The cops themselves shut down the streets of Manhattan just to make my dreams possible. Of course, it means I offer sizable donations to fund their retirement accounts but it's a small price to pay for the freedom of going fast.
Fast is how we roll. We’re collectively known as The Billionaires Club. The authorities allow it because we have so much damn money and all of us have one-of-a-kind, custom-made, souped-up race cars.
Hell, some of the cops even attend our races. It's an honor to be invited and it's such an underground scene that it's got that whole element of intrigue that attracts people. The cops close down certain roads within the city for construction—then the fun begins.
I'm part of the club, but most people consider me to be the best of the best. There's a reason for that. I have an edge. I almost always win because I have access to some of the best engine technology in the industry. My cars have the most high-performing engines, ones I developed myself.
Is all of this boring you? Well, it doesn't bore me. You see, engine performance equals winning, which means raking in a metric fuck-ton of money. The tiniest details matter because every second gained or lost is equivalent to about $10 million.
Now that you understand the social status of this club, maybe you can appreciate the level I'm at.
All this power I have in my hands automatically makes me the hottest bachelor in the city. To some, I'm a ghost, a phantom that they've only heard about but can’t get their hands on. But to others who have the privilege of knowing me, I'm a fucking god. I have women lining the streets just to get one taste of my cock.
In fact, right now, one begging to wrap her lips around my cock and give me a blowjob. She's a leggy brunette with fake tits and fake lips. She looks like a goddamn blow up doll. She's also the hottest girl I've seen tonight and that's why she's here.
"Hey baby, it's time," I say as I lean against the hood of my latest creation, a beautiful race car that I've named Desire.
I don't know this girl's name, but I definitely know her type. She's wearing an expensive dress and everything about her screams high-maintenance. Not uncommon around our racing unit.
She's probably been with a couple of billionaires already, maybe even tonight, and she gets off on the money and the power. Who wouldn't?
It’s obvious she really wants to please me, so she bends over the hood and starts sucking my cock really hard. She immediately starts to deep-throat it, and that's the kind of woman I like.
"That's it, baby, take it deeper," I say.
My tone drips with seduction. All I can think about is having her take in more and more of me.
She takes a pause so that she can use her hand to encircle my now slippery cock. Her strokes speed up as she works her way up and down my thick length. I'm not really in this for a hand job, though, so I try to force her head back down on my shaft.
But she's got other plans in mind. She bends down low and starts to tease and suck my balls. It's so fucking hot, and I can feel myself tensing up from the feeling of her lips around me.
Once I've had enough, I grab her head and force it onto my cock once again. I need those lips around me. She deep-throats me once again like it's her mission in life to please.
The entire length is stuffed down her throat and she can't get enough. She's moaning and crying, and I feel the vibrations all around my shaft. Her head bobs up and down, and I think this is fucking glorious.
I look up at the array of stars and think what a perfect fucking moment this is. I've got a girl sucking my cock as I lay down on the hood of my newly equipped race car under a vast, enormous sky. What more can a man ask for?
I'm one with nature and the race and everything beyond. But one thing I’m fucking sure of—I'm not one with is this girl. She's just one in a thousand that I've been with. Nothing about her tells me it's gonna last.
I'm weary of being with so many women that mean shit to me. But that doesn't mean I'm not gonna seize the opportunity to have my cock sucked whenever I want.
I love the enthusiasm of this one. She simply can't get enough. And I don't blame her.
I fist my fingers in her hair and hold her head steady as I pump my hot cum down her throat. She sucks up every last drop and continues to suck me even after I'm done, drawing out my pleasure.
She pulls off my cock with a pop and says, "Braden, mmm, you taste so good. You want to go back to your place?"
Fuck no. If this girl thinks she's gonna see me outside of this moment, she's got another thing coming. She should know I don't stick around. It's my well-established reputation. Besides, I've got other things to do. I let her down as gently as possible.
"No honey, I gotta run. But hey, maybe I'll see you at the next race."
I leave her with at least a shred of hope. Besides, who says it won't happen again? If I need to get off quickly, I can always count on her. And I know she'll be at every race she's invited to, looking for me and hoping that I pay her one ounce of respect and attention.
She wipes the sticky cum from her lips, and I take my keys and get in the car, giving her the signal that it’s time for her to leave.
She's not coming with me. I have a gala to attend. I rev my engine and leave her in a trail of dust to find her own ride home. I mean, fucking come on. Surely, she knows how these things work.
There’s a gala after every major race. It's going to be a hell of a party, one that only billionaires know how to throw.
I'm anxious to get there and away from this girl now I've had my fill.
I take my car to the city streets where everything is legal. Back to fucking reality.
Jenna
This gala is awesome but I have to admit I'm a little bored. It's just the same old thing after every race. I’ve been to a lot of these, and frankly, it’s not that impressive anymore.
Yes, I'm in a prime position of power that a lot of people would love to be in. I'm the head of development for a racing company—make that an underground racing company. Obviously, I oversee much of the research that goes into creating the fastest cars in the world.
I'm a storehouse of insanely valuable information, and most of these billionaire racers and the people that work under them would love to have me on their side.
What can I say? I'm a fucking genius. And I take pride in that. I think of myself as slightly above all these people, even though they have money to spare—more than I do. But I'm used to being smarter than everyone, and maybe that gives me a bit of an ego. So what if it does?
It takes a lot for something to spark my interest. I like to live a fast-paced lifestyle, and I guess that's why am attracted to racing. This underground club is just my scene.
Technically, nobody in my life knows what I do. I haven't exactly filled my family in on the fact that I work for billionaires to race illegally down closed-off New York City streets. But hey, I don't have to explain myself to anybody.
I'm happy with my life and I'm more than happy with my job. There's only one thing I'm not happy with—my love life. Or lack thereof.
I guess you could say I have high standards. But I consider that to be a good thing. The downside is I'm always alone. Rarely does a man reach my level of sophistication.
There's only one man in town that does a thing for me. And I'm basically here to scope him out to see if he arrives.
Braden fucking Masterson.
He's the hottest guy in town and the hottest guy in the racing circuit. I've had my eye on him for a long time. But, I figure I'm one of many. He always has a different girl on his arm every...single...night.
He doesn't have to work for women and I don't blame him. He's a genius himself, developing cutting-edge technology that I'd love to get my hands on.
I've been attracted to this man since the first moment I saw him. I don't think he knows I exist, but that's okay. At least I can watch him at these galas that are otherwise super boring.
I get hit on by a lot of billionaire racers, but never him. I find it to be a compliment th
at men want to date me, but I never take them up on their offers because, to me, that would be a fucking huge conflict of interest. I’m nothing if not professional.
And then I see him. Braden saunters in looking sexy as hell.
Now that he's here, there's a certain level of excitement permeating the air. He always brings this charisma to every party. He's an amazing storyteller and he just has this natural ability to charm a crowd and be the center of attention.
He’s so unlike me, and maybe that's why I've always been attracted to him. I like to stay on the outskirts of the party and to go relatively unnoticed.
Don't get me wrong, I’m not some wallflower. I have a banging hot body that men can’t resist checking out. And tonight, I'm wearing a black velvet dress that hugs my curves in all the right ways.
My deep brown hair is so dark that it's almost black. It's long enough to hit the center my back. I always get compliments on my green eyes that are so dark they match the deep greens in a well-shaded forest.
I know myself and I know my worth. I know I deserve the best, and for me that only amounts to one person.
Braden.
Sure, we've technically never met. Come to think of it, I'm like all the other women that can't stop staring at him. But my simple crush has turned into an obsession. He's on my mind...like, a lot. More than I’d like him to be.
I watch him now as he makes his way across the room. Everyone's congratulating him because he won tonight.
I like him because he's fucking gorgeous, for one thing. He's a six-foot-five wall of pure muscle, icy blue eyes, and a rugged demeanor. And I've heard amazing things about him in bed. Trust me, women talk.
I move through the crowd and try to mingle while keeping steady eyes on Braden. His hair looks a little bit rumpled tonight like he's just rolled out of bed, and I realize with a sinking feeling that this means he must have been freshly fucked by some girl.
Just the thought of this makes me sick to my stomach. I'm burning up with jealousy and I can’t help but wonder why. I have no attachment to this man. He doesn't even know I exist. But here I am, feeling jealous and envious that another woman probably sucked his cock.
The very thought makes me enraged.
I'm talking to some billionaire's wife—I think her name is Sophia Hughes.
"So, the race tonight was pretty great, wasn't it?" I say casually, trying not to let on how angry I am.
"Jenna, to me they're all the same. At this point, they run all together in my mind. I just don't understand these men and their fast cars."
She's fixing her hair and looking around the room for famous faces to mingle with.
I don't agree with her. For me, life in the fast lane is everything. It's the ultimate turn on to be part of the racing scene. That's why I do what I do, even though it's illegal.
Sometimes, it's hard to have small talk with these wives and girlfriends. They’re less about the racing and more about the men, or should I say the manhood of the men?
I meet an array of gold-diggers all the time, and I can spot one from a mile away. That's not what Sophia is. She's legitimately married to one of the guys. But she's not so into racing, and I just don't understand that.
I don't know what I'd do without the rush of the revving engines and the smell of the fast cars as they tear through the streets. Without that, I wouldn't even be here. I care less for the glitz and glamour of this life than I do for the excitement that comes with racing.
I'm responsible for a lot of what goes on out there, technologically speaking, and it makes me feel good to know that what I'm doing makes a difference, even if it’s just in our own little underground world.
This desire to be around cars probably comes from the fact that I grew up at and around a racetrack. My dad was always tinkering with cars and he took me to every local race that was hosted.
That's where I got a lot of my knowledge and how I also learned how to be around men without throwing myself at their feet. I'm used to guy talk, and you can pretty much say I grew up as a tomboy. I'd rather be working on a car than anything.
But I'm also gorgeous. Most women don’t have this kind of confidence, but I've come to accept that fact about me and be proud of it. Fucking revel in it.
Growing up, that meant that my dad and brothers always had to protect me from men who would take things a little too far.
But now I've grown up, and I know how to protect myself. I'm practically a virgin because I have such high standards—practically. The only thing on my radar right now is Braden and his beautiful…cars, of course.
I watch him as he walks around the room. Women swoon and men are vying to talk to him. He's the best racer. And so, naturally, he's got everyone's attention. I try to ignore him and act disinterested as he comes closer to me.
I want him, but I’m not like the other women. I can play it cool.
I continue mingling with Sophia, who's telling me who and what society people are here.
"That's Mrs. Armstrong; she comes from family money. And her husband, Henry, well, he's not much to look at, but I hear he's very good in bed."
She always knows the best gossip. I'm listening to her intently, even with my eyes following Braden, and finding the conversation rather humorous. I love that Sophia’s a socialite and she can tell me the dirt on everyone.
I listen to her for a while but soon notice that my champagne flute is empty. That’s not a good situation at this gala. I need alcohol to get through the night, especially with Braden never giving me a second glance. Not that I’d give him what he wants—if he wanted it, that is.
I excuse myself from Sophia, and I'm just about to head for the bar when someone appears in front of me with two flutes of champagne.
I look up, and I'm shocked to find his blue eyes staring back at me. It's Braden.
When did he come this way? I’ve had my gaze trained on him all night.
"Would you like a glass?" he offers.
My knees weaken a bit as this is the first time I’m meeting him. At least I'm in a gorgeous gala dress.
"Oh, I'd love a glass. Thank you."
“I'm Braden Masterson," he says. "I don't think I've had the privilege of meeting you."
Suddenly, I feel very intimidated standing before him and I don't know what that's about. Normally, I have the self-confidence of a goddamn supermodel, or at least a NASA scientist. But standing before Braden, I suddenly feel very insignificant, dwarfed by the shadow of his magnificent presence.
"I'm Jenna," I say, offering him my hand.
There's instant chemistry between us. I can feel it, like the air between us is crackling with an electric charge. There's some kind of connection, an awareness.
Maybe it's just because I've had a crush on him for so damn long. Or does he feel it too? I can't be sure. But when we touch, I swear there are fireworks.
He holds my hand a little too long and says, "Yes, Ms. Lockhart, I know exactly who you are."
Braden
I hold her hand a second too long because she's taken my fucking breath away.
This ravishing woman is the only person in the racing league that I've ever felt slightly overwhelmed by.
And looking now into her deep green eyes, I find that I am, for once, speechless.
Jenna introduces herself to me like she thinks I've never fucking seen her before, or that I don't know who she is. Of course, I do.
She's the most stunning woman on the racing scene. Everybody knows who she is. But she has my attention right now because she's not just some girl who’s just willing to be an accessory on the arm of a billionaire.
No, this girl's got brains. And she's actually got some brawn. She knows how to work on cars and she knows how to make them go faster.
She actually works for one of my competitors and that makes me really fucking irritated. I'd do anything to have her come over to my side, but I know she has this thing about being professional.
Her reputation precedes her. She doesn't da
te racers—or anybody in the business. She likes to keep that boundary strong between work and personal life.
My cock twitches as I think of her having a personal life that doesn’t include me. She's the only woman I've ever met that I can't stop thinking about.
Maybe it's because I have to hunt for her, work for it; she’s not one to easily give it up. Or maybe there's something more there. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.
These are questions I plan on getting to the bottom of. I'm sick of watching Jenna from a distance. I want to get to know her up close and personal. And if I choose her, she'll be in for one hot ride.
"Jenna, do you really think a single person in this building doesn't know who you are?"
My question makes her blush. I almost don’t think she understand the scope of her work and the imprint she has on people.
"Not only are you gorgeous, but I know you work for my competitor and that you know how to make those cars go fast."
She looks at me like I just extended a challenge. Talking about my competitor, her boss, probably ignites a sense of loyalty or something in her.
"Well, Braden, I have to say that I know who you are too. You're one of the best in the business and our little underground club. I really admire your racing style and I know that you have a lot of new technology within your company that I haven't even heard of. That intrigues me."
Fuck, this woman has the smarts enough to talk to me about racing. Suddenly, the conversation’s not so blasé. She actually has an opinion about things and that turns me on even more.
I want to be the one to make her give in, though. I want to be the one to help her break the pact she's apparently made to herself to keep things professional.
"Would you like to dance?" I ask her.
It's a fancy affair. This is obviously the work of an expensive party committee. It comes with the territory of being in The Billionaires Club. Anything less won’t do.
The Marriage Mistake_A Billionaire Hangover Romance Page 70