Baby Bargain_A Billionaire Baby Contract Romance

by Vivien Vale

  After all, anything can happen in Vegas…

  And we’ve got all night to forget.

  Becky

  10:01 AM THURSDAY

  Bzzzzzzzzzzzzt!

  When I wake up, it takes all the pluck and determination of a Bob the Builder crowbar to get my stupid fucking eyes open.

  When I come to, I immediately decide it wasn’t worth the effort.

  The Royale Casino, Viva Las Vegas.

  Maybe you’ve heard of it? Opulence out the ass. Costs an arm and a leg to book a standard room. Fancy ordering room service? Hope you’re prepared to sign away your firstborn.

  And my fiancé, Dan the Man? He booked me the bridal suite. His brother—sorry, step-brother—owns the place. Family discount, I guess. They let him keep his good arm.

  So. Here I am, hung-over as fuck in the most expensive hotel in Las Vegas, a city known for money, sex, and sin.

  But I’m not here to sin.

  I’m here to get married. Hitched. I’m here to tie the knot, settle down, and make an honest woman of myself once and for all.

  So when I open my eyes on the first morning of my three-day bachelorette party in Vegas, I ought to be thinking about bride stuff. Roses. Hors d’oeuvres.

  I should be peeling off an organic cucumber-placenta facial rejuvenation mask, gently fretting about whether there will be enough beluga caviar at the wedding reception and ruminating on how fucking much I love my husband-to-be.

  When I actually open my eyes, what really happens is I peel my tongue off the roof of my dry-mouth and realize that Dan is not getting his fucking deposit back.

  Broken bottles. Shattered glass. Smoke. Feathers. Whipped cream. And that noise—an incessant vibrating that strikes fear in my loins and sends a pang of guilt shooting through my very soul, though I know not why.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzzzt!

  A bedazzled rogue vibrator chugs across the floor of the lounge. It smears blue raspberry lube behind it like a snail trail until it jams up, sputters and dies tangled in the shag of the white lounge rug.

  The smell hits me next, so dark and pungent that I’m not entirely sure I’m not having a stroke. It’s eau de burnt condoms and splattered wine, with maybe a hint of breakfast. There’s no use crying over spilled Merlot, but I almost shed a tear when I realize it’s been splashed across the Banksy mural in the foyer.

  I’m vaguely aware that something’s on fire, but when I try to muster up the courage to go grab an extinguisher, I can’t.

  Hangovers, man.

  What the fuck did I do last night?

  The late-morning sun pours in from the patio. It’s like getting LASIK from a flamethrower. I whimper pathetically from the place where I must have passed out last night: naked, upside down and reeking of tequila on a white velvet sofa worth more than my parents’ mortgage.

  I squint, still a little drunk, and raise my hand to shield my eyes. But before I can, something moves in front me, eclipsing the light.

  A thigh. A thick, muscular thigh with blonde hairs that glisten, back-lit by sunshine, like spun gold. Naked. Bulging with sinew.

  In awe, I follow the line of that thigh up to a hip. A manly fucking hip. A hip which has no doubt powered thrusts that have facilitated a thousand orgasms.

  Oh.

  Make that a million orgasms.

  Because let’s slide the fuck across that hip, shall we?

  I know I shouldn’t look, but it’s right fucking there. Beckoning my gaze. Begging to be seen.

  Thick.

  Half-hard, long as my forearm and still. Fucking. Growing.

  Uncut. Like turning your porn settings over from US to UK.

  A pearl of pre-cum trembling at its engorged, fat, rose-pink tip.

  Hung.

  And hanging right over my fucking face.

  Total dream, right? Perfect way to wake up in the morning. Forget hangover cures. Forget hair of the dog.

  The most beautiful dick my formerly-slutty eyes have ever ogled is dangling within licking distance of my suddenly drooling mouth, and I wanna ride that bad boy like a bitch in heat.

  There’s just one problem. There always is, isn’t there?

  Remember Dan? Dan “Dan the Man” Hardbottom, that almost-handsome, totally kind, and caring fiancé who booked me into this sweet-ass room that I’m probably burning to the ground literally as we speak?

  Yeah…

  That’s definitely not his cock.

  “Morning, love,” Very Much Not Dan says, passing me a giant mug of coffee.

  I accept the mug gratefully as I twist myself upright. I find myself blinking at Not Dan in a slow, disbelieving daze. Every time I close my eyes, I’m certain he’s going to be gone when I open them again.

  Every time I open them, he’s still fucking there.

  Alright. Let’s talk specifics here, hmm? He’s in his late twenties. Early thirties at the most. 6’2”, probably more like 6’3” if you get him in dress shoes.

  What we’re dealing with here is a man who seems to be constructed mostly of muscle, sex appeal, and my own wet dreams.

  He’s got dark blonde stubble that you just know will tickle your cheeks when he kisses you. The kind of lips that make you wonder how that stubble will feel against your inner thighs.

  My heart says no, but my pussy says I want to ride his scruffy face like a jockey on Kentucky Derby day.

  Blue eyes, bright and pale and flecked with gold. Like sunlight on the ocean. Or like the Royale’s $500,000 poker chips scattered across the baby blue felt of a roulette table.

  A jawline that looks like it was formed with a chisel and a chest that makes me feel like if God were real, he’s either gay or female.

  It’s like I dropped acid last night and accidentally hallucinated a naked Charlie Hunnam into my bridal suite.

  “How did you sleep, darling?” he asks me. “I made brekky.”

  Oh god. Did I mention it gets worse? Because it gets worse.

  He’s British.

  “Uhh,” I say, fluently. Because apparently, as I stare at the Union Jack flag he has tattooed on a bulging pectoral—right over his heart—I’ve forgotten how to speak English.

  His eyes narrow with the hint of an amused smile.

  “Drink your coffee, love.”

  My breath sticks in my chest as he reaches past the mug I’m holding in my two trembling hands and pinches one of my nipples between his index finger and his thumb.

  “Cheeky,” he says with a roguish wink. “Fancy a quickie before you eat? Let me know.”

  I stare at his ass as he goes. You wouldn’t fucking blame me, either.

  Look, I know what you’re thinking. I get it. I really fucking do.

  This man is perfect. Delectable. Gloriously delicious in every single way. He’s got the looks of a notorious bad boy tempered with a dash of English charm. The body of a Greek sculpture, the tattoos of a rock star, and the cock of dildo model.

  And he called me cheeky, for fucks sake. Tip me over, and I would drown in my own pussy juice right now.

  But he’s not my fiancé.

  He’s not Dan.

  Of course he’s not Dan. That much’s pretty fucking clear.

  He makes better coffee, for one.

  I take a sip, if only because in my hung-over state, I’m pretty solid at following orders. It’s warm and rich, brewed perfectly. Light roast, the way I like it. One sugar. Full fat milk. And the pièce de résistance: a pack of instant hot chocolate dumped on top of it—because while I do my best to be classy, I’m not a fucking saint. It’s like a mocha-flavored orgasm in my mouth.

  How the fuck does Not Dan know how I like my morning cup of joe?

  Actually—speaking of orgasms in my mouth—

  “Um,” I say nervously.

  Oh, bravo, Becky. We’re off to a great start.

  “Excuse me,” I try again, “But last night, did we, uh—”

  Not Dan looks up
at me from his station in the kitchen where he’s currently poaching eggs. He stops swirling water round the pot just long enough to make a rude gesture with his hands.

  Not Dan has thick fingers. Long, thick, well-practiced fingers. He works two of them in and out of a tight little hole he’s formed with the index finger and thumb of his other hand in a way that makes my pussy do a back flip and find religion.

  “Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard. I drown my embarrassment in another mouthful of coffee. It’s good, but it doesn’t quite do the trick.

  “You don’t remember?” he asks, eyes sparkling. They’re actually mesmerizing. Like pirate gold sinking beneath the Caribbean’s waves.

  I look around the trashed hotel suite. The white smoke pouring casually from one bedroom. Goose feathers, sticky with Triple Sec and cigarette ash, strewn across the floor like a white Christmas on the naughty list. The left stiletto of a passed-out showgirl peeking out from behind the kitchen island. The rogue vibrator, completely feral, which has resumed its buzzing and trucked itself into the master bath.

  A sob rises in my chest as I trot over to Not Dan in the kitchen.

  “Honestly? I don’t remember anything,” I confess.

  This hasn’t happened since the night I fucking met Dan. The night he helped me clean the vomit off my Christian Louboutins, sober the fuck up, and turn my life around.

  I decided that I was going to marry Dan on that night. Now, eight months and three days later, I’m just a few vows and a marriage certificate away from making that decision a reality.

  Unless, of course—

  “Mm,” Not Dan hums absently, fishing a perfectly poached egg out of the boiling water with a slotted spoon. “Fuck, you mean. We did. Gloriously, might I add.”

  “Oh. And…what did we do, exactly?” I’m desperate for details and it shows. Not just because I’m a horny cunt who doesn’t remember fucking the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  No, I need to know how guilty I need to feel.

  Not Dan stares up at me with an awful look in his eyes.

  “What we didn’t do would be a shorter conversation, love,” he says, unable to contain his grin. “Here. Brekky. Tuck in.”

  I stare at the beautiful, wobbling poached egg on a bed of splayed avocado slices and grill-marked sourdough. Even his breakfast is beautiful.

  I consider crying. I’m pretty sure I could cry, anyway.

  It seems like the reasonable thing to do.

  “What’s wrong, darling?” Not Dan says as he sprinkles the eggs with pink sea salt.

  “I’m supposed to be getting m-married!” I whimper, collapsing against the counter like that time I tried to drunk-bake a soufflé.

  Desperate for comfort from my own dumbshittery, I hug my arms tight around my body. It’s a good call. I’m still fucking naked, and it’s not like the confession of my engaged status has stopped Not Dan from staring.

  “Ah,” Not Dan sighs, leaning across the kitchen island and smiling reassuringly. “That would explain the veil then. Who’s the lucky bloke?”

  I reach up, patting my hair. Not completely naked after all, then. Because sure enough, there it is: not my expensive, Spanish lace bridal veil, but a cheap gag veil with the word SLUT emblazoned in rhinestones across the tiara.

  I put it back on mournfully.

  You know how it is. If the shoe fits…

  Here’s the deal. I know what this looks like. No apologies. No bullshit.

  This is fucking bad.

  But with no memory of last night and no sign of my bridesmaids in sight…there’s got to be a reasonable answer for all of this craziness, right?

  I know I wouldn’t cheat on my fiancé. No matter how many drinks I’ve had or how gorgeous Not Dan is.

  I need answers here. I think we all do. But before I can get them…

  “AAAAAAHHH!” screams a husky female voice from the spare room. “My motherfucking PUBES are on fire!”

  I’ve got a few other messes to clean up first.

  Becky

  2:08 PM WEDNESDAY

  I swear, I need a fucking road map to navigate my way through my own walk-in closet. When I first bought my chic little apartment here in the Valley, it looked so big and empty that I never thought I would fill it. But as soon as I moved in, it became more stuffed and cavernous than a Mary Poppins bag.

  Briefly, I contemplate Mary Poppins’ wardrobe: an endless supply of ruffled blouses and granny panties. On the bright side, it would go on forever—but instead of being contained in a totally immovable closet, it could be stuffed into her tiny fucking duffle bag.

  I envy that Poppins woman something fierce right now, considering my own suitcases are already overflowing, and every piece of clothing I come across isn’t anything like what I’m looking for.

  Sure, this blouse is respectable. This pencil skirt even shows off my legs and some of my curves. But deep down, I’ve never felt very comfortable being respectable, even though dammit, I’ve been trying.

  These clothes are lovely...they’re just not fucking me.

  I sigh.

  A blazer so conservative it could run for office as Sarah Palin’s running mate. A cream-colored pantsuit so boring, I may as well rock up to the airport in my fucking pajamas. Actually…now there’s a thought.

  My red silk negligee would attract more than a little attention—but of course, attention is exactly what I’m supposed to be avoiding these days. Dan the Man would sure as hell not approve.

  Dan the Man doesn’t even like me wearing my red silk negligee at home for a little frisky fun.

  I glance at my engagement ring. A million dollars-worth of love stares back at me.

  Dan the Man loves me. Dan is good for me. Dan helps me make the right decisions.

  I sigh again.

  Dan is boring, but he’s sweet. Or at least, he tries to be. And he’s the man I’m about to marry—so it’s about time I shut up, bite the bullet, and get the fuck used to it.

  My eyes wander to the very back of the wardrobe. There, hidden behind the prim and proper stuff, live my forbidden sexy numbers from another lifetime.

  Slut clothes is what Dan calls them. Is there anything wrong with dressing a little slutty? I obviously didn’t use to think so.

  Prostitution is the world’s oldest profession, and by that standard, my former wardrobe is practically vintage. If a woman wants to dress slutty, there’s probably a good reason for it.

  Slutty dresses catch horny men.

  But I’ve already caught my man, and I know exactly what he’d prefer me in: the pantsuit.

  Still, slowly, like a moth enchanted by the heavenly light of a bug zapper, I push my way back to my sexy treasures.

  As if Dan senses this moment of temptation all the way from San Francisco, my phone blasts out Elvis Presley’s “Viva Las Vegas”.

  My fingers fall away from the shimmery mini-dress I was about to pick up. I feel myself go redder than the dress’ sequins.

  Caught red-faced and red-handed.

  Fuck, this man has impeccable timing.

  “Hey, Becky-beans,” his voice greets me through the phone. I turn around like a kid who’s gotten caught with her fist in the cookie jar to make sure he’s not actually standing behind me.

  “Aw, Dan. I hate when you call me that,” I cringe. Then, trying to sound casual, I add, “What’s up, hon?”

  “Does something have to be up? Maybe I just want to hear the voice of the woman intend to marry at the end of the week.”

  I emerge from the wardrobe and flop down onto my bed.

  “Well…when you put it like that, I guess not, no.”

  Which is why I fucking love Dan the Man, even though I still have no idea why his friends call him that.

  He’s thoughtful. Sweet. He looks after me.

  The fact that he’s super fucking rich doesn’t even matter. Money can’t compare to a man who somehow manages to handle my dum
b ass.

  Okay…so he doesn’t love my friends. And he’s admittedly a little controlling about the way I dress. And, yeah, he’d prefer that we quietly lay to rest my past life as Ballin’ Becky, party girl extraordinaire.

  But relationships are about give and take, right? Nothing wrong with a little fucking compromise on my part. It doesn’t hurt to wear different clothes to please my husband-to-be, particularly when his credit card is bankrolling it.

  “So…how’s your day?” I ask. Partly because I’m trying to play the good wifey. Partly so I can stop thinking about the many things I’ve changed about myself for Dan.

  I’ve made my decision. I’m about to get married. Why am I focusing on such negative fucking vibes when I’m supposed to be getting my inner bridezilla on?

  “It’s been tough, Becky-beans, but I won’t bore you with the details. Hey…is your doorbell ringing?”

  I scrunch my face up in confusion, perking up my ears.

  Actually, I do think I hear a noise at the door.

  “Huh. That’s weird.”

  “Go answer it.”

  I get off the bed and head for the front door, wondering when my fiancé became a psychic or whatever.

  “Anyway,” Dan says through the phone, “I do have some bad news.”

  HA! I knew it. Fucking called it. I knew he called because something was up.

  “Aww,” I say sympathetically, even though internally, I’m doing my Becky-was-right dance.

  “This buy-out I’ve been arranging with Oedipus Incorporated is finally happening…as we speak, actually. They’re headed over now, and since negotiations could take all week…I’m so sorry, Becky-beans, but I’ve got to stay.”

  “What do you mean, you’ve got to stay?’

  By now I’ve reached the front door and open it. A pizza-faced delivery boy in ball-strangling black skinny jeans is standing there, a parcel in one hand and flowers in the other.

  I point to the phone, and he seems to understand. We juggle the delivery items between us until he holds out one of those electronic devices for signing.

  Once I’ve scribbled something that almost looks like my signature on the screen, he waves and books it.

  With the phone squeezed between my shoulder and my face, I look down at the flowers.