Caught Up: With An Alpha Billionaire (A BWWM Romance) (A Love Like No Other Book 1)

by Heather Banks

  Positioning himself over me, he eased his way down to settle between my legs. From his gentleness I thought he would be slow and sweet as he entered me.

  I was wrong.

  He smoothed the stray hairs from my face and caressed my cheeks, and murmured in my ear. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, “but I want you too badly to go slow.”

  My body was aching for him and I wanted nothing more than to feel him deep in me. “It doesn’t matter,” I responded. “Do it now.”

  He answered with a violent thrust, burying himself to the hilt with one smooth movement. I cried out, but more with surprise than with pain. And then he was moving in me, and the world faded away until my whole being revolved around nothing more than him inside me.

  His size was beyond penetrating; it was consuming. Fire blazed in my crotch until it threatened to explode, engulfing me in pure heat and light. I could tell he was getting close as he pumped in an out as his motions became more erratic, his hips grinding quicker and quicker.

  I finally felt him tense, his muscles rigid, and he let out a strangled cry as he came. It was enough to drive me over the edge in response, and the fire that had been consuming my core raced to my extremities, turning my legs and arms and chest to liquid heat. I ground my teeth together, holding my breath and letting my body cool until I could relax even a little.

  He collapsed on to me, his breathing ragged. We stayed like that for a long minute, melting into one another and at the same time each absorbed in our own release. It had been so long since my body responded to a man like that, I had forgotten how amazing it was.

  “God, Tiffany,” he muttered against my shoulder, pushing himself up partially to look into my eyes. “I haven’t been able to think of anything but you for a week. All I could think about was being inside you, feeling you come around me.”

  I couldn’t say anything, I was so astonished at his admission. Was it possible we’d both felt the same thing when we first met?

  He rolled off me and stood up, looking down at me, a transformation coming over his face. “Now that I’ve had you, I can get you out of my head,” he said, his face conflicted.

  5. Motion for Dismissal

  The change in his attitude was so quick, I could barely process it.

  He found his pants and pulled them back on, zipping and buttoning and buckling the belt. Meanwhile, I grabbed the fuzzy yellow throw blanket off the back of the couch and covered myself, suddenly feeling exposed in a very un-sexy way.

  “This won’t happen again,” he pronounced, picking his shirt up off the floor and shrugging into it. He quickly did up the buttons and tucked the shirt in, every movement he made calculated and precise.

  “I can’t afford any romantic entanglements,” he said, flatly, as I sat up and clutched the blanket to my chest, not sure what was happening. “I needed…this,” he hesitated, “to get you out of my head.” He spoke as if he was explaining a simple problem that was now solved.

  I felt tears well up behind my eyes, and willed them not to fall. “So you got me out of your head by getting into my pants?”

  “You don’t have to worry about recusing yourself from the case,” he said, running a hand through his mussed hair, “because this won’t affect our working relationship. As long as you can be professional, we’ll have no problem.”

  Me? Be professional? After what he just did to me in my own apartment? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “What the hell do you mean, this won’t affect our relationship?” I spat at him. “You just fucked me – might well I may add – on my couch! How is this not relevant to our working relationship?”

  “You just said it yourself,” he responded, not meeting my eyes. “We fucked. It’s a biological function, just like sleeping or breathing. It doesn’t have to get all entangled in emotions. Just let it be what it is, and we’ll be fine.”

  I was speechless, and I sputtered, looking for words. I pulled myself into a little, hard ball underneath the blanket and tried not to panic.

  “You knew what you were getting into,” he said, seeing my reaction. “I told you I didn’t have relationships.”

  I shook my head. “When did you tell me that?” I asked, incredulously.

  “I told you about my relationship with Deidre Lyons,” he said, as if this explained everything.

  My mouth dropped open, words returning. “How exactly was that the equivalent of telling me you wanted to fuck me with no strings attached?”

  “You knew what kind of person I was,” he said, patiently, his gray eyes unreadable. He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but he decided against it.

  He started to walk towards the door, and then turned back around.

  “I hope your ankle feels better,” he said, and sounded sincere – as if that made up for him being a complete asshole. “I’ll see you for our deposition on Tuesday,” he said, and opened the door, walking out of the apartment.

  I could do nothing but sit on the couch and stare for quite a while, not sure what the hell had just happened. As the door slammed behind him, I wondered at how the best sex of my life quickly turned into the most mortifying moment of my life without warning.

  ***

  For the rest of the evening, I iced my ankle, sipped wine, and cursed myself.

  I knew better than to get involved with a client – if Stephen found out, he’d have my ass on a platter. And why, of all clients, did I pick Alex Richardson, who I knew was bad news?

  Because I couldn’t help myself, that’s why, I thought.

  I was no stranger to discipline. I had put myself through law school, because I knew my single mother was going to be of no financial help. I ran a marathon. I had a great job at one of the best law firms in Chicago.

  So why did I turn into a quivering, spineless jellyfish in the face of an attractive, Tesla-driving, fireman-carrying, ankle-icing man?

  Because I liked him, and was attracted to him. And the fact that he wanted me back made me feel like the most beautiful and powerful woman in the world.

  And damn if I didn’t still want him. I knew it was completely illogical, especially after the way he treated me, but the memory of his skin against mine, his hands all over my body, made me ache with need.

  To try to talk some sense into myself, I ended up calling Stan.

  Predictably, he told me I was stupid for getting involved with a client, which was a point I didn’t need to hear. I didn’t exactly the tell him the extent of our involvement, but Stan didn’t need it spelled out for him.

  He had graduated from law school three years before me, and he inspired me. He was my protector and my shoulder to lean on and my sounding board, and I loved and respected him. But having someone who knew the very level of stupid getting involved with a big-name, career-breaking client was did not make me feel any better.

  “Are you going to take yourself off the case?” Stan asked, after he’d finished chewing me out.

  I sighed, clutching the phone to my ear and shifting my foot away from the almost-melted bag of ice. “I don’t know. I guess not. Our firm doesn’t really have anyone else to put on it right now, anyway, which is how I got the case to begin with.”

  “Great,” Stan said. “You’re not going to keep seeing him, are you?” His deep voice was disapproving, even all the way over the line from L.A. where he lived and represented music-industry clients.

  “No, I think that he made it pretty clear we’re professional from here on in.” I tried to keep the regret out of my voice, and wasn’t totally successful.

  “Tiff,” Stan warned. “Don’t go down this road. Besides, don’t you think you’ve had enough losers in your life?”

  “That’s the thing!” I protested. “He’s not a loser. He’s a rich, successful, handsome guy. Not like Aaron, whose idea of success was eating a whole bag of Cheetos during an episode of ‘Ice Road Truckers.’”

  I could practically hear Stan shake his head. “Tiffany. Steer clear of this
one. I’m not kidding.”

  “Right, big bro, I know you’re right.”

  “Take care, Tiff. Keep it in your pants,” he said, only half-joking.

  “Yeah, you too,” I retorted.

  After an hour of so of icing my ankle and two and a half glasses of wine, I decided to call it a night. I had a ton of work to do on the case, and I decided I’d get an early start rather than try to work before bed.

  Still hobbling but not in as much pain, I showered. I could still smell Alex on me and feel him between my legs. As I soaped my slick skin, I wondered if given the chance I’d let him take me again.

  Despite my most logical protests, the answer was a definite “yes.”

  6. Cross-Examination

  Friday passed in a blur, and with all the preparation I had to do to get ready for the MarkTec deposition a few days away, I was somewhat successful in not focusing on my evening with Alex and his subsequent dismissal of me. There were only a few times – when I stepped awkwardly on my ankle, for example, or felt the tenderness in my cunt – that the memories came flooding back.

  I managed to dismiss them, for the most part.

  At about 5:30, when I was just starting to think about trying to gather up all my files and papers and head home, the phone rang. It was the admin that most of the associates shared.

  “Ms. Mullins? Alex Richardson is on the phone for you,” She informed me.

  “Uh, okay, just a minute.” I held the phone to my chest, heart pounding.

  I was panicking.

  Why was he calling? Was he going to change his mind and tell me that he wanted me off the case after all? Was he going to tell me last night was a mistake, and he couldn’t believe he had fucked me on my couch and wanted to take it back? I tried to take a few deep breaths and calm myself.

  “Okay, put him through,” I said into the phone after a minute.

  The line clicked, and I tried to quell my anxiety.

  “Tiffany?” The deep, silky voice said. I could have sworn the voice alone was enough to make me wet, and not just in a nervous-sweating way.

  “Yes, Mr. Richardson, what can I do for you?” I asked, forcing myself to be as professional as I could.

  He chuckled. “I think we’re past the ‘Mr. Richardson’ phase, don’t you?” He asked, amusement in his voice.

  “I don’t know. I’m out of your head now, so I’m not sure what phase we’re in,” I snapped, then tried to recover quickly. “What can I do for you? Did you get the papers that George sent over?”

  “I did get the papers, but that’s not why I called. It seems, Tiffany,” he drew my name out, the sound deep and smooth, “that I was kind of an asshole last night.”

  “Yeah, kind of, “ I agreed, before I had time to think about it. As soon as the comment was out of my mouth, I snapped it shut.

  “We’re in agreement, then,” he said, not sounding offended. “I owe you an apology.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Go ahead.”

  “Well, I am sorry,” he said, the chuckle coming over the line again. “But I was thinking maybe we could meet for a drink after work. Maybe somewhere far from crazy bikers.”

  I smiled, in spite of myself. Then Stan’s words came back to me, and my own logic tried to rear its ugly head.

  Steer clear of this one.

  “I don’t know, I really like crazy bikers,” I hesitated.

  “One drink,” he said. “I don’t beg. But I’d like you to meet me. How about Eno, on the Loop?”

  My mouth dropped open. Eno was one of the swankiest bars downtown – but then I remembered Alex’s car and his clothes, and remembered he built fortune up from nothing. Of course he’d want to go to a fancy bar – no Mac’s Pub for Alex Richardson.

  “Fine. How about 6:30?” I asked, dog-earing a file folder on my desk.

  “Good. I’ll meet you there,” he said. “That will give me some time.”

  “Time for what?”

  “I have to swing by the car wash on the way and get my interior detailed,” he said, wryly.

  I snorted. “I thought you said leather wipes off.”

  “It does, I’m just not the one to usually wipe it.” I could hear him grinning.

  “Well, aren’t you Mr. Fancy,” I shot back.

  “See you at 6:30, Tiffany,” he said, again in that slow, sexy way. And then the line clicked, and he was gone.

  I put the phone back in its cradle and pondered the conversation we just had. He almost sounded like a different person, and I had to admit, I liked the guy on the phone. If this was really the way Alex Richardson was, I was really going to have to watch myself – if I thought he was a threat to both my professional life and heart before, he could be downright devastating if he actually had a likable personality.

  ***

  I managed to get all my paperwork together and case files organized, and make it out of the office by 6:15. The Loop was only a few blocks from my office building, so I decided to test my ankle by walking.

  It was another beautiful May evening, and throngs of business people as well as tourists bustled along the sidewalks, heading for one place or another. I hoped that my red silky shell, gray suit, and modest black pumps were going to be appropriate for the bar. My hair was in a soft wave to my shoulders, and the weather wasn’t hot enough yet that frizz was too much of a problem.

  I reached the Fairmont Chicago, which was the hotel where Eno was situated, and walked through the sleek, modern lobby. I found the wine bar at the far side, and when I walked up to the maître d’ it was clear that Alex had told him that I would be coming.

  “Ms. Mullins?” The young man, dressed in all-black, greeted me.

  “Yes,” I said, surprised.

  “Mr. Richardson called, and he’s been unavoidably delayed,” he said.

  “Great,” I muttered, figuring I’d walked over on a lame ankle for nothing.

  “He has arranged for transportation for you, though, if you’ll come with me.”

  “Okay,” I said, following the maître d’ back through the lobby.

  “Thank you,” I said, shifting my briefcase up on to my shoulder. “But, how did you know I was meeting Mr. Richardson?” I asked, wondering if he’d given the man a picture of me, or something. That would have been a little creepy.

  “He told me he’d be meeting a beautiful, dark-haired woman,” the man said, with a smile. I could feel myself blushing. “He also said you may be limping.”

  My blush turned even hotter. I didn’t think I’d been limping that bad.

  “Right this way,” the maître d’ said, and we walked out of the lobby to the street outside.

  The opposite direction from where I’d come in, there was a sleek black limousine parked, the engine idling. The man led me up to it and bent to open the door.

  “This is the transportation?” I asked, a little overwhelmed. I figured he’d gotten me a taxi.

  “Yes, miss,” he said, swinging the door open and waiting for me to get inside.

  Should I tip him? I wasn’t sure, so I started fumbling in my purse for some money.

  “Oh, that’s not necessary, miss,” he said, with a dismissive gesture. “Mr. Richardson will take care of it.”

  “All right,” I said, beyond relieved. I wasn’t sure I had any cash, and even if I did, I wasn’t sure how much I should give him anyway.

  Thanking him, I tossed my bags into the dim interior of the limo and slid in after them.

  “Where are we going?” I asked the driver, who actually had an honest-to-God chauffer’s hat on. I felt like I was in a movie.

  “Just to the Four Seasons, Ms. Mullins,” he said, over the seat partition. “It’s only a few blocks away. Help yourself to any refreshments.”

  He slid the divider up and left me to look around.

  The inside was leather, with bench seats facing each other and a small table in the center. On the table was a built-in tray with sides, and it was laid with cheese, crackers, and a cut apple. A bottle
of wine was chilling in a bucket attached to the bottom of the table.

  Swanky, I thought. I guess he was the owner of a billion dollar international company, so a limo should come with the territory.

  The smell of the cheese and apples made my stomach growl, and I realized all I’d eaten since breakfast was a granola bar at my desk. I picked up an apple slice and started to munch on it, the tart juices pricking my tongue.

  ***

  The drive to the Four Seasons took only about 10 minutes, but I was grateful for the ride because my ankle was still achy. The driver let me out and I headed into the lobby, where they pointed me to the Seasons restaurant

  I said hello to the woman at the podium outside the luxurious bar, and she ushered me in to where Alex sat.

  When he saw me, he stood up. “Tiffany. Hi,” he greeted me, a small smile on his face.

  “Hi,” I responded, and we both sat back down as I tucked my briefcase under my seat. I had just seen him the night before – all of him – but his sheer good looks still struck me practically dumb. His dark hair, gray eyes, and sculpted cheekbones were almost otherworldly in their perfection.

  “I’m really sorry about the change of venue,” he said, as he smiled at the woman in dismissal. “I had a meeting here and I knew I was going to be late, so I figured I’d just bring you to me.”

  “Well, I have to say, that limo was really roughing it,” I smirked. “But I managed.”

  Alex smiled. “I’m glad you could make it. I wanted to say that I was just a little…cold last night.”

  “You could say that,” I said, folding my hands on the table. Even though he was devastatingly beautiful, I didn’t want to let him off all that easy. After all, he had been the one to seduce me, and then drop me like a firecracker.