by Nikki Chase
And now, even before our bab—shit, I mean his baby—is born, he’s already a better parent than those two.
Is Heath just exceptionally good at everything he does, or are my parents just exceptionally bad at everything they do?
“You look great today, kitten,” Heath says cheerfully.
He never used to make any comments regarding my appearance, but ever since we signed that contract, he’s been showering me with compliments.
And he calls me “kitten.” It’s kind of weird, but I also kind of like it. I don’t know.
“Ready to go?” he asks.
“Where?”
He gives me a look that says you should’ve known better than to ask.
“I know, I know. You’re not going to tell me. Because you’re all mysterious and unpredictable,” I say.
“Actually… I know this great breakfast place,” Heath says.
I surreptitiously let out a big, relieved exhale. I didn’t expect his plan to be so normal.
“Oh, I’ve already had breakfast. But I’ll go with you,” I say.
Maybe I’ll have an orange juice and just chat with him.
I don’t know why, because I want to jump Heath’s bones, and he’s incredibly attractive, but the thought of stripping naked in front of him, letting him see every part of me… It makes me feel vulnerable.
Other men have never made me feel this way. I don’t really have much casual sex, but I’m pretty good at separating sex from emotions. In fact, I often scoff when girls tell me they can’t “just have sex like men do,” because I do it all the time.
Or at least I did.
But now… I don’t know.
Heath turns off his computer and gets up from his chair. His gaze zeroes in on me—the exposed skin of my calves, the curves hidden underneath my usual blouse-and-pencil-skirt combo, and my face as I struggle to decide where to look. He’s making me forget how to act normal.
He smirks as his hot stare brands his desire onto my body.
Somehow, that doesn’t look like the kind of expression one puts on for breakfast…
* * *
“You said we were having breakfast.” I scamper down the carpeted hotel hallway to catch up with Heath.
“We are.” He maintains his easy stride. With his long legs, he doesn’t need to try to outpace me.
“Why are we going to a hotel room?” I glance at the plastic card in Heath’s hand. That’s a room key, right? He must’ve gotten it from the front desk downstairs.
“Haven’t you heard of room service?” Heath asks as he swipes the key card and the door beeps open. “After you,” he says with an exaggerated bow.
“Thank you.” I curtsy. I hear him chuckle as I walk past him into the hotel room. I ask again, “So, breakfast?”
The door swings shut behind us with an ominous click.
“You said you’d already had breakfast.” Heath’s footsteps get nearer, the rubber soles muffled by the thick carpet. “Did you maybe just have danger again for breakfast and that’s why you’re hungry now?”
I huff a small, nervous laugh. “Maybe.”
“Danger with a side of danger?”
“Exactly.” I walk deeper into the room until I reach the big floor-to-ceiling window at the far end and touch the cold, hard glass with the pads of my fingers.
“What are you so afraid of?” Heath asks, his voice so close I can almost feel its vibrations.
“Nothing,” I say.
That's a lie. It’s not nothing. But I don’t know what it is either.
Without saying a word, Heath approaches from behind, his hard chest almost touching my back. I shudder from his nearness, and I hope he doesn’t notice.
He’s warm, and solid. He feels like safety. Like shelter on a rainy day—even if it’s a temporary one.
Before I realize what I’m doing, I lean back and close the gap between us.
Heath takes that as an invitation. His arms run up my sides and wrap around me.
A chill runs down my entire body as his breath lands on the back of my neck. With my hair up in a ponytail, Heath has full access to that sensitive part of my body.
When his lips graze my skin, soft and firm at the same time, a heavy sigh escapes my mouth. It only makes him kiss me harder, his tongue and teeth joining in on the assault on my receptive nerve endings.
As my sighs turn into moans, it becomes clear that Heath has no plans to stop any time soon.
I bite my lower lip to stop myself from making any more noises that would only urge Heath on. Then, I bite harder to distract myself from the sinful sensations shooting from my neck and straight to my center, making my whole being yearn for him.
“Heath,” I say, in an attempt to interrupt him. But my voice comes out raspy with arousal, and it sounds like a cry of passion.
“I told you I was going to make you say my name,” he whispers before he nibbles on my earlobe, sending another shudder down my spine.
I decide it takes too much effort to correct him, so I get to the point. “What about breakfast?”
“You’re my breakfast, kitten,” he says with a light chuckle as he drags his mouth over my shoulder, pushing the fabric of my blouse with his lips. His fingers deftly work on the buttons along the front of my blouse.
So he’s planned to do this, the entire time.
Heath pulls my blouse off and turns me around. He yanks me into a bruising kiss, his lips and tongue claiming my mouth. I can only open up and let him do as he pleases, while the pressure in my pussy grows stronger and more insistent.
There’s no going back from this. I’m starting to lose my mind, and I’m starting to forget why I need to keep things professional.
Maybe Heath’s right. Just because I’m also making money from this arrangement, doesn’t mean it can’t also be fun. Maybe I should allow myself to enjoy this.
Like Jane said, this is going to make for great dinner-party conversation material. I’m sure there are women out there who’d pay good money to know what Heath Anders is packing underneath his designer suits.
But I can’t even think anymore. Heath’s hands roam all over my hips, my tits, my ass… My mind is filled to the point of bursting with little explosions of pleasure.
I don’t even pay attention when my clothes fall to the carpeted floor one by one, until I’m standing without a thread on my body, while Heath descends to his knees, his lips trailing kisses down my cleavage, my abdomen, and my thighs.
My knees feel weak. My back and ass press back against the glass window. We’re on a high floor, but technically, anyone with a strong enough zoom lens can see me butt naked as the day I was born.
Except I’m doing something very adult right now. Or rather, very adult things are being done to me.
Heath parts my legs and drags his lips up my thighs. The world spins into an inconsequential blur. All that matters is how much closer he is to where I want him to be, where I need him to be—the part of me that’s throbbing in need right now, craving him.
“Heath,” I sigh as I reach down to touch his hair—his silky, luscious hair. I rest my palm on his head. “Should we…” My sentence hangs in the air as my words turn into a breathy moan. I try again. “Maybe we should move to the bed.”
“No, I’m good here.” He smirks as he parts my legs even further and wraps his arms around my thighs, making me lose even more balance.
I lean back against the glass—warm now from my body heat—and feel myself slide down to a point where my legs no longer supports me. Only Heath’s muscular arms and strong hands are keeping me upright.
“Heath, I…” I bite my lower lip as Heath’s lips grazes over my pussy lips, light as a feather. God. How do I even get a chance to think a complete thought?
“Yeah?” he asks in an innocent, casual tone before he goes back to torturing me, his lips only barely touching my folds, and his breath caressing the hyper-sensitive skin around them.
The pressure within me builds up to the po
int where I have to remind myself to breathe.
“Did you say something?” Heath asks with his lips still between my legs, sending little sparks of pleasure with every syllable he utters.
Before I can think of anything to say, Heath’s tongue swipes over my lower lips, and I can only gasp in surprise. After that slow tease, I didn’t expect him to do that.
“I guess you changed your mind and now you don’t want to move anymore, huh, kitten?” Heath asks before he dives back in.
He sucks my pussy lips into his mouth, where it’s impossibly warm and wet and… Ugh, I don’t even know how to describe this sensation. Yes, it’s warm and it’s wet, but that doesn’t do justice to just how head-explodingly good this feels. (Is that a word? Head-explodingly? If it's not, it should be.)
I’m melting. My insides have grown so hot that there’s nothing left to do but liquefy.
I don’t care anymore who’s looking at me from outside the hotel building, or whether my legs are strong enough to support my weight. I let go and rest my weight on Heath’s sturdy arms,
“You can move to the bed yourself if you want to, kitten,” Heath says. “I’m staying, though. But you’re free to go.”
Is he joking? As if I can walk away from this. Even talking has become a struggle. We both know I’m not going anywhere.
Even though Heath’s not restraining me with his hands, his mouth has imprisoned me. Now all I can focus on is his tongue going around my clit in tighter and tighter circles.
Before I know what I’m doing, I put my hand on his head and feel his little movements under my palm.
Heath Anders. The Wall Street genius who’s made a killing in the stock market with his bold moves. The billionaire who runs a big, successful hedge fund management company. That's the man kneeling between my legs right now, driving me insane.
My moans get louder as Heath’s skillful tongue plays with my clit, rubbing me mercilessly. The time for teasing is over, and he means business now.
Every little cell in my body thrums, waiting for Heath to deliver the final blow. My muscles tense.
And then, it comes. It starts with an explosion in my core, that spreads throughout my body, to the top of my head and the tips of my toes. Shudders rip through me, and I can only let go, trusting that Heath won’t let me fall.
As I come down from my climax, Heath props me up while I regulate my breathing and regain my balance.
“That was a delicious breakfast, kitten,” Heath says as he gets up and wipes my wetness from his face. “I need to get back to the office now, but you’re welcome to stay here for the rest of the day. You can spend the night, too, if you want to.”
“Oh… Umm… Thanks.” I can’t really think of anything better to say, which makes me feel dumb.
But then again, it’s not like I could’ve prepared myself for this situation by Googling “what to say to my boss after he randomly eats me out in a hotel” for suggestions.
I feel small and vulnerable after my violent orgasm. The fact that I’m naked only magnifies my feelings of self-consciousness.
Heath is still wearing his suit, jacket and all. Except for a few more creases at the knees, he appears perfectly respectable.
I, on the other hand… My forehead is dotted with sweat, my cheeks are flushed red, and my clothes are scattered all over the floor.
Before I can collect myself, Heath cracks open the door. “See you tomorrow, kitten.”
With that, he walks away, leaving me naked and dumbfounded in an unfamiliar, upscale hotel room.
Any notion that this is going to stay strictly a baby-for-money arrangement has evaporated.
I mean, what did that have to do with having a baby together? Unless I’ve been sorely misinformed, that’s not how it’s done.
And yet… I can’t say that I didn’t enjoy that. I did, immensely. And I’m already looking forward to more of that.
I don’t know how I’m going to feel after the baby’s born and things between Heath and me come to an end.
Maybe I’ll be fine with it. I’ll admit it’s difficult when Heath insists on being his charming self, and it turns out he’s a generous lover, too. That’s a lethal combination. But maybe I’m not as fragile as I am afraid.
Or maybe I’m just grasping for excuses to keep this crazy plan going, just because I haven’t had enough of him. Perhaps I’m ignoring a big warning sign. It could be a mistake to let my guard down and have a little fun with this arrangement.
But as I draw a hot bath in the luxurious en-suite, I realize none of the rationalizations I come up with matter. I’m doing this for reasons I don’t understand anymore.
It’s just like before, when Heath had me trapped in place even though he was only pressing his lips against my pussy. He’s cast a spell on me, and now I can’t muster up the will to walk away. I don’t even want to.
I dip my hand into the soothing, hot water in the tub.
Everything's going to be okay. After all, that was clearly about sex, right? And there's only one rule: don't fall in love.
Heath
Even though my marriage was a disaster, one thing I’m glad to have done was adjust my schedule so I had some kind of work-life balance.
After the divorce, it would’ve been easy for me to fall back into old patterns and start overworking myself again. But I knew it wouldn't have been the healthiest thing for me to do, so I resisted the pull to stay at my desk past office hours.
Work can be an all-consuming distraction if I let it.
I can tune out the world when I’m analyzing financial statements and market movements, until all I see are the facts and figures, and non-logical things are forgotten.
There’s always more work to do. It never ends when you’re the one running the business. You can always take on more projects, hire more people, and expand the operations.
Unlike other addictions, workaholism is socially rewarded. People who work to the point of obsession tend to be good at what they do. And the more they do it, the more they get: money, women, gemstones, yachts, fast cars, and the list goes on indefinitely.
If you’re good enough at what you do, you can buy whatever you want.
But I’ve already bought all the toys I’ve ever wanted. The only thing I don’t have is a family of my own.
Once, I thought I was finally going to have it all. A wife and a few kids would’ve made my life complete.
Instead, Melanie had to shit all over my dreams.
I still can’t believe I missed all the signs that she was just a common gold digger. Looking back, she didn't exactly hide the fact that she wasn't wife material.
All those birthdays when she demanded diamond jewelry. All those dinners when she went for the most expensive items on the menu, every single time. All those times she took the private jet for shopping trips all over the world, leaving me stranded without any means to travel for my work—which, by the way, was the very thing funding her expensive lifestyle.
But she didn’t care. What Melanie wanted, Melanie got. Even if I had to skip important meetings and miss out on multi-million deals because of her.
When we finally got divorced, even with the big settlement she received, she still tried to drain our bank accounts and max out our joint credit cards, knowing I’d be on the hook for them too. Luckily, I had a great team of lawyers watching my back.
It sounds obvious now that she was just using me, but at the time I couldn’t see it.
There were times when she wasn’t completely self-centered, and I stupidly kept her in my life for those rare moments. And then, she left me as soon as our marriage made it to three years, which was when she’d get the big pay-out, according to our pre-nup.
Yeah, I know, it was fucked up. I was a dumbass.
But I’m more angry at myself than I am at Melanie. I was unbelievably stupid. I actually thought she loved me. Nothing could be further from the truth.
Want to know what the truth is?
It took me a whil
e to accept that I’m always going to be a target. With my wealth and my business profits publicized in the papers all the time, it’s almost like someone’s painted a target on my back.
It’s not like I can complain, though. All that publicity is good for business—necessary for business, even.
So despite my annoyance at how nosy people can be, I grin and bear it. It’s just a shitty part of my otherwise great job. Everybody has at least one of those, right?
But as much as I like my job, I’ve already made the decision to work less and live more. I know that's the healthy thing to do, wife or no wife.
It's not always easy to stick to it, though, especially right after the divorce.
Even going to the gym meant that I was staring at a blank wall while I was running on the treadmill or lifting weights. Sometimes I had a screen to stare at, which was only a small consolation. It would invariably show shit like fashion shows, or celebrity gossip, or some stupid movie that I’d already seen in the cinema with Melanie.
I tried to pick up reading, but the books I picked were invariably related to my job, and the whole point was to spend less time working. Besides, the authors of those books probably weren’t making as much money as I was, so why should I care about what they were saying?
No. I needed some human interaction in order to distract myself.
So I started spending more time with my parents. And I continue to do that until now, two years after the divorce.
I press the doorbell and stand on the porch while I wait for Mom to open the door.
“I got you some wine.” I hold up the three bottles by their slender necks.
Mom takes one of the bottles off my hands, obviously worried I’d drop them on the smooth, wooden planks of the porch floor.
“I’ve never seen this brand before.” Mom rotates the bottle in her hands. She pulls down her reading glasses from their perch on top of her head, causing a few strands of her hair to fall over her forehead. Her mouth moves as she examines the writing. “It’s all in French.”
“I bought it in France. Of course it’s in French.” I push the door open wider and slip inside.