Billionaires and Bad Boys: The Complete 7-Book Box Set

by Nikki Chase

  “Don’t act like you know me. You don’t know my life. Who are you to judge me?” Jessica’s shouting at the top of her lungs now. She pauses, crosses her arms, and squints at me. She points her index finger at me and jabs me in the chest. “You know what, nobody I know has ever had a break-in around here before you moved in. So maybe it was you who’s lashing out at me, huh?

  “Well, excuse me for ever thinking you’re attractive enough to have a one night stand with. I don’t remember ever making any promises to you about seeing each other again. Is that why you moved here? To get some kind of revenge over a small slight I caused you, freaking three years ago? Have you been holding onto a grudge this whole time?”

  “Hey. Whoa.” I raise my hands in front of me. “I was just trying to help you, okay? I just changed your locks and gave you some safety tips. That’s all. I never said anything about me holding onto a grudge against you. Don’t get your panties all twisted in a bunch. I happen to have some business in town and I’m not even planning to stay for long.”

  “Good,” she says as she continues to glower at me.

  “Good,” I reply as I turn around and grab the toolbox I placed by the door. I walk back home next door.

  So much for not getting into a fucking fight today, I think to myself as the veins in my temples throb.

  It wasn’t all bad, though. Now I know she doesn’t have a boyfriend. Besides, she just said I’m attractive. She also mentioned something about her past for the first time since I got here and she even said something about the night we spent together.

  A smirk spreads across my face. Maybe it’s not such a bad day after all.

  Jessica

  This is the worst day ever.

  I close the front door behind me and fling myself onto the couch. As the weight of my body forces the air in the cushions out with a soft hiss, I let out a big exhale.

  First, there was that mysterious email from some guy called Caine Foster—in which he uses my old name.

  I knew I had to change my name after putting Stan in jail because, despite being careful about not using my real name at the Pussy Club, it was mentioned numerous times at court.

  All I changed was my last name, from Lewis to Lake. I figured my first name is common enough. It would be impossible for Stan to check every single Jessica in the country.

  Yet here we are, barely one year later, and someone from my old life has already found me.

  I don’t know anybody called Caine Foster, but the name sounded familiar, so I went on Google to find out why.

  According to my research, Caine Foster is the first son of Robert Foster, the infamous so-called businessman who, according to rumors, runs a bunch of illegal brothels and gambling dens in San Francisco.

  I couldn’t believe a guy like that would be looking for me—a nobody. But when I checked the domain of his email address, I reached the website of a subsidiary company that belongs to the Foster family’s corporation. I even saw Caine Foster’s name and picture on their list of company founders.

  Why would someone like Caine Foster be looking for me? It’s obviously related to Nancy’s death, so it probably also has something to do with Stan.

  Could Caine Foster be the guy who’s finally going to punish me for my little act of rebellion? Is he coming after me for taking to the witness stand and putting Stan in jail?

  It doesn’t sound likely. Even if the Foster family has dealings with some strip clubs, it’s unlikely that Stan knows someone that high up in the hierarchy. Caine Foster shouldn’t even know some small fry like Stan existed. So…why?

  I guess there’s no way to find out, unless I email him back and meet him in person like he requested, but what if it’s a trap?

  And that's not even my only problem. There was also that weird message from my Tinder date.

  Just as I was about to drive home from school, while I was sitting behind the wheel, I heard the beep of a text message. It was a text from Steve.

  Steve: Sorry you had to leave early last night. Let’s reschedule. You’ll regret it if you don’t.

  What the hell is that? Why would I regret it? Is that a threat?

  It’s possible that he has confirmed the fact that I used to be a stripper and has decided to blackmail me, threaten to tell the school about it.

  It’s also possible that he called some people back in San Francisco and learned even more about my past. Maybe someone told him Stan’s willing to pay him a handsome reward for giving away my location, or for taking me back to the city himself.

  Less than two weeks ago, nobody in town knew about my past, other than Tony and Bertha. I felt safe in my little Ashbourne bubble.

  Now, suddenly there are three more men who know, and I’m worried about all three, to different degrees and for different reasons.

  To top it off, just when I thought my day was getting better, what with Jacob fixing my locks, he started judging me for dating too many guys at once.

  He accused me of being a player! Me! A player! Ha! Can you believe it? Tony--one of my supposed boyfriends--would laugh in Jacob's face had he heard that.

  I’ve had the longest dry spell in history. Between work, college, Mom’s illness, and Nancy’s case, I already didn't have much time to meet men while I was still living in San Francisco.

  Then I moved here and had way more free time, but there aren't any eligible men. If I weren’t showering daily, there’d be cobwebs forming between my legs already.

  I'm so deprived, in fact, that I was totally creeping on Jacob the whole time he was working on my door. He was facing away from me a lot, so I had a lot of opportunities to check him out without him noticing.

  The dark green shirt clung to his body from sweat, and I could see the muscles on his back move and ripple as he crouched by the door. His arms, which used to be a blank canvas three years ago, are now covered with tattoos from where they bulge out of his sleeves, all the way to his wrists. I couldn't help but wonder if he had any more artwork beneath his clothes.

  I may not know all the marks he has etched on his skin, but I can remember the shape of him vividly. He’s a good lover, and I’ve often pulled out the images I’ve stored in my brain of our night together for when I need some, uh, release.

  And now, having just seen him in person, I can add more details to my fantasies.

  I'm angry at him, but for some demented reason, that only makes me want to pull him down on top of me so he can fuck me senseless. Even when he was yelling at me, my eyes were transfixed on his moving lips and I kept thinking about how I could shut him up if I kissed him.

  Just thinking about it sends tingles to my core. I lift my waist off the couch and slide my pencil skirt off. I don't want to get creases on it--or fluids, considering how wet I am already.

  I slide my panties aside and start to lightly stroke the ache between my legs. My other hand slides up my belly to grab my breast, mimicking the way Jacob touched me that night in his room. I pull my nipple and imagine it's his mouth biting on it while he looks up to trap my gaze, frown lines appearing on his forehead.

  “Let's test how well the new door lock holds up against some force from the inside,” he says as he pins me against the door. His lips move tantalizingly against my nipple as he speaks. When he captures it between his rows of perfect teeth, I gasp as warmth envelops it.

  Jacob’s stare is intense, unavoidable. It’s making me feel self-conscious, but at the same time I recognize the hunger in his dark eyes and it makes me want him more.

  He rubs my clit and slowly builds my arousal. Soon enough, I want more than Jacob’s fingers are giving me. I bite down on my bottom lip, groan, and give him a pleading look.

  He smirks as he straightens up to his full height, letting my hardened nipple dry in the cool air, while his fingers maintain their agonizingly slow tempo.

  “I’m going to make you beg me to fuck you,” he says in my ear in a raspy, lustful voice. When our eyes meet, I shoot him a challenge with my steady stare. He slo
ws down even more and my treacherous hips fly off the black door to gain more contact with Jacob’s big, callused hand.

  My vision blurs as I give in to the delicious sensations he’s introducing between my folds. I may not beg him with my words, but my body is already doing it with shivers and moans. And yet that's not enough for Jacob.

  “Beg for it,” he says, his breaths hot and urgent on my cheek. He lines up his thick, hard cock at my opening and leaves it there, letting me feel its warmth and potency.

  When I attempt to lower myself onto his shaft, he grabs my shoulder with his free hand and holds it in place against the door.

  Knowing I’m at his mercy, Jacob looks me in the eyes, impatience radiating from his sculpted body, and says, “Be a good girl, beg me to fuck you, and I’ll make you scream out my name until all our neighbors hear.”

  “Please, Jacob.” I look at him, pleading for mercy, but he's still waiting for me to say it.

  His fingers rubbing my clit and the spongy head of his cock resting against me make me lose my mind. I hear a deeper, hoarser version of my voice say, “Please. I beg you to fuck me.”

  Jacob's cocky smirk widens. He holds my gaze hostage as he slowly pushes up and impales me. My pussy stretches around my own slender fingers.

  “Fuck,” I curse aloud in frustration, wishing I really had Jacob's cock between my legs. I press against the front wall of my pussy and continue playing with my clit, while imagining Jacob's stern gaze watching me. I come with a light shudder and pull my fingers out.

  The need within me has become less urgent now, but I’m still throbbing, aching for more. I want the real thing.

  As infuriating as Jacob can be, I remember why I would’ve gotten in touch again with him if it weren't for that phone call the morning after.

  A part of me thinks it’s a bad idea to get close to him because, as unlikely as it is that he’d be related to Stan, he’s still a link to a past that I’d rather bury. And considering the way he gets my blood boiling almost every time I see him, he’s probably bad for my blood pressure.

  Yet a different part of me—including the part that's pulsing between my legs now—doesn’t want to stay away.

  Jacob

  A Snoop Dogg song filled the strip club, drowning out all conversation. Neon green and purple lasers shot across the oversized room.

  On stage, the hottest girl in the club took slow, deliberate steps on her impossibly high heels. The bright, blinding spotlight shone on her, highlighting one side of her luscious body, while casting the rest of her in shadows. Her long, glossy waves looked like they had caught on fire. Scarlett. The name suited her.

  I bet the name made it easy for the men in here to remember her name. I saw them crowding around the stage, watching her intently, ogling her as she swayed and writhed to the music, wrapping herself around the silver pole on stage.

  One by one, she shed her clothing. The necktie, the button-down shirt, and the plaid skirt came off quickly enough. Now that she was down to her skimpy bra and thong, she took her time.

  The men drank it all in, their eyes following her hands as they slid all over her body and pulled the remaining items of clothing on her body aside. She was teasing them, and they were captivated. Some of them had their mouths hanging open.

  This was torture. My chest tightened and my hands clenched into fists. I wanted to punch those men in their faces.

  I knew what she looked like without all those things. Without her itty bitty bra and thong, without the stripper heels, without the garish lighting. Without her putting on a show.

  It wasn’t a performance when she moaned and writhed underneath me, my name escaping her lips as she breathed erratically. I could feel her shake and quiver against my sweat-covered skin, her muscles gripping my cock rhythmically. She couldn’t have faked that.

  And yet she didn’t even give me her real name. Scarlett couldn’t be her real name, right? No stripper would be dumb enough to use her real name, and she didn’t strike me as dumb.

  Maybe I was the dumb one.

  I felt like I was on top of the world when I took her home last weekend and made her scream with pleasure. Arched back and curled toes, the works. I made the mistake of really liking her and thinking she really liked me too.

  And then, in the morning when I woke up, she was gone. She didn’t leave any trace, not even a phone number. There was just the faint smell of vanilla on my sheets to remind me everything really happened and it wasn’t just a particularly vivid wet dream.

  Maybe I should’ve taken the hint, but I got restless. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I found myself inhaling the fading scent of her on my sheets while I was trying to fall asleep, and I decided that was stupid. If it bothered me that much, I should just go to the club to find her.

  And that was how I found myself with a glass of whiskey in my hand, leaning against the soft, sound-proofed back wall of the strip club, watching her on stage like I was just one of the suckers who were now scrambling to stuff her panties with bills.

  I took another sip of my whiskey as I saw her grab her tits and kneaded them, making the crowd go wild.

  I’d had those same tits in my hands last weekend. I’d pulled on them with my fingers, with my teeth. They’d been a handful; they’d fit just right in my big hands. They were sensitive, too, judging from the way she’d gasped whenever they were pinched.

  I wasn’t sure this was any less stupid than lying on my bed, sniffing my sheets. She hadn’t even glanced my way the whole time I was here. I couldn’t blame her because the place was packed tonight, but it still made me mad.

  I gripped the glass of whiskey harder. I downed it in one gulp, afraid I was going to shatter the glass, and put it on one of the empty tables at the back.

  Her song ended and she went out the back. I didn’t go to strip clubs a lot, so I didn’t know how they usually worked, but I assumed she was going to walk the floor to offer lap dances to these pervs.

  I watched the dressing room door like a hawk. I’d watched her give a lap dance to my buddy once, and I didn’t want to see another one of those. I’d be in danger of really hurting some guy, and I didn’t think she was going to appreciate that.

  A few girls walked out of the dressing room, but I still didn’t see her red hair.

  When the girl who had danced on the stage after Scarlett came out, I decided to ask her. Surely, she should’ve been on the floor already.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Hi, baby. You want a lap dance?”

  “Not tonight. But do you know when Scarlett is coming out?”

  “Oh. She went home early today, honey, but I can take care of you.” She smiled and winked at me.

  “Oh, no. You got it wrong. I’m not here for a lap dance. I know Scarlett.”

  “Aww… Sorry to be the one to break it to you, baby, but if you really knew her, you wouldn’t have to come and find her here. You’d know another way to contact her. I don’t tell people I actually know where I work,” she said, making my heart drop to my stomach.

  “Oh. Uh, thank you.” I tried to hide my disappointment, but the girl probably sensed it. After all, she made her living reading men and catering to their unspoken wants.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know why she’d do that to a guy like you.” She pulled the corners of her lips down and gave me a cutesy sad face. “For what it’s worth, you’re not the first guy I see who comes here trying to talk to one of the girls. We tend to be bad at forming actual relationships. It’s a hazard of the job.” She raised her hand to my arm and started stroking. “Now, how about that lap dance, huh? I can make you feel better, baby.”

  “No. But thanks.”

  I nodded at her and headed straight to the door of the club.

  I thought about how embarrassing this was as I strolled on the sidewalk, past neon signs advertising nude girls, live shows, and XXX videos.

  Of course. It was obvious now.

  It had been a special night for me, conne
cting with another human being so intimately. I hadn’t just enjoyed the sex, but also the conversation. I’d thought we had a connection.

  But it had probably been just another work night for her. Maybe she’d done it just to thank me for getting Andy off her case.

  I hum the tune playing in my headphones. It’s the same Snoop Dogg song that was playing when I saw Jessica dance on stage. It reminds me of that night.

  Hearing this song used to make me angry, but it doesn’t bother me anymore, now that I’ve found her. And what’s better is, she’s not even a stripper anymore, so the “hazard of the job” excuse doesn’t apply, although it still seems like she dates too many men.

  But they’d better be prepared of losing her, because I don’t share. I’m going to make her all mine.

  After learning my lesson from Jessica, I stopped myself from getting attached too quickly. I’ve had a lot of casual arrangements with women, and I know now how to play my cards.

  Besides, I can tell Jessica wants me too. I can see the lust in her eyes, in the way she blushes, in the way she does that cute little gasp when our bodies touch by accident.

  Meanwhile, I’m just going to enjoy my time here. Ashbourne is a great little town. Even though it's technically still winter, the sun is shining and the grass is green.

  There’s nothing pressing to do all day, and I’m spending my time doing one of my favorite things: tinkering with my Harley Davidson. What’s not to like?

  It’s just a matter of time until I get Jessica in my bed again. And this time, I’m not letting her go.