Bad for the Billionaires: A Bad Boy Billionaire Bundle

by Penelope Bloom

  She nods. “I still have the Matron’s number. I could be your reference. If you want.”

  I swallow hard. BDSM? My knowledge of the subject starts and stops with Fifty Shades. But I’ve admittedly always felt drawn to the idea of it all. I’ve never experimented sexually. Maybe it was just the guys I was with or my own self-consciousness, but the only sex I’ve ever had is as standard as it comes, minus the whole part where I enjoy it. The money sounds like an answer to my problems, and the club… I’m a little embarrassed by how much the idea is quickly taking root in my head, making me think a crazy thought. The thought that maybe the key to my stunted sexuality is buried somewhere in the world of kinky sex, leather straps, handcuffs, and collars. “I don’t know,” I say. But I do know. I’m going to try it because I have no other choice.

  “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I think you should still go to the party tonight. It will help get your mind off things. And I already told Michelle you were coming.”

  “Why not?” I ask, feeling more than a little crazy.

  5

  Logan

  My mansion was converted into the perfect party spot while I was at the office. I pull my Aston Martin DB11 into the lowest level of my private garage. I drove past a small army of cars parked outside from the catering crews and decorators still putting the finishing touches on my place. The door closes automatically behind me when I pull in. I step out, feeling a sense of numbness when I look at all my cars. Millions of dollars of steel and rubber are in this one floor of my garage alone, and I can’t muster up even an ounce of pride to know it’s all mine.

  I push through it though. I’m always a little prone to dreariness on the anniversary of the day I should have become a father. I’m not the sentimental type by a long shot, but this is the one exception. I step inside, fighting the urge to growl out loud as I push past caterers and decorators bustling through my house. I just want a hot shower and some time to relax, but it’s painfully clear that’s not going to happen. I’m bombarded with questions and have to spend the next hour grudgingly grunting and nodding between color choices and where to put this or that. I finally brush it all off and tell them to just fucking decide because I don’t care.

  The party starts in full force an hour later. I’m already irritated from having to deal with the people I paid to set up the party. It’s important to get the party right, though. One of the reasons I’m the best at what I do is I know how to get the most out of the people who work for me. I push them harder than any boss they’ve ever had and I demand far more of them than most even know they can give. I also show them appreciation with parties like this on a regular basis. On top of the paid vacations, bonuses, and incentives I offer. These parties are a large part of what makes working for my company a can’t miss opportunity.

  I stand over the main entrance of my foyer. I’m on the second floor, leaning against the bannister and watching as group after group of well-dressed young professionals file in. The men wear clean, expensive suits and the women look dazzling in elegant dresses. I try to keep my mind on business, but I can’t stop thinking about Club Crave, and the sudden, nearly irresistable urge to go back there and reignite that side of myself. I step down the stairs, catching the eyes of ambitious men and women who instantly recognize me.

  I know most of their faces. I’ve always had a talent for faces and names, so I’m able to slide through the crowd, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and clapping shoulders while greeting everyone by name and asking after the little details I know about them. It’s all part of the game. No one wants to feel like a cog in the machine. Everyone wants to be important and feel special, like they could move up the ladder any day. I give them that, whether it’s true or not, it makes them work hard and like doing it.

  As soon as I catch a break from mingling with my employees, I head to the bar and let the fake smile fall from my face. I reach past the bartender and pour myself a straight shot of tequilla, draining it and wincing as it burns its way down my throat.

  “Mr. Steel,” says a sultry voice to my right.

  I turn to see my new secretary and my eyes are drawn down to the ridiculous neckline of her dress. If she so much as breathed too deeply, her nipples would be proudly on display. She’s bold, I’ll give her that. Her name escapes me for a fraction of a second, but I recover quickly.

  “Lacey, you look wonderful tonight. Did you ever find out about those tickets?” The tidbit of information comes back to me with her name. She was trying to get tickets to an orchestra with her friend, but they were sold out.

  Her cheeks flush red and she leans against the bar, resting her head on her knuckles. Her eyes are hungry as she looks at me and bites her lip, clearly not realizing I asked her a question.

  I squeeze her shoulder briefly and stand. “Enjoy tonight,” I say, leaning in so she can hear me over the music that’s now playing. “There’s no better party in the city on Valentine’s Day.”

  She looks after me, mouth open as if she was about to speak, but her words thankfully fail her and I’m able to slip away.

  The party is rapidly starting to look more like a party and less like a company sponsored event. To their credit, the decorators did a good job this year, as they usually do. Stage lights were brought in to set the entire room in pink lighting with some areas of bright red. The main living room was converted into a dance floor, and a professional DJ is set up as well. Pink lights line the patio out back and the pool even has red filters over the recessed lighting.

  The servers are scantily clad men and women dressed in Valentine’s Day themed outfits. They pass around frozen Tequila hearts on sticks dyed with red food coloring and dusted with salt and lime. There are three full bars throughout the ground floor and more than enough appetizers and finger foods to feed the entire crowd twice over. I can’t take two steps without being stopped by someone, shaking a hand, or being forced to endure someone’s thinly-veiled pitch for why they should be promoted.

  It’s only been thirty minutes and I’m already about to lose it. I quickly assess the party and decide it’s already moving in the right direction and has enough momentum to stay that way. There is a growing group of my employees on the dance floor letting loose. I catch a few flashes of women’s skirts riding scandalously high as they bump and grind themselves into their dance partners at the heart of the group.

  I slip upstairs, not completely avoiding notice, but only drawing a few curious glances as I retreat to my bedroom and sigh heavily, running hands through my hair. Music thumps loudly from downstairs, sending vibrations through my feet that I can feel in my chest. As always, my eyes are drawn to the door of my play room. Even the door itself promises the sensuality within. It’s padded in thick, polished leather, dimpled with regularly spaced leather rivets. The lock is thick and extravagant, and the key is only a few feet away, hidden in the false bottom of a vase that rests on top of my bookshelf.

  Soon. The last time I closed that door was one of the darkest points in my life, and maybe the only way to claw my way back from that darkness will be to open it again. I’ve resisted it for so long, but I have needs, and I can’t suppress them forever.

  6

  Emmaline

  We’re a little late by the time Scarlett and I arrive at Mr. Steel’s party. His house is enormous. It actually looks more like an expensive resort style hotel than a house. I can’t even begin to imagine how many bedrooms there could be inside and what other kinds of amenities a house like this must have. The driveway is lined with cars, young valets in vests jog out to grab keys from their owners and pull the cars around to a parking area down the road. I bulge my eyes at Scarlett, completely blown away by the extravagance of it all.

  “This is insane,” I say.

  “Why are you whispering?” Scarlett asks, grinning as she jabs me in the side.

  I blush a little, smiling up at the house. “I can’t believe we get to go inside.” I swallow hard, suddenly nervous. “You’re sure secret servic
e isn’t going to tackle us when we go through the door or something, right?”

  “We’ll be fine. Just be casual. They might tackle you if you keep clutching your handbag in front of your stomach like some little old lady.”

  I look down and sigh when I realize she’s right. My fingers are digging into the fake leather like I’m afraid someone’s going to steal it. Not likely at a place like this.

  We step inside and I’m freshly amazed by the party. “You said this was a company party,” I say to Scarlett as we cross the foyer and make our way toward one of the bars.

  “Mr. Steel apparently used to be quite the playboy, so it’s no surprise he throws a wild party.”

  “No kidding,” I say, my voice so breathless it’s completely lost in the thrum of the music and the din of voices.

  We take our places at the bar and have a few drinks. I keep reaffirming with the bartender that he’s sure they’re free.

  “Completely free, Miss,” he says for the fourth time, sounding a little irritated.

  I notice Scarlett looking longingly toward the dance floor, but she’s a good friend, and obviously doesn’t want to abandon me by myself at a party where I don’t know anybody. She’s probably even more reluctant to leave me after I gushed out all my problems earlier today.

  I put a hand on her forearm. “Hey, go have fun.” I smile a little more confidently than I feel. “I’m going to throw a couple more free drinks down and then go scope the place out.”

  She frowns, confused for a second before she laughs. “Really? What are you going to do, go upstairs and just start snooping?”

  “No!” I say, scandalized. “But when these drinks are ready to come out, my shy bladder might draw me upstairs where I can get a better look at the place. I just have to know how many bedrooms there are.”

  She quirks her lips up in amusement. “You’re a trip, Emma. You’re sure though? I really don’t mind hanging with you if you’re--”

  “I’m sure,” I say. “The worst that could happen is I get lost in the mansion and they have to send a search party after me. Either way, I get to check out this super nice house, so it’s a win win.”

  Scarlett laughs and leans in to kiss my cheek. “Don’t snoop too hard, and be careful going up those stairs in your heels.”

  “Yes, mom,” I say, smiling back at her. “Go have fun.”

  It’s only a few minutes after she leaves that I really do have to go to the bathroom. I walk through the throbbing mass of partiers, marveling at how quickly the mood is shifting from fun to wild. Mr. Steel really does know how to throw a party. I look at the stairs, hesitating. Absolutely no one is going up to the second floor, as if it’s some kind of unwritten rule. I sigh, losing my nerve and looking for a bathroom on the ground floor. I step inside the first one and have to stumble out, apologizing when I walk in on a man with his hand all the way up a woman’s dress, fingering her mercilessly.

  I press my back against a wall, breathing heavily. I suddenly feel a little overwhelmed, like this party is over my head. But if I plan to really go through with applying to Club Crave, maybe this is exactly the initiation I need. Chances are I’ll see people doing things that are a lot more risque than hooking up in a bathroom. Still, would it kill them to lock the door?

  I check several more bathrooms, finding locked doors and lines that are too long to wait in. My need to pee eventually overwhelms my good sense, and I scurry up the stairs, heels clicking loudly on the marbled steps. The music still booms upstairs and I can still hear the whoops and laughter from the party. I check several doors before finally finding one that’s unlocked. I step inside the room and cringe when I realize I probably just found the master bedroom. It’s absolutely massive. French doors lead from the back of the room to a beautiful patio with curving staircases that lead down to a terraced garden below. The garden is hedged in by tall, perfectly trimmed bushes.

  My eyes slide past the king sized bed and lock on a strange, leather door set into the wall. I walk toward it, naturally drawn closer and closer, curiosity booming in my chest. I’m about to reach out and touch the door when another door within the bedroom swings open, nearly knocking me over. I stumble backward as a man in a towel steps out, head down as he rubs his soaking hair with a black towel.

  Tanned skin. Broad shoulders. Eight-pack abs. My eyes dart from feature to feature of the masterpiece in front of me. He lifts the towel and cold gray eyes pierce through me. There’s no shame or embarrassment in his face, just a slight quirk of his eyebrow. He has thick, dark hair that somehow manages to fall perfectly over his face even though he was just drying it with a towel. I bite my lip, taking in the scruff dusting his startlingly defined jawline.

  “Are you lost?” he asks.

  His deep voice startles me. I jump a little, and realize I’ve just been shamelessly staring at him. “Sorry,” I blurt, cheeks blazing with heat.

  “I asked you a question,” he says, somewhat firmly.

  I’m startled by how direct he is. “A bathroom,” I say breathlessly. “I have to pee.”

  His eyes take me in slowly, deliberately. I shift under his scrutiny. No man has ever looked at me like he’s looking at me. He’s appraising me like he might inspect something he just purchased, or something he already owns. The realization sends an unexpected thrill of excitement through me. I feel my core heat and my nipples harden.

  “You can use mine,” he says, gesturing to the bathroom he just stepped out of.

  I look down at the floor, nodding my thanks as I try to slip past him into the bathroom, but he doesn’t budge, forcing me to brush against his hard body. A wave of chills passes over me. In the brief instant we touched, I could feel the heat radiating from his skin and imagine what it would be like to run my hands down his smooth muscles and to have his hands on me.

  I close the bathroom door behind me, giving me a merciful break from the intensity of his presence. I press my back to the door, sucking in heavy breaths like I just ran a mile. Men don’t have that effect on me. Years of fruitless sexual encounters and failed relationships have pretty much made me numb to attractiveness or sexual fantasies. But just looking at him and feeling his dominating presence actually has my core clenching from need.

  I step through the steamy bathroom, admiring the huge shower with multiple faucets and trying not to picture him naked, bathed in hot, steaming water. I step past a discarded suit, slacks, and a pair of black briefs thrown on the ground. I guiltily look at the briefs, licking my lips.

  I quickly use the bathroom and step back out into the room. I find him half-dressed. He’s wearing a pair of unbuttoned slacks without a shirt.

  I avert my eyes, my mouth is suddenly dry. “Are you Mr. Steel?” I ask.

  He half-turns, giving me just a glimpse of the rounded muscle of his chest. “Yes,” he says simply. “Are you an intern? I don’t recognize you.”

  My stomach clenches. “Yes,” I say quickly. “I just started.”

  He narrows his eyes at me. For a moment, I’m afraid he’s going to ask for more details, but he lets it pass.

  “Right,” I say nervously. “Well, I’m going to go back…” I turn to leave, but he stops me with a hand on my shoulder, making me turn to face him. The warmth of his hand seeps into me, sending my mind to dark places with even darker images of him bending me over the bed, having his way with me. Dominating me. I feel a chill at the thought. Is that what I want?

  “Your dress,” he says, stepping closer to me and wrapping his arms around me to reach to my lower back. His bare chest presses into me, making my breath catch. “You’re unzipped.” His face is inches from mine and having those piercing eyes just inches from mine is almost too much. I could kiss him if I just leaned forward…

  But he zips me up and then steps back, turning away as if there was nothing to the gesture.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly. I don’t want to walk out of the room. I know a man like this would never normally look twice at me. Every woman in the
city probably throws herself at him. The need to extend the moment pushes me to say something. Anything. “It’s beautiful,” I say.

  I see a hint of laughter in his eyes when he turns to look at me.

  “The house!” I say quickly, shielding my eyes in embarrassment. “The house is beautiful, I mean. Not that you aren’t, of cour--” I clamp my mouth shut before I can do any more damage.

  He finally slides a tight black shirt on that hugs his muscles. The shirt does less to dull the throb of need between my legs than I was hoping. The sleeves stretch tight over his biceps and…

  He steps closer and looks at me appraisingly, placing a finger on his perfect chin. “Tell me your name,” he says. It’s not a question. He doesn’t strike me as the type to do a whole lot of questioning. Statements and demands are this man’s way, and I find myself liking the idea of that very much.

  “Emmaline,” I breathe.

  “Emmaline,” he says slowly. I’ve never heard my name sound so romantic or sweet from anyone else’s lips. “You need to get back to the party. Your colleagues are probably wondering where you went.”

  He knows I don’t work for him. I stammer out something and rush from the room, finally feeling like I can breathe when I’m back in the hallway. Wow. When Scarlett said he was hot I didn’t think he was going to be that hot. I’ve never met a man quite like him. I hurry down the stairs, head still spinning as I descend back into the thrum of music and writhing bodies.

  When I finally find Scarlett she’s breathless and has lost the coat she was wearing when we came in. Her skin glistens with sweat and she’s wearing a perpetual smile. The smile falters a little when she sees the look on my face. “You okay?” she asks as we slip outside into the cool night air beside the pool and find chairs.

  “I met Mr. Steel,” I say.