Rowan: A Billionaire Brothers Romance (The Corbett Billionaire Brothers)

by Imani King

  “I’ve never felt a pussy so sweet,” he says, leaning down and kissing my ear and then trailing his lips over to my mouth. His lips are warm and insistent against my own, and all at once, it feels like the pulsing, electric need in my body is going to take me over. Rowan grips me hard and I increase the speed against my clit. My mind tips into oblivion, and I come hard against Rowan’s cock.

  “This pussy is mine, sweetheart. Say it.”

  I’m quaking against Rowan’s body, lost in a climax that pulses and pounds through every reach of my body. No words will come, but I know it to be true. The moment he first took me, I knew that I belonged to him--and that he belonged to me, truly and completely. He slows his thrusting and brings his hand to the back of my neck, his thumb over my throat, gently caressing the hollow he finds there. Using his newfound leverage, he pushes even deeper than he was before.

  “Say it,” he urges again.

  “It’s yours. I’m yours,” I mumble. He grips me hard at my waist and thrusts inside me over and over, coming hard and filling me completely. I’m taken over by the feeling of complete warmth, complete satisfaction. My arms and legs are still sore from our time spent outside this morning, and my body is spent, wrapped around the man before me. “Holy fucking shit,” I groan, wrapping my legs around him and pulling him into me.

  This was better than anything, better than any man who came before you.

  I don’t say it, preferring to keep my mouth shut, to stay away from words that will condemn me to the pain of leaving him when I must. The thought pushes at my mind--I’m already condemned, already spiraling toward the day when I go home and break this thing that is happening between us. The thing that can’t happen, the thing I’m not ready for after so much loss.

  But maybe this is the healing that I needed. The place I needed to do it. The man I needed while it happened.

  I almost want to pull away, but our bodies are still mingled together, the scent of the outside still on his skin, filling my senses, refusing to let go.

  He looks into my eyes and kisses me, rolling me over on top of him.

  I’m beyond fucked, I think. Why can’t I say no to this man? Why can’t I stick to what’s right for me—and for him?

  And if his look is giving me any indication, he is too. He just doesn’t know it yet.

  A Preview of Imani King’s Newest Romance, A Bride for One Season:

  Danilo Yamakawa

  “She’s the one, Yamakawa-san. She’ll be able to keep a secret. She’s kept many, for many years.”

  The man who has been loyal to me for so long taps his pencil against one of the files sitting on my desk. Inside, there’s a grainy picture of one of the young hostesses from Kyoto.

  “Twenty-five, well educated. Admittedly, she’s quite pretty.” I toss the file back at him. “What makes you think she’s different than any of the others?” I think of the woman I saw just yesterday. She had laughed at everything I said, even things that weren’t intended to be funny. She spoke English just fine, had all of the education that all the rest of the women had, and she was supremely enthusiastic about the money.

  There’s no reason this one will be any different. But my assistant grins at me feverishly and hands the file back.

  “She’s a skilled hostess, despite her past. The team and I like her very much indeed. She’s believable. She’s smart. She won’t spill a word about your plan.”

  “We won’t get away with this, my good man. Not without something leaking to the papers—”

  “Let me take care of that part, Yamakawa-san. You trust that I’m loyal?”

  “I do.” I tap my pencil against the file again, a surge of hopefulness flooding through me. It’s completely insane, but it’s the only idea we’ve got.

  “We’ll get away with it just fine. It all hinges on the right woman. And trust me, Yamakawa-san. This is the one.”

  I shrug.

  If anything, it might be an entertaining evening.

  And the girl is quite pretty, I’ll grant her that.

  “Bring the car, Daisuke,” I say to my assistant. “We’re going to Kyoto.”

  Reese Alexandra Hughes

  “Alright girls! Let’s review our rules. I know some of you here are new.” Ayumi talks with a singsong accent. She’s spent more time in America than in Japan, but the accent gives her a bit of authority at this tiny hostess bar in Kyoto. “Kaya, can you tell me rule number one?”

  “No kissing on the job,” says Kaya, an Australian girl who has spent much of her adult life searching for something—some kind of spiritual awakening that white people seem to look for in their twenties and thirties. She’s perfectly likable, and her big loud laugh and fondness for cursing make her okay in my book, but Japan isn’t the same for her as it is for me. For me, it’s an opportunity to pay off crippling student loans and send money home for my mom’s medical bills. For her, it’s an adventure piled on top of a lifetime full of adventures. Shit’s completely foreign to me, but I try not to let it get in the way. If I let my notions about people rule me like I’ve done for most of my life, I wouldn’t have any damn friends in the whole country.

  I can’t judge her for her adventures. We’ve all got our reasons for being here.

  “That’s right,” Ayumi says, her voice like a kindergarten teacher’s. “No kissing with the boys when they come in to see us. We’re here to provide feminine beauty, and the foreigner experience, right girls? Next rule?” There are nods all around, even if some of the newbies aren’t quite sure what she means. I’ve been at this bar for six months, so this song and dance is old hat by now. I’ll be the one pulling our girls away from the men at the end of the night. It’s hard when you’ve got a handsome Japanese guy paying attention to you and telling you how beautiful you are, how different you are.

  “Don’t talk about yourself! We’re here to listen!” An American girl, Amber, pipes up for this one. This is her first week in Japan, and I have no idea how she got this job right off the bat. I’d have to bet it’s her tattoos—everything about that screams “forbidden.” And the men here, Japanese and foreign, love that shit. Very few Japanese women even get tattoos, so I guess I can get why they hired Amber. As for me...

  “Very good,” Ayumi says. Amber beams with happiness. “Reese, what’s the last rule?” She smiles at me with her teacherly smile. I’m a damn fine rule follower, and I’m proving to be one of the top hostesses this bar has seen in years. I like to credit my success to my charm, but Ayumi says it’s my curves. If I’m being perfectly honest—or if I’ve had two cheap whiskeys and maybe a cigar from one of our high-paying clients—I’ll tell you that it’s the rich brown color of my skin, the soft curls of my hair, maybe my claim to having a Japanese grandmother. I’m forbidden, but not threatening. I’m not the girl you take home to your Japanese mother—she’d take one look at my curves, the tattoo on my shoulder, my untamed hair, my American accent.

  “Gaijin,” she’d say. Foreigner. A polite word for being racist. At least they’re not shy around here.

  Still, it’s a beautiful place, and if I’m not invading a Japanese family and taking over one of their sons, the people are kind. Reserved, hospitable, rarely gregarious. But kind.

  “Reese, you listening?” Ayumi’s American accent comes out this time, and I snap out of it. “Rule number three!”

  “No relationships!” I shout it out in a sing-songy voice, matching Ayumi’s tone.

  “That’s right, Reese! Now let’s go out there girls. Tonight, it looks like we’ve got a very important businessman coming in from Tokyo. He’s one of the richest men we’ve had coming in, and he’s staying in Kyoto for the next six months. He’s actually a billionaire. So one of you beautiful ladies, hook him in good, and hopefully we’ll have a fan for the whole time. After all, he doesn’t know anyone here, and we want to be his very best friend!” Ayumi elongates the last word to its Japanese pronunciation, fu-rend. The girls all laugh like we’re all delighted to be hostesses, like
this is the most exciting job, in the most exciting place in the world.

  I paste on a big grin myself and give high-fives to all of my coworkers before going into my dressing room to fix up my makeup and hair. I have to admit it—of all of my jobs, this one is the most fun. It’s better than tutoring over-privileged college kids, and it’s a damn sight better than handing out fliers for Sunflower Nail Salon in the blazing August heat. I’m not a good-time girl by any means, and I’m not looking for riches or recognition, like some of these women. I’m just making my way in the big wide world, and I’m doing it as far away from home as possible. Japanese yen still pays off the debt collectors and my ridiculous twin sister, and the opportunities I get here are better than they would be anywhere else.

  Ayumi shouts to me right as I close the door. “Make sure the new girls know what they’re doing, Reese.” She gives me a wink and a thumbs up. I smile and nod, then close myself in my tiny dressing room for a bit of quiet before the evening begins. I close my eyes and put my head in my hands for a moment before I launch into the delicate task of makeup application and dressing to show off my tattoo, my curves, the wild spray of hair that I’m known for.

  “Another day, another dollar, Reese. Make that night, actually.” There’s a big roller in the back of my hair, and I take it out, letting my thick hair fall in a big wave over my shoulders. I dab on a bit of blush, some lengthening mascara, and a red lip gloss that accents my skin tone. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say.

  When I step into the lounge, I see a typical Friday night crowd—and I wonder whether or not our special guest is trying to blend in. I don’t care much about his status, but his money makes him fascinating. What would it be like to have the world at your fingertips? For a girl like me, working full time since graduating college and now working three jobs in Japan, I can’t conceive of it. I barely have enough money to afford my rent in Yamashina, even as sketchy as the neighborhood is.

  But with that kind of money, there’s no such thing as debt. There’s no such thing as watching your mother fade away until there’s nothing left of her but a sack of skin and bones. There’s no such thing as “No, sorry, we can’t afford to have her in the trial, even with me and my sister both working.”

  And there’s no such thing as working two jobs in Kyoto and scrambling to pay the $250 rent each month. For an apartment not much bigger than 100 square feet.

  The whole damn apartment is the size of my bedroom at home, I think. But at least I’m not at home.

  Living as I please—buying what I please—I haven’t experienced it. But the billionaire is here tonight, blending into the crowd of Japanese and foreign men. I’ve never met someone so lofty, so above the basic push and pull of humanity. I turn the thought of him over in my head, think about what he might look like, act like. It would be a curiosity to meet him, to pick his brain about the inner workings of his private, exclusive world, so different from my own.

  Fat chance he’ll talk to you, Reese. And furthermore, it’s not like I’d want to talk to him. As much as money fascinates me, people with money are usually assholes. I’ve learned that through the various jobs I’ve had, and I’ve seen just how well a rich man treats a woman of color without a penny to her name. And that doesn’t change much from country to country, unfortunately. For any romance I have—and that’s not many—I look for men without a damn thing. That way, they don’t expect a damn thing from me except for my attention. And that’s the only thing I’m really willing to give. That’s why I’m a hostess. It’s not part of the job to get physical, not part of the job to fall in love or even pretend. I look down at the uncomfortable heels I’m wearing and the silly sparkly dress that for some reason looks pretty good on my frame. A chilling sadness sits deep in my gut. Maybe it’s missing home, or missing something I never had. Nostalgia for a home, a place I fit in, a place I felt truly, indescribably happy.

  I bet billionaires don’t wonder about this stuff.

  I lean against the wall and nod at a few customers as they file in, smiling and hoping that the homesickness—or whatever it is—doesn’t reach my eyes.

  Bit by bit, the air in the room starts to feel different, and the thrill comes back to me again. It is thrilling work, not much effort involved. No emotional commitment, nothing to lose. A party every night. I’d better get my shit together so I can earn my dime. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll be one of those fun nights, a night where I meet a nice boy and we sing karaoke, and he leaves me with a big tip for keeping his drink filled and his mind off of work.

  I watch as Ayumi sidles up to a man sitting at the bar. He buys her a drink, and she pulls him into the karaoke room. I don’t catch his face, but it could be him—tall, dark, broad-shouldered. It wouldn’t surprise me if he picked Ayumi out of a crowd. Without a doubt, she’s beautiful, sultry, sexual in a way that many women here try not to be.

  Amber is chatting up another businessman, probably hoping it’s the guest of honor. She twirls her blond hair around her fingers and leans in close to him. He leans in close too, and they share a private moment that belongs only to them. I yawn and shift slightly on the wall. This is how I begin my nights—just watching, weighing the environment of the bar. I think back to my sister when I told her about this job. She called me a whore, but I haven’t kissed a man—let alone had sex—since I arrived in Japan. I stopped listening after she tried to convert me back to the grace of God over the phone, begging me to come back to Los Angeles.

  Like L.A. would prevent me from taking weird jobs. Hell no it wouldn’t. This one’s pretty out there, but I could find something else back home that would make her saintly blood curdle, I’m sure.

  I think of Sonora’s cheeks, how the tops of them turn dark red when she’s angry at one of my life choices. The thought makes me smile for a moment, and then it makes me think of that last dark day with Mom, when I told Sonora that we needed to let Mom go. I think of that day as the last day of Mom’s life. It’s the day the doctors told us there was no possibility she’d recover, that her brain had “exceedingly limited activity,” that she’d never breathe on her own, or talk again, or kiss us on the cheeks before we left the house. But Sonora has power of attorney. So Sonora can stay and live a life that doesn’t make a damn bit of sense, holding on to the dream of someone who loved us tenderly, dearly, far beyond the stretch of a daughter’s understanding.

  She can live my life, with the man I wanted, too. But that’s another part of the story.

  Layla Hughes had been both mother and father—Dad disappeared when we were tiny little girls. Mom always told us that he was half-Japanese, that our blood ran to different ancestries. Maybe that’s what drew me here. I’m not a gigantic fan of F. Scott Fitzgerald, but he was right about one thing—we try as hard as we can to paddle forward, but ceaselessly, we’re drawn back into the past one way or another.

  My face must look far away because Kaya catches my eye and whispers, “Perk up, Reese,” before turning back to her date for the evening. I barely notice when a man speaks to me from the table beside me.

  “Daydreaming? Looks like your friend saw you,” he says, tipping his cigar into the ash tray next to him. My voice nearly catches in my throat when I look at him. His eyes are deep brown, flecked with freckles of gold and green. His hair doesn’t match the practiced messiness I see on a lot of young Japanese men. Instead, it falls next to his ears neatly, with only a hint of gel at its tips. His face is a study of straight lines, his nose long and aquiline, a little too large for his almond eyes and high cheekbones. None of his features seem to fit together, but when I look at him, I get an impression of something rare, something too fierce for this world.

  I flash a bright smile, and I pretend I didn’t hear him. The girls here aren’t supposed to daydream, and I could very well get reported. I look him up and down, taking in the expensive, hand-tailored brown suit with the plain blue tie that looks like it’s made of raw silk.

  This couldn’t be the guy. Don’t let it be the
guy. I try to knock the voice in my head on its ass. It doesn’t matter if this is the guy or not, because I’m not interested in wasting my time with someone with more money than God, even if it’s only for a night, even if it’s just for a long moment of glancing at his face and trying to read his eyes.