously at him. I hadn’t expected to see him out here already.

  “Morning, Mr. Meyers,” I say.

  “Kevin,” he says. “Please. We’re going to be working closely together. Let’s not stay too formal.”

  I nod. “Kevin,” I say.

  He pulls one corner of his mouth up in a lopsided grin. We turn and ascend the steps together. Kevin seems distracted and serious. The grin had faded almost immediately, and he seems to be lost in a world of his own. It is quite the opposite from what it had been when I’d done the final interview. He’d been charming and suave, then, almost arrogant. He had stared at my body with his icy blue eyes without shame, and I had to admit that I’d liked it.

  Now, he barely looks at me. I had gotten dressed this morning with the intention of looking good. I’m in appropriate office attire, of course, but I’m wearing a peplum dress suit that accentuates my curves, and kitten heels that make my calves look better than when I wear flats.

  We climb the two flights of stairs, and I follow him to a door with his name on the glass in golden lettering. The office is modern executive, with black furniture and splashes of color that are artful enough that I assume he’d gotten a decorator. Black blinds hang in front of all the glass walls, ready to give Kevin privacy from prying eyes when he needs it.

  I stand just inside the door, clutching my handbag like it is a lifeline, waiting for Kevin to tell me what he wants me to do.

  He is still distracted, opening his laptop and typing feverishly. It gives me time to study him.

  He has dirty blond hair that is raked out of his face like he’d done it with just his fingers after showering. His blue eyes are the color of a winter sky, and his suit hugs his muscled arms. He works out, no doubt. The top button of his shirt is undone, the tie is loose around his neck, and a few golden chest hairs and a triangle of tanned skin peek out of the shirt.