Billionaire Heir
Erotic Romance Bundle
Dalia Daudelin
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My Billionaire's Baby
1
In the heat of the afternoon, two people tangled up in sweaty bedsheets writhe with ecstatic gasps. Their touches are charged, full of primal desire. The woman's dark skin glistens with water that the man laps up at her neck. The salt brings his taste buds alive. The sensation of his slick tongue against her skin makes her clench around his manhood and moan out his name.
Gripping his back with her hands and wrapping her legs around him, she throws off the bedsheets. The man's face dips down, his soft lips sucking in her nipple.
They move in time until the woman's toes curl, her legs gripping him tighter. She orgasms around him, and then he follows her, spilling into her.
Falling down with a gasp, Charlotte Spencer's black hair cascades over the bed like serpents. The man leans over her for a kiss, which she turns away from. His hand hovers over her forehead, wanting to push a stand of hair from her skin, but she pushes him away.
“Thanks for picking me up, Max.” Leaning to one side, Charlotte grabs her phone from the table next to her bed. “I don't know what I would have done without you. I hate with Louis calls in sick, this is the third time in two months!”
Maxwell Cooper, a tall, buff man with wild brown hair and a scruffy beard that Charlotte hates, grins down at her. “No problem. You've repaid me enough.” Max nuzzles his face into her shoulder, his perpetual five o'clock shadow scratching her skin.
Today, like every other day that Charlotte might call Max to her, was nothing more than her way of dealing with stress. Friends with benefits, no strings attached. That was the deal they made after Max made his little mistake and forced Charlotte to break up with him.
Max, on the other hand, has never cut those ties. His heart lies with this woman with hair like the darkest night and eyes fierce as any lion's. He has been fighting for her love ever since they broke up, but Charlotte has never relented.
Reaching around her curvy body, Max gropes Charlotte's breast. Her brown nipple stiffens in response, but the rest of her body tenses as she sighs. She sits up, her lips tight. The sheet slips from her shoulders, her brown back glistening in the fading afternoon sunlight that streams in from the Southern window behind her bed. At all times, Charlotte looks like a goddess. Breathtaking, inspiring, terrifying. Capable of compassion and creation, or brutal destruction.
“Max, we need to talk.”
His heart leaps. He sits up straight, his eyebrows furrowing. He gives Charlotte his full attention, hoping that maybe she'll finally relent and become his girlfriend again. He has been over to her house, in her bed, three times this week. He even fully satisfied her each time to the best of his ability. Surely, she's ready to trust him again.
“What's up, beautiful?”
“We can't keep doing this.”
“Doing what?” Max reaches between her legs while kissing her hip bone. She smells like sex and spiced apple. “This?”
Charlotte pushes off the bed, ripping the sheet from him and wrapping it around her body. With it draping down her thin frame, she looks even more like a goddess. Aphrodite, angry. “I can't keep sleeping with you, Max. I'm just leading you on, or you're reading more into this than you should be. I don't know who's to blame, all I know is I'm never going to give you the kind of relationship you want from me.”
“What?” He asks, coming to the edge of the bed. His chest tightens, a familiar ache threatening to overwhelm him.
“Please just go. I need you to leave.” Her jaw clenches, her fists at her side straining to keep her from lashing out. When Max doesn't get up immediately, she throws her arms up and turns, opening her drawers and slamming them shut as she grabs clothes. She throws them on the counter in the bathroom attached to her bedroom. The same bathroom where Max lost his virginity. “I'm going to take a shower, and when I get out you need to be gone.”
“Wait!” Max stands up, not covering himself. His cock slaps against his leg as he runs to the door, trying to stop her. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because, Max! You fucked up, and I still haven't forgiven you!”
Max grabs her arm, but she pulls away and slaps his face. He rubs his stinging cheek and tries to choke down a tear. “I thought you enjoyed this!”
“The sex is great and always has been, but it's not worth it to keep torturing myself with your stupid puppy dog looks and idiotic dream of one day marrying me! It's never going to happen! You have to go. It was so stupid of me to rely on your help to deal with my stress, and now I'm cutting you off.”
Charlotte stands there for another second, watching Max as he goes from hurt to furious to hurt again. He has a million questions he wants to ask her, and a million more insults he wants to sling her way, but before he can say anything she slams the door with a loud sigh.
“God damn it!” Max bellows, throwing Charlotte's expensive bedside lamp to the floor and shattering it. He grabs his clothes and his cell phone, pulling a framed photo of her off the wall in the hallway and breaking its glass before storming out of the house. Hopping into his Lamborghini, his radio blares speed metal and he rushes out to the nearest club. He's going to dance, drink, and then fuck someone. Doesn't matter who. All that matters is pumping up the ego that Charlotte just stepped on, cut up, and ground to a pulp.
With three stages, 10 private rooms, expensive liquor, and the students of an Ivy League college nearby, Paradise on Ten and Drive is the number one club in the city. It's a little slice of New York hundreds of miles away. Celebrities from all over the world travel to be seen at Paradise, and it's no surprise. It's been around for fifty years and has been owned by one of the top movie producers ever since then.
Only a few people are able to bypass the line and just get into the club on any given night. Politicians. Celebrities. Exceptionally beautiful women. Max slides by the bouncer with a nod thanks to his heavy investment in the club and his father's work with the owner.
The club is too crowded for bad emotions to catch anyone's attention, but Frank isn't just anyone. As soon as Max sits down in front of his bar with his head in his hands, the star bartender immediately sets down a glass of vodka and places a hand on his shoulder. “You don't look so good.”
Frank is one of the few people Max considers a real friend, even though he's as old as his father and covered in scars and tattoos from years in jail. When Max was a kid and still sneaking into the club with a fake ID, Frank was there to take away his alcohol and give him a few words of wisdom. It was annoying at first, but now Max appreciates the attention that he rarely got elsewhere.
“Charlotte shit,” Max grunts, fighting the urge to punch his own leg. Who does she think she is? Max is going to be worth billions of dollars in a few years! Who could turn someone like him down?”
“Man, tough luck. You gotta get over her, she's worse than heroin for you.” Frank knows a thing or two about heroin. You can read his history on the lines in his face.
Max slams his drink on the table, sloshing half the small glass onto the wood. “I don't know how! I know I fucked up, but... I love her, Frank!” He doesn't say that they have been fucking ever since they broke up and that she's always been distant with him, even when they were dating. It's not like she lived a bad life, so she
had no reason to have that emotional wall up. Max just chalked it up to being emotionally stunted or having Daddy issues, but it may just be that Charlotte is a bitch.
Fire pulls up from his stomach and into his throat, and Max apologizes to himself for saying something so harsh about his beautiful goddess. She's not a bitch. Maybe he's just a bad person.
Pop hands Max another shot and then turns to help another customer. Her melodious voice is familiar to Max, so he looks up and drinks in the sight of Poppy Der Rohe's long red hair. It nearly swallows her whole body when she lets it down.
“When's the last time you god a haircut, Red?”
“When's the last time you did volunteer work, Rich Boy?”
Max sticks his tongue out at her and downs his shot. A sudden vision of Charlotte's beautiful dark face, with her long nose and dark brown eyes sends a jolt of pain to his heart and tears to his eyes.
“Whoa,” Poppy says, sitting down next to him and draping an arm over his shoulders. “All the blood just drained from your face. Are you sure you aren't sick or something? Maybe you should be drinking water instead?”
Max tries to shoo her away, shrugging her arm off his shoulders. “Mind your own business.”
“Is Charlotte teasing you still?”
Max wonders if everyone in the world knows that Charlotte secretly detests him. He keeps the thought to himself. No reason to piss off his only other female friend. He's had enough heartbreak for today.
“You must think I'm an absolute joke,” he says. Frank brings him another shot, but Poppy shoots the old man a dirty look that makes him back off.
“I don't, dear. I just don't understand why you're wasting your time with her. There are so many others that would kill to be with you.” She doesn't mention that she's one of those people. Partially because she would never admit it, and partially because it doesn't really need to be said.
“I love her so much, Poppy.” Max's words drip with depression as much as they drip with alcohol. Poppy winces, trying again to place her hand on his shoulder. He doesn't push her away this time.
“She doesn't love you, though.” She rubs his back. Poppy's ability to hide her own emotions has helped ever since she was the only middle-class kid in one of the most elite private high schools in the country. Poppy got there on hard work, studying, and perfect grades. Max and most of the other kids got there on their father's bank accounts.
His head droops toward the table, a single tear splashing on the dark wood. “I just don't understand why!” A couple men from the bar look at Max, annoyed at being disturbed. Paradise is a sanctuary, a place where only good things happen. Not many people come here to mope.
“Alright, come on you big dork. It's time for you to get home.” Poppy grabs Max's thick arm, wrapping it around her neck and pulling him up. For such a small girl, she's strong from years of weight training and martial arts classes. She's been taking them ever since her first homecoming date tried to take things too far.
“No, I need to drink more,” Max whines, trying to pull away from her. He's really a lightweight. Even a few shots makes him a drunk mess, every time.
“I don't think so, Rich Boy.” She tugs him and waves to her friends. They roll their eyes, turning to complain about her taking Max home again. They're all used to Poppy having to bail this sad sack of emotions any time something bad happens. They also all know her feelings for Max, which is the source of a lot of teasing and attempted interventions much like this one.
“Give me your keys,” she demands, holding out her free hand.
“No way, I can drive,” Max says, pulling his keys from his pocket. He fumbles them and they fall to the ground.
Poppy sighs and props Max up against the wall before picking up his keys. “Yeah, clearly you aren't under the influence at all. Get in the passenger seat.” She opens the door for him, which is answered with rolled eyes and a snort. She slams the door shut and closes her eyes for just a second to gain control of herself. She runs over to the driver side before he can scramble into it.
“Ugh,” she whines. “It's a manual. What happened to that cute Mercedes you had?”
He doesn't answer, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks just like he did when he was younger, pouting and insolent. Even this is cute on him.
Struggling with the clutch, Poppy finally gets the car driving and takes it slowly through the side streets until they arrive at Max's large family home atop a scenic hill. From miles away you can see the tall, green walls of his mother's garden, and as you get closer you can hear the barking of his 3 Rottweilers. They're less attack dogs and more slobbering beasts as they run up to Max's car to greet their favorite master.
The car is still moving when Max flings the door open and struggles to get out. Lucky for him, his seat belt is still on as he tries to claw his way out of the moving vehicle, the dogs licking his hands as he flails and squirms.
“Damn it!” He yells. The car shutters to a stop.
“You might need to replace the thingamabob,” Poppy says, grimacing at the sound the car makes. She reaches over and flips his seat belt loose, which sends him flying into the pavement with a wail. The dogs bark and whine, each one jumping over Max and licking his face.
“Get off of me, you wretched beasts!”
Poppy laughs as she steps out of the car, handing the keys to Madelaine. Madelaine is the head maid of Cooper House, and has been for some 60 years. She's old and a bit cranky now, but once upon a time, she was Max's beloved nanny.
“Do you need me to send help?” Madelaine asks, barely looking at Max from the corner of her eye. The corner of her lip twitches in disappointment or disgust or both.
“No, I have him. Thanks, Madelaine.” Poppy steps around the car and grabs Max's arm, checking his face for any lasting damage. “It's just a few small scrapes from the rocks. Come on, let's get inside and we can watch a movie.”
“And drink?” He asks with his most pitiful voice.
“And drink,” Poppy answers.
Cooper House has been in the Cooper family since before the country was founded, and its decoration does not hide that fact. Paintings of the patriarchs of the family throughout the ages dot the walls and the architecture is similar to that found in Washington DC. Old. Colonial. A Roman revival in some areas. It's worth more than most of the houses in the area, and though the land it sits on is still sprawling with beautiful gardens, most of the farmland that the Coopers once owned have since been sold and turned into suburban neighborhoods.
Acting as a gate between these neighborhoods and the Cooper estate are large, lush old forests, protecting by Max's great-great-grandfather. Not one Cooper man has been willing to fell even one tree since then, and so the suburban neighborhood growth has slowed to a crawl. The forest grows, coming nearer to this old house every year.
The second living room, far to the back of the house and overlooking the large swimming pool where Max taught Poppy and Charlotte how to swim when they were eight, is where Max spends most of his free time. His computer is shoved into the corner, barely used since they left high school. In the middle of the room is a treadmill, used daily now. To the back is a new bar, added just this year when Max turned 21. It's always stocked with the hard stuff, though most of the more expensive liquor is full. Gifts from his father.
“What's your poison, Rich Boy?”
“Stop calling me that! And give me some vodka. Lemon.” Max throws himself onto his leather couch, covering his eyes from the light hanging from the ceiling. Poppy grabs a fifth from the bar and another one for herself.
“To heartbreak, she says, handing the vodka bottle to her best friend and crush since she was eleven. Oh yes, she knows of heartbreak. She knows it well.
“Yeah, whatever,” he replies, holding up his vodka. They both take a long swig before Poppy sits herself in the leather recliner and flips on the TV. She glances at Max's face, noticing his puffy eyes and disheveled brown hair.
For hours they watch reruns o
f old TV shows, drinking and drinking until both fifths are gone and both of them drunk. Halfway through their liquor, Max pulls Poppy over to the couch and lays his head in her lap. She brushes her fingers against his cheek softly, a little thrill coursing through her.
“Poppy,” Max says. He looks up at her, his green eyes serious. The little flecks of amber dotting his eyes sparkle in the light. “Do you think I'll be alone forever?”
Poppy thinks for a second. She could take advantage of this situation, use Max's frail state to convince him to date her. It's what she's wanted for so long, and it's the kind of advice her friends would give her.
Biting her bottom lip, she considers kissing him there and now. In the end, though, her conscience wins out over her heart. What kind of scumbag uses someone like that? “No, I don't think so, Max. Charlotte might just not be the right girl for you. You did cheat on her, after all.”
“It was after my mom died! I was distraught and drunk, and she was in India and she wasn't even answering my calls! I didn't even do anything more than kiss the other girl! If she had been here...”
“Hey! I know. You don't have to explain this to me, I already know all of that. But she doesn't have to forgive you, and you should probably move on. What you're doing, drinking yourself to oblivion every time she tells you to fuck off? It's not healthy. It's going to kill you.”
Max lays his head back down on her lap, enjoying her warmth as he mulls over her words. Poppy watches him as every emotion he feels displays itself on his red face and hopes that he'll at least remember her words after he sobers up. That's more important than him making any sort of life choice right now.
Pushing himself up, Max stares hard into Poppy's eyes. They're green like his, though more gray than emerald. The freckles on her pale face highlight her cheekbones.
His eyebrows knit together with worry and sadness and probably a thousand other emotions, each one of them battling for control of his body. He lifts his hand, then sets it back down. He looks to the floor blushing, and Poppy's eyes widen with confusion. She wishes he would do something, anything. Claim her.
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