Gambling For The Virgin: A Dark Billionaire Romance

by Dark Angel

  “I know…” I merely say, hardly believing that one of the most famous athletes in the US—no, in the world!—just introduced himself to me on live television. Now he’s back on the field, and I bet that he has already forgotten about me. I mean, he’s Danny Manning; women throw themselves at his feet every time he steps outside his home. And I’m just Fiona, a normal girl trying to make her mark on the world as a lawyer. Well, as a Law student actually, but whatever. Details, details.

  “Holy crap!” Christine cries out, her eyes focused on what’s happening on the field. I follow her gaze just in time to see Danny sprinting down the sidelines, zigzagging between the Miami MILFs’ defense as quickly and easily as a hot knife cutting through butter. Now, I don’t know much about football, but I don’t think a quarterback is supposed to be rushing down the field. Still, that’s what Danny’s doing, and he seems hell bent of sprinting all the way down to the end zone.

  “He’s not gonna make it,” Christine breathes out, grabbing my hand so tightly she might break a finger or two. In front of Danny is what looks like a giant, at least 7 feet high and weighing about a billion pounds. Danny’s just a few feet away from him, and at the speed he’s going there’s no way he’s going to avoid being tackled. Except that’s exactly what he does; as the lineman throws himself forward to grab Danny by the waist, he crouches and then jumps, his legs working as coils to send him flying over the Miami MILFs’ giant. Somersaulting over the lineman, he somehow manages to land on his feet right in the end zone.

  Everyone goes nuts.

  The photographers are acting all crazy, and the roar that comes from the crowd behind us is deafening. Even Christine’s on her feet, screaming as loud as she can and clapping her hands. I figure Danny’s touchdown is going to be a viral hit on YouTube the moment the game’s over, which is just a formality by now, really, the scoreboard makes that pretty clear. With only ten minutes to go on the clock, the MILFs are down 27 points.

  The game ends with one more perfect pass from Danny, leading to another touchdown for the Nailers with seconds on the clock. When the referee finally stops the game (or shall I say the massacre?), some of the Nailers’ players start doing laps around the field, carrying Danny on their shoulders like he’s the second coming of Christ. There’s going to be a lot of money to be made selling Danny Manning jerseys tonight, that’s for sure.

  “We should leave now if we want to beat the traffic,” I tell Christine, but she’s still staring at Danny’s victory lap, her eyes suddenly widening so much her eyes almost jump from their orbits.

  “Fiona …” she whispers, raising one finger and pointing behind me. I turn on my heels, my eyes following the direction of her finger, and I can barely believe what I’m seeing. Danny’s jogging across the field, a grin on his face, and he’s coming straight toward us.

  My legs grow weak, and the urge to simply run away takes over me. But I'm frozen in place, watching my mouth hanging open as Danny strolls toward me, an army of reporters trailing after him, and at least a dozen cameras transmitting the whole thing live.

  “Fiona,” he says the moment he gets close enough. The reporters surround us both, recording the whole thing and snapping pictures, and I feel like I’m some kind of movie star in the middle of one important scene. “Can I have your number?”

  I almost pinch myself. Is he really asking for my phone number, or am I dreaming this whole thing? He takes a pen out of the hand of a journalist and then just looks at me, waiting with that confident grin of his.

  Still feeling as if I’m inside a dream, I give him my number and he jots it down on his forearm in big wide numbers.

  “How does tomorrow sound? 8 pm at Per Se,” he asks me, lowering his voice so that only I can hear it, and I have to blink twice to understand what he’s saying.

  “Are you asking me on a date?”

  “I sure am,” he says, taking one step toward me. He towers over me, and I become so wet I might just pass out from dehydration, if that’s even possible. “8 pm at Per Se, I’ll meet you there,” he whispers, leaning in toward me.

  “8 pm. Per Se,” I repeat after him, completely stunned. With one final wink, he turns on his heels and jogs back to the field, the army of reporters following after him.

  “Holy shit,” I hear Christine say by my side, as stunned as I am. “You have a date with Danny Manning.”

  Holy shit indeed.

  125

  Danny

  The limo stops outside of Pink Elephant and I get out and survey the line waiting out the door of the nightclub.

  You ever seen a NFL game and the post game highlights? Sure you have, if you don't live under a rock. Well, you always see some of the players dressed up to the nines, right?

  Suit and fucking tie. All showered and changed. Despite the fact that just an hour ago they were sweaty and fucking gross.

  Sure, they probably have scars, bruises, cuts, and even broken bones. But even with that internal bleeding they put on fly clothes. Dressed to impress.

  Well, this is fucking why.

  I pause for a second before the press realizes that I'm standing there, which they do soon enough. That's when the cameras go off and the flash bulbs burn.

  I mean, don't get me wrong. There's about sixty guys from the team over here tonight. We're here to fucking celebrate a win that we weren't expecting after all.

  Pink Elephant is only the hottest fucking nightclub in New York City right now. Situated in the Meatpacking District, it's got a vibe that gets the girls fucking wet.

  I mean, you can just see from looking around. They're turned around, looking at the players. They're licking their lips, touching their breasts. They're bending over. They're turning around..

  In short, their doing everything that you would expect these women to do for football players.

  I'm not going to say I've never indulged.

  Fuck, actually the opposite. I think I've probably fucked most of the girls in this line. But you know what? I never told them that I wanted to fucking marry them, or put a baby in their belly. Never even told them that I wanted to go steady or anything of the sort. Hell, I really never even told them that I would see them past the weekend. But that didn't stop them from dropping their clothes and getting on their knees. From taking my cock into their mouths and then climbing on top of me after they've gotten me good and fucking hard. From turning over and getting on all fours as I amorally shucked into them and gave it to them doggie.

  By the morning, they were fucking forgotten, having been taken home by my limo.

  But they still held hope. That one day ...

  "Hey Danny," a random female from the pack yells. And all of a sudden, like a wave, they all seem to turn.

  I pause for a second as I think about what's going to happen.

  I'm going to go into the club. I'll probably pick up two or three of these women along the way. Take them out of line. Put my arms around them. Get some bottle service. Wine the women. As they're drinking run my hands along their bodies. Feel their legs. Squeeze their ass. Rub my hand under their skirt. Move that thong to one side. Stick a finger in that puss. Pull it out. Have them lick it. Lean back, let their hands unbuckle my belt. Let their fingers wrap around my cock. Watch them as they stroke my cock. Lean back as they lick it with their tongues.

  And eventually, if we don't do it in the club, then I take them back to my limo where they hike up their dress and climb onto my massive schlong, and then they ride it till they fucking come hard. And then I let them out of the car, and never have to see them again.

  But none of that makes sense anymore … not after today's game.

  After seeing Fiona.

  Her blonde hair, her perfectly gorgeous face with those wide, innocent looking eyes and sexy lips.

  Those fucking tits. So fucking perky. That slender body. That fantastic ass.

  No.

  It's not happening tonight.

  Not till I find out more about her. About Fiona.

&nbs
p; Ignoring the looks of disappointment from the ladies in line, I turn around, and with a sigh, get back into the limo. I tell the driver to take me home.

  126

  Fiona

  “You lucky girl,” Becca cries out so loudly that I have to push the cellphone away from my ear. “Danny Manning! I’m so jealous!”

  It’s a quarter to eight, and I’m already on my way to the restaurant. I was such a nervous wreck that I grabbed my phone and called Becca, for moral support. She saw it all happen on live TV, and we already talked about it the moment I got home from the game, but every time Danny Manning comes up she acts like it’s the first time she’s hearing about it. I guess it isn't every day that a world famous athlete asks a regular girl out.

  “Don’t be so jealous,” I tell her, looking out at the street through the windows of the car. “He’s a football player… It’s not like he’s going to have the manners of a prince or a billionaire,” I say, trying not to get my hopes up. I mean, I have to be realistic about the whole thing.

  Manning is rich and famous, but he’s known because of his athletic prowess … not because of his manners, about which I know nothing. As far as I know, he might just be an asshole who wants to get inside my pants, and then I’ll never hear from him again. And that’s if I’m lucky. Nothing guarantees that he even remembers about our date. I wouldn’t be that surprised to find an empty table when I get to Per Se. Which would be a shame, since I spent almost two hours with Becca, picking the perfect dress, and another hour putting on the perfect makeup.

  I might not be a top model, but I think that I’m up to the challenge. I’m wearing a classy black dress, and it hugs my curves like the hands from a caring lover. It ends right above my knee, and I’m hoping it’s the perfect combination of sexy and classy.

  “C’mon, Fee, don’t act all depressed like you’re on death row. You’re about to have the time of your life!” She continues in that excited tone of voice, so loud that my Uber driver can probably hear the whole conversation. In fact, I notice that he has eyed me once or twice through the rearview mirror, and I’m pretty sure that he has already recognized me as the girl from the Nailers/MILFs game.

  After the game ended, a lot of news stations had a field day. They started with the crushing defeat the MILFs suffered at the hands of the Nailers, and then highlighted Danny’s amazing performance throughout the whole game (I think they replayed his touchdown a gazillion times). To wrap it all up in a neat little bow, it seems that every segment about the game ended with the “lucky girl by the 50-yard-line.” That’s me, by the way.

  If Danny’s touchdown got to be played on an almost endless loop, what's to say about the way he asked for my number? 2 million views on YouTube and counting, and it’s only been 24 hours. So far, though, I don’t think anyone has discovered who that “lucky girl” really was, or I’d suspect my cell phone would be ringing every single minute.

  “I just don’t want to get my hopes too high, ya know? As far as I know, he might even be a jerk.”

  “Oh, sure, but he’d be a hot jerk nonetheless!” Becca cries out, exasperated.“That’s just like you… You won the lottery and are complaining about it! Cheer up and enjoy it. Some women would straight up commit murder to switch places with me… And I have to be honest, I kinda would've done it last night if that placed me in the same room as Danny Manning.”

  “Thanks, Becca. It’s nice to know that my roommate is a psycho.”

  “No problem,” she laughs, “I thought you'd already figured that out by now.”

  “And here we are,” the driver tells me, looking at me through the rearview mirror with a smile. I look out the window again, the Time Warner Center twin towers towering over the traffic. I thank him with a nod and a smile and, as the car halts to a stop right in front of the entrance, I step out onto the street. “Good luck with your date!” The driver waves at me before driving off. Am I some kind of celebrity for the day?

  “So, I’m here. Which is the Per Se floor?” I ask Becca as I blend with the crowd.

  “The fourth! You’re gonna love it, Fee,” she continues in that excited tone. She seems as excited about the fact that I’ll be having dinner at Per Se as she is about my date with Danny. According to her, it’s not that easy to get a reservation at Per Se.

  I head straight through one of the elevators, my heart suddenly deciding to pick up the pace. Okay, calm down, Fiona; this is just a date, I try and tell myself, but I’m not sure if it’s working.

  When I finally see the entrance to Per Se, I suddenly feel my heart sinking. The place is completely deserted and, for a restaurant as acclaimed as this, it can only mean that it’s not open for the public today.

  “Becca, remember when I told you he might not even show up?” I start, feeling as if someone kicked me in the stomach. I mean, Danny has my phone number, but I doubt he’ll even bother to call.

  I’m glancing at the empty dining area, and about to turn on my heels to leave, when I finally see him. He’s sitting at a table in the center of the room, wearing a tailored black suit that fits his built frame perfectly. In his hands there’s a rose.

  “Yeah, what’s happening, Fee?”

  “Oh, my. Gotta go, babe. I’m about to be swept off my feet.” Without waiting to hear Becca’s reply, I end the call and stuff the phone inside my purse.

  With a deep breath, I walk inside Per Se and head straight toward the man I spent the whole night dreaming about.

  127

  Danny

  Do you know how hard it was to book a whole restaurant like Per Se on a day’s notice? We’re talking 3 fucking Michelin stars.

  Not easy, that much I can tell you. But after last night’s game, my name carries some weight in New York. I just had to pull a few strings and now here I am, the whole dining room to myself.

  It’s five to eight, so Fiona should be here soon. I don’t know what came over me to ask her out like that yesterday, but that’s just how I do things. I can be impulsive. If something feels right, I do it without a second thought.

  It’s funny, though; I have models and actresses dying for a few minutes of my time, and I don’t really care for them and their fake plastic tits. Sure, you know, it feels good for a fucking night … but that’s it.

  Now, with Fiona I’m even wearing my best suit. My lucky suit, in fact, the one I was wearing when the Nailers picked me in the draft. I even bought a rose on the way here, and I never do stuff like that. I don’t think most women deserve to be treated like princesses, to be honest—at least the ones I know. Most of them are just pampered socialites looking for a free ride, trying to leech off my success. But this Fiona … she’s just a regular girl, and I want to do this right. Okay, fuck, I’ll admit it; she also looks hot as hell, and that helps. But I’m not saying I’m going to fuck her, okay? I just want to do something nice for a change.

  I look at my watch; it’s eight o’clock sharp, and then I turn my gaze toward the entrance. And there she is—and fuck, she looks completely stunning. She’s wearing a tight dress that makes her look even hotter than she looked back at the stadium, and her straight blonde hair looks perfect for grabbing when I bend her over and—fuck, I need to chill out.

  She’s talking on the phone, peeking at the dining area and, when her eyes meet mine, her whole face brightens. She places the phone in her purse and walks inside the restaurant, elegantly swaying her hips in a way that makes my cock twitch with a kind of raw instinct.

  I take a deep breath as I hear her heels clicking across the floor, and I go up to my feet before she reaches our table.

  “Glad you could make it,” I say, and her cheeks grow red before I’ve even finished speaking. I pull her chair back, acting like a true gentleman (no matter what the newspapers say, I can act like one), and then go back to my seat.

  “I don’t think you’ve left me another choice, you know? After you asked me out on live TV, I think I’d end up looking like an idiot if I turned you down,” she tells me with
a confident smile. I can tell that she’s feigning her confidence; she’s trying hard not to look me in the eyes, and that tells me she’s a nervous wreck right now.

  “Who cares?” I shrug. “Looking good, looking bad… It’s all the same, Fiona. I don’t live my life according to what the media expects of me, and you shouldn’t either.”

  “Yeah,” she agrees, finally looking straight at me. Her eyes are of a clear blue, a little piece of heaven hidden in her iris, and I almost forget that I’m on a date with her. I just prop my elbows up on the table and lose myself in how beautiful she looks. Forget about all these top models; they have nothing on this girl.

  “I hope that asking me out wasn’t just a marketing stunt or something like that,” she says with a smile, slowly looking more confident with each passing second.

  “Do you see any reporters around?” I ask her, waving my hand at the empty restaurant. “If I wanted to make a show out of this, I’d have wanted this place packed… But it’s not. And if I did all this for show, I wouldn’t have brought you this,” I grab the rose in front of me and hand it to her, the tip of my fingers brushing against the palm of her small hands as I do it, “where nobody can see me do it.”

  “Thank you,” she smiles, looking me straight in the eyes and finally feeling at ease. I’m used to girls being intimidated by me; I’m rich, world famous, and I look better than fucking Adonis himself. Not to mention the baseball bat I have dangling between my legs, but now's not the time to be bragging about stuff like that, is it?

  “Don’t mention it,” I tell her as the sole waiter in the restaurant comes up to us. I order the tasting menu, not even knowing what half of the stuff in there really is, and a bottle of French red wine.

  After we get the formalities out of the way—she’s a law student, I’m a quarterback, shit like that—and after we order a second bottle of red, her mood seems to improve considerably. While she started the evening as a shy girl completely star-struck by me, she’s now acting more confidently than most women I know.