The Billionaire’s Prize contains seven erotica stories by authors Rachel Masters and Amy Greyson. Book 1: Bought for the Billionaire, Book 2: Taken by the Billionaire, Book 3: The CEO’s Toy, Book 4: Caught by the Billionaire, Book 5: Commanding Callie, Book 6: Lured, and Book 7: His Alone.
Book 1: Bought for the Billionaire
By Rachel Masters
2012 Rachel Masters. All rights reserved.
The Auction
I’m sitting in the middle of a room full of women fighting to buy a date with a billionaire, and the worst part is—I might be the one who ends up with him when the bidding is said and done.
I can’t quite believe it myself. Unfortunately for me, there are very few others in the room who can match my grandmother’s determination or the depth of her purse.
She looks over at me with an impish grin. “We’ve got this one in the bag, Tabby.”
“Please, Gran. I don’t even want to have him in my bag.”
She’s not listening to a word I say, though. Instead, I see her raising her hand for the next bid.
When I agreed to attend a charity dinner with my grandmother, I definitely didn’t consider the possibility that she’d lose her mind and give away thousands of dollars during the event’s fundraising auction. My grandmother’s mission- to ensure that I am the recipient of the auction’s grand prize- a date with a billionaire.
And not just any billionaire.
Billionaires themselves aren’t ordinary by any means. But Devon Marcus, the man sitting up on stage this very moment, rests at the top of the billionaire pyramid. It’s hard to find a piece of Los Angeles that he doesn’t have at least some stake in, and the man oozes charisma and confidence.
Most people would be slightly embarrassed standing up there while women yell and scream and stare, but not this particular gentleman. No, he acts like it’s just another day at the office..
“Sixty-two hundred! We got sixty-two hundred from the individual at table 10. Do I hear sixty-three hundred? Sixty-three hundred?” the auctioneer belts out.
Please grandma, please let this go.
I look, almost unwillingly, up at the stage once more. There he stands, seeming more like a movie star playing a rich billionaire than an actual business tycoon. While I usually find men like this pretty annoying, I can’t deny that Devon Marcus is really hot. He’s got that certain aura that only men of his stature seem to possess. His beautiful hair, radiant eyes, bronze skin… all so perfect. His chest, so perfectly wide and muscular. His clothes don’t hurt the eyes either, he could have stepped straight out of a GQ ad.
But there’s more to a man than how he looks, or at least there should be.
“Sixty-eight hundred. Sixty-eight hundred from the lady at table 21! Can I get seven thousand?” The auctioneer feeds off the pool of clamoring women in the audience.
“I’d do anything for a few hours alone with Devon Marcus,” a woman whispers to her friend at the table next to ours. I glance over and note that the woman looks like she’s had one too many boob jobs and a facelift to match.
I become fascinated with all of the women drooling over the billionaire on stage. I honestly don’t get what all the fussing’s about. Besides his astronomical bank account, he’s just a man.
And then Devon Marcus looks at me. A jolt of electricity rocks every fiber of my body. I try to maintain eye contact with all my might, but have to turn away to somewhere, anywhere.
“We got seventy-two hundred at table 14! Unbelievable! Do I hear seventy-four hundred?” the auctioneer calls out.
Maybe he wasn’t looking at me. Even if he was, it doesn’t mean that he felt what I felt. Or that he felt anything at all. And the idea of having to spend a night out with this stranger is still pretty much the last thing I want to happen.
“Ten thousand dollars!” my grandmother yells out, her voice startlingly loud for someone who can remember the Great Depression.
I survey the room and quickly begin to lose hope that my over-determined grandmother will somehow be outbid.
“Do I hear eleven?” the auctioneer asks. “Going once!”
NO.
“Going Twice!”
Please—this can’t be. All eyes have now turned in my direction.
“Sold to the very, very generous woman from table 14!”
Date Night
As I prepare myself for my night out with the billionaire, I keep telling myself that this whole thing is so silly. If it wasn’t for my grandmother, I wouldn’t be going through with any of this.
Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror, I put the finishing touches on my face, still wondering why I’m going through with this farce. In part, it’s because I don’t want to hurt Gran, and she did pay an extravagant amount of money for this occasion.
But also, I have to admit that maybe I’ve gotten too dull and locked into my routine lately.
I’ve always hated the idea of blind dates, but then again, it’s hard to meet someone working the long hours I work. I somehow got in a career rut working fifty hours a week as a paralegal, and it hasn’t exactly led to an overactive social schedule.
I take a deep breath and give myself another once-over. Hair, check. Makeup, check. Decent attempt at a classy but slightly sexy outfit, check.
No reason to be nervous. This is just a charity gig for him, and for me it’s a way to shake things up a little bit, I tell myself. I should just relax and not worry about whether or not I chose the right shade of lipstick.
I don’t care about finding the man of my dreams right now. I’m still young—I’m only twenty-five and I don’t need charity to meet Mr. Right.
Besides, I highly doubt that Mr. Right is going to walk along carrying a briefcase stuffed with cash. The only place this date can lead is nowhere.
Then why do I feel so nervous?
I hope and pray that I can remain this confident in the face of him. Or that maybe he won’t be able to find my address.
My apartment buzzer rings and crushes my hopes.
“Who is it?” I call down.
“Devon Marcus. Is this Tabitha?” His voice is kind of intimidating, just as I would have expected. But sexier than I imagined too.
“Yup, that’s me. Be right down.”
I walk down my apartment complex stairway and spot Devon Marcus through the glass entry doors. He’s wearing a dark pair of dress pants with a white button-down shirt and a sports coat. At first glance I’m actually taken aback by his looks. I’ve seen him in the newspapers and on T.V.—even up on the auction stage.
But somehow, seeing him right outside my apartment door changes everything.
He’s here, at my little tiny non-billionaire apartment complex! Devon Marcus!
I’m suddenly relieved that I took the time to wear my most becoming dress and high heels for this occasion. I walk towards my date and take yet another deep breath.
Devon takes my hand as his black Mercedes lingers in the background.
“You must be Tabitha.” His hand is warm and gentle, his voice deep and melodious. His deep blue eyes are far more alluring than I’d anticipated. I begin to understand a bit more about his reputation.
“Please, call me Tabby.” My voice doesn’t quite hold steady.
“Well then, Tabby it is. Devon Marcus.” His eyes are soft but intense as he gazes into my own.
I blush and look for an excuse to turn away, pretending to adjust my purse.
As he opens the passenger door to his car, he places his hand on the small of my back as if I need his help getting in. I can’t help but feel the electricity in my body from his touch.
His hand is warm and somehow gentle, but firm too.
On t
he way to the restaurant we make typical small talk. I feel frozen in the passenger seat of his car. His moves are so precise. I can’t help but imagine how he would be in bed. Even the way he holds the steering wheel is enticing- strong, controlled, and purposeful.
I shake my head almost imperceptibly, trying to rid myself of these thoughts.
“You okay?” he says.
“I don’t usually do blind dates.”
“Me either. We can both be nervous together,” he says, not appearing even the slightest bit anxious. It occurs to me that Devon is trying to put me at ease, and the thought stuns me.
Everything about Devon Marcus has put me off balance.
We arrive at one of L.A.’s high society French restaurants, the kind that I never imagined I would be eating at. My date pulls up to the front curb, and the valet staff stand ready, as if waiting solely for Devon Marcus. The restaurant’s manager greets us and proceeds to escort us out of Devon’s car and into the restaurant.
“Will it be the sky terrace seating tonight, Mr. Marcus?” the manager asks.
“Of course,” Devon replies curtly, as if it were a ridiculous question to ask.
We shoot up an elevator and land on the top floor of the restaurant. As we exit the elevator, I’m awed by the billionaire’s dining arrangements. We’re enclosed in an all-glass dining area. Even the ceiling is made of glass. I can see from the lone table-for-two, that this room is reserved solely for the Devon and me.
There’s no escaping this situation, but I take solace in the classical piano drifting languidly in the air, and decide that tonight might be a good night for some wine. Maybe a bottle or three.
“This room is stunning. Do you come here often?” I ask, as we’re seated.
“Often enough. How about you?” he says with a condescending grin.
“I don’t frequently get the chance,” I tell him, trying to smile.
“That’s a shame. Someone of your beauty and obvious sophistication should be treated like a queen,” he says, without a trace of irony.
“Thank you,” I finally manage.
His eyes are intent, steady, locked one me and me alone. “A glass of wine Ms. Stallings?”
“Yes. Yes please.”
The waiter takes his cue and instantly fills our glasses with perfectly chilled wine.
“Cheers, Tabby.”
“Cheers, Devon.”
The wine brings my body instant warmth and comfort. I can do this. I assure myself that I’m strong enough to survive this whole awkward ordeal.
“So you’re a paralegal, Ms. Stallings?”
“How did you know?”
“I did my research Ms. Stallings. I like to know what I’m getting myself into.”
He did a background check on me?
“What about you? What is it exactly that you do?” I ask, trying to put the pressure back on him for a moment.
He pauses and smiles, then begins speaking slowly, as if to a child. “What I do, Ms. Stallings, is asset acquisition. If there’s value to be had in something, then I would prefer to own it myself. That way I get to control anything and everything about that asset. It could be anything- a hotel, a pro football team, a foreign business venture…” He waves his hand as if none of this really even matters.
“Do you like what you do?”
“I like who I am, Ms. Stallings.”
There is a lengthy silence. I take another sip of wine to find my voice again. “Do you find it difficult to know who really likes you and who’s interested only in your wealth?”
He smiles again, but this time his smile seems more real somehow. “Oh, I don’t know. I think there’s a few other reasons someone might like me.”
“Sorry, I hope that wasn’t insulting.”
“Not at all. I find your candor refreshing.”
I can’t help but smile at his compliment. His eyes never stray from my own. And I’m pretty sure he never blinks.
“I suppose it’s hard for me to know how to talk to you. You’re just very different from other people…”
“Ms. Stallings, I’m beginning to feel like a book being judged by its cover. You never know what can happen tonight, you just might find yourself getting caught by surprise.”
The Detour
After dinner, we head back towards my apartment in Devon’s car. I’m feeling way more comfortable than I thought I would at this point in the night. The wine is a big part of it. And so was the French restaurant.
Maybe this billionaire thing isn’t so bad. I look over at my date as he’s driving; he returns a warm smile in my direction. Maybe he’s right, maybe I was judging him simply because he’s super rich and hot and powerful.
“Care to take a little detour, Ms. Stallings?” The billionaire places his hand on my knee with one hand and takes the wheel to turn off Interstate 5 with the other. Heat travels up my leg into the space between my thighs.
The gesture is shocking, but not totally unwanted, I suddenly realize. “I suppose I might be willing to be surprised again,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
Devon nods, pleased, keeping his hand on my leg as he drives.
I try to think past the wine and the ambiance of the date—past the ridiculously good looks of the man sitting beside me. Am I really ready to take the next step with Devon Marcus? I’d only be another notch on his belt, one of many.
But then his hand withdraws, as if he senses my discomfort, and I realize I’d give almost anything to feel his hands on me once more.
Just as we turn onto Rodeo Drive, it dawns on me that I’ve been taken to Beverly Hills.
He’s taking me to his house.
The thought fills me simultaneously with dread and elation.
Devon drives us through his automated wrought iron gates and over his grey stone driveway. Even in the dark Beverly Hills night, I can tell that he lives in a palace. We slowly pull into his garage, and as the doors close behind us I begin to panic. I’m trapped with Devon Marcus, and not a soul in the world knows that I’m here.
“Relax, Ms. Stallings. I’m not going to hurt you. You seemed interested in seeing my place as much as I was interested in showing you, but just say the word and I’ll take you home.”
His words are soothing to my nerves as I begin to trust him slightly more. My biggest fear is that I’m somehow falling for the billionaire’s seductive ways. I’m fully aware that the smart thing to do at this point is to simply go home. But my curious attraction pulls me in the opposite direction.
“I’d love a tour,” I say, trying to play the part of the vivacious, daring young thing that he might believe me to be.
“Good choice Ms. Stallings. I’ll give you the full tour--we can start with my house.”
And then what?
We go inside the billionaire’s house. To even call it a ‘house’ seems kind of strange to me. I’m surrounded by nothing but marble, granite, glass, and gold trim. His walls are adorned with original masterpieces. The rooms are enormous. His kitchen alone is larger than four of my apartments.
“Follow me,” he says, “I want to show you something.” The billionaire walks into a room that’s completely dark inside. “Relax Tabby. I would never hurt you,” my date says, apparently able to read my mind.
I follow him, trusting him even though I have no real reason to.
He types several numbers onto a control panel and a dim light begins to fill the room. It’s an indoor pool house enclosed in thick, luxurious glass. Even the roof is glass. I’m awed but refuse to let him know this.
“And this is the best part.” As he punches more numbers into the control panel, the entire roof begins to open up like a gigantic sunroof.
I look up to the sky and feel breathless as the moon looks down on us.
“Nice view, don’t you agree?” He says from behind me, only inches from my ear. His voice echoes with lust. It’s clear what he’s after- me. I can feel my sex center heat up.
I refuse to completely let down my gu
ard. “Is this what you work so hard for?” I say, as if not completely impressed.
He doesn’t appreciate my cynical comment, but he’s undeterred. “There are many things I’m willing to work hard for,” he says quietly. “Very hard.” He leans in even closer and whispers in my ear. “Do you have a problem with that Ms. Stallings?”
“No… I don’t.”
He gently slides my hair away from my neck. As he begins to move his finger down the side of my neck and towards the top of my breasts, I let out a small moan. The billionaire seizes the moment and squeezes my breast, firmly but still gentle enough.
The reasonable voice in my head starts to chime in.
What are you doing right now? You don’t even know this strange man. You shouldn’t be here right now.
“Devon stop. I need to go home.” Even I’m disappointed by my own words. But I’m so used to taking the safest path in life that I just can’t go through with this.
I feel completely torn. My billionaire date makes me feel more alive than I ever thought possible. Am I making a mistake?
But in the end, I just can’t trust him. How many women does he do this to? What makes me different from all of them?
“Suit yourself Ms. Stallings. I understand.”
“Thank you. It’s not you, it’s just…”
“It’s just what Ms. Stallings? I find you attractive. I’m certain you feel the same for me. But perhaps you’re not ready for this.”
What’s that supposed to mean?
As we prepare for the ride home, I enter the garage with a head full of remorse and a body left needing more.
“I’m sorry about being so old-fashioned,” I tell him, before we reach the car. “But this is all very new to me.”
“Perhaps you just need to stop trying to control this,” he says, softly.
I stop in my tracks. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”
Devon looks at me. “Of course. You clearly don’t know any other way.” He smiles. “Maybe in time.”
“Please, don’t condescend to me.” I shake my head and reach for the passenger door.
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