Lust Muscle: A Billionaire Revenge Romance

by Alexis Angel

  Yeah, you fucking guessed it. The blonde goddess that I saw last week.

  We get upstairs and the music is a bit more subdued.

  Yasmine slides over to me, rapidly erasing any personal space that I may have had. But I don’t mind. I wrap my arms around her back and squeeze her ass.

  “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time, Arsen,” she coos. “I knew you were coming tonight. You’ve been here every night. But ever since you had Sophie and Heather, you haven’t taken any other girl. I think I know why.”

  Maybe this is going to be my lucky night. Does Yasmine know?

  That explains it! She didn’t want to fuck me, but that’s what she had to make it look like to the other girls.

  Jesus, I’ll never figure women out, you know?

  “You’re done with those girls, aren’t you, baby?” Yasmine asks. I don’t know why, but I nod.

  “You need someone who’s finally caught your eye, don’t you?” she asks. Fuck, she’s on the money.

  “You need someone who will treat you just right,” Yasmine says.

  She couldn’t be more clued in if she tried.

  “You know where I can find her?” I ask and Yasmine smiles. Her hand comes to rest on my crotch.

  Wait a fucking second!

  “What do you mean, babe?” Yasmine asks, a glint in her eyes. But I’m too caught up and I don’t pay attention.

  “I think she was what? 5’ 7”. Blonde hair. Body like a goddess. Last time I saw her was ten days ago, the night I had Sophie and Heather up here,” I tell Yasmine.

  Stifling a look of disappointment, Yasmine backs off.

  “That’s where I saw her for the first time, and then I actually shared a cab with her, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to her much,” I say.

  Yeah, I’m a fucking asshole because Yasmine looks completely fucking disappointed. I guess she really did want to fuck me tonight, huh?

  But you know what? I’m going to be the first one to admit that in reality I am a fucking asshole. I got nothing to fucking hide. So there. I’ll be completely honest about it with you as to who I am.

  I mean, I’m sorry if it hurts your feelings, but would you rather I lie?

  “You’re talking about Ashley,” Yasmine says quietly.

  So this Stripper Goddess has a name! Finally.

  “Is she working tonight?” I ask her.

  “She doesn’t work here anymore,” Yasmine says and I think I see a glint of pleasure at the total look of devastation that wracks my face. "Her stage name is Misty, but her real name is Ashley Lane. Don't tell anyone that I told you."

  Just my fucking luck. The one woman I obsess about ends up being the one who doesn’t work here anymore.

  But Yasmine has a heart of gold, because her next words are, “She started working at Simulated Pleasures last week.”

  Fucking bingo!

  Good thing I didn’t sell that place yet.

  First thing tomorrow, I’m stopping by there and finding out how to get ahold of this girl.

  I rush over and kiss Yasmine on the lips.

  Hell, I break it off before she wants more. I know what I do to women. And I don’t want to go down that road now with anyone but Stripper Goddess. Wait. I mean Ashley.

  “Thank you so fucking much, Yasmine,” I say and she just looks at me in a daze as I rush down the stairs.

  I got to get ready for tomorrow.

  It’s going to be a great fucking day. I can feel it.

  Ashley

  It's been exactly one week of taking calls and I've learned a few things: never ask permission questions, never asked if they're married, and hot girls aren't bored. So when the phone rings, I immediately snap into character. I lower my voice almost to a whisper. I finger the lace of my bra—Agent Provocateur—and then run my hands up my stockings. I know some people can do this job while they're washing the dishes, or mopping the floor or something, but for me, I have to be all in. I can't multi-task. I think it should feel authentic, and wearing the heels and lingerie instantly gets me into character. I even turn down the lights. I find that the darker the room is, the more I can focus on the voice on the other end of the line.

  I answer the call and sit back on my bed. I whisper in a soft, sultry voice. The secret is to keep your voice smooth as a stick of butter. "Hi, this is Misty. Who am I speaking with?"

  I hear a man clear his throat. "Mike."

  I wait for more but it doesn't come. "That's my favorite name for a man," I purr, urging him on. "You sound strong and handsome."

  "You can say I'm strong. I work construction—concrete pump operator."

  "Oh that's good because I could use a few pumps of your hot concrete. I'm so glad you called. My neighbors have been fucking all day and listening to them has made me so horny…"

  "That makes two of us," he says.

  "And I've got a secret to tell you. I'm not wearing any underwear."

  "Is that right?" he replies, and I can almost hear a smile in the way he asks.

  "I've been so horny. I can hardly stand it. I haven't had sex all day and it feels like forever. I have myself so worked up and hot that I'm lying in front of a fan, and the cold air is making my nipples hard. Do you like hard nipples, Mike?"

  "Mm hmm," he mumbles, and I continue.

  "What kind of girls do you like?"

  "Young, blonde, and busty," he says without hesitation.

  "Well, you're in luck. I'm 18, and I have long, blonde hair that goes down to my tiny waist. I wish you were here with me right now," I say, just above a whisper, and Mike lowers his voice as well.

  "What would you do to me?" he asks, as if it were a shared conspiracy.

  "Oh Mike, I'd make sure my lips touched every manly inch of you. I'd start by nibbling on your ear—playfully, but then I'd get more serious and move my lips down to your neck and I'd touch your strong chest—I can tell you have a strong chest just by your voice. And I'd run my tongue over your nipples, circling them a few times."

  "And what else?" he asks.

  "I'd let my mouth move down your body even further, my tongue resting in the deep V above the waistband of your pants. I can even taste the salt on your skin and it leaves me wanting more—so much more."

  "Is your pussy wet?" he asks.

  "Oh yes, you make me so wet. I'm soaking wet—it's your voice, your body—you have me so turned on, Mike. My pussy is throbbing for you. I'm in the mood to fuck."

  "Cut or uncut cocks?" he asks.

  "I love all cocks."

  "What would you do to my cock?"

  "I'd unbutton your jeans after you've had a hard day at work, and I'd slip my hand over your cock. Both of my hands would work their way up and down your shaft until you're nice and hard and then I'd place my lips on it. First kissing the tip, and then slowly basting it with my warm, wet tongue, moving up and down your manhood."

  "Mm hmm, I like that," he says.

  "But I wouldn't stop there. I'd wrap my lips around your cock so tightly and take you deep into my throat. I'd take it so deep that I might gag. Would you like it if I gagged on your cock?"

  He doesn't answer, but I can hear him breathing heavier, so I continue.

  "Do you like it when I suck on your cock like this?"

  "Yes—mm hmm—more," he answers at a whisper…or is it a whimper?

  "Good, because your cock tastes so good. I can hardly stand it," I say, and I can hear him jerking himself off—skin slapping skin.

  "Mike, my pussy is so wet—I want to ride your cock. I want you to give it to me. I'm going to straddle your lap and lower my pussy onto your thick, hard shaft with my breasts in your face. I want you to take my nipples into your mouth."

  Then I hear Mike coming, his breathing overtaking the conversation, so I decide to enact my own climax as a spectacular finale.

  When his breathing slows, he asks, "Can I get your phone number?"

  "Oh Mike, I'm so flattered, but my dad would kill me if I gave out my number. I'm stil
l in high school. I'm 18, remember? Let me give you my four-digit calling code so you can call me again in private."

  He agrees, somewhat reluctant, and we end the call. I lie back and stare at the ceiling. Yasmine is right, I think to myself. This is much better than stripping. At least I can use my imagination during these calls. At Scorcher's, what you saw is what you got. There's no masking the fact that you're on a stage being judged. But during these calls, the people on the other end of the line have to use their imaginations too—which is also great because it eliminates my old routine —waxing, makeup, manicures, pedicures, and you name it.

  I think about putting on a pair of yoga pants and heading to the gym, but then my eye travels to the stack of bills piling up next to my bed. Shit. Unlike Scorcher's, this job also doesn't leave me with cash in hand every night. I better go pick up my paycheck from the phone sex company headquarters, Simulated Pleasures LLC.

  I quickly dress and hail a cab outside. When I tell the driver where I'm going, he gives me an odd look. Is it a look of judgment, or something else? I can't tell. I decide to ignore it and place my ear buds into my ears and stream music through my phone, drowning out the outside world.

  After 20 minutes, the cab pulls up to a large, non-descript white building. If it weren't for the address, I'd never know that this is the headquarters for one of the largest phone sex companies in the country. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. I'm still listening to my music, and decide to leave my ear buds in. I hand the driver the money and give him a curt smile. As soon as I leave the cab, I walk toward the building, rounding a corner.

  And then I feel it—like taking a bowling ball to my back. I'm struck in the back and I try to turn around but my arms are pinned behind my back. Without my hands, I can't remove my ear buds or stop the music streaming through my phone, so it's impossible to hear what's going on around me. I'm screaming and thrashing my head from side to side, and the movement causes the ear bud on my right side to fall out. I can now feel a man's hot breath on my neck, "Shut up! Just shut up right now!" He's placing his hands over my mouth, muffling out my screams, and I bite down as hard as I can. It's my only option and it's instinctual. I feel the flesh of his fingers pinched between my teeth, and that's when he hits me; he hits me hard enough on my head to shut me up. I'm feeling dazed, but when I finally get a look at the man's face, I'm shocked.

  "Peter?"

  "Shut up! Just shut the fuck up! You want to humiliate me on Facebook live and then ignore all of my calls for a week? Well, I'll show you what I'm going to do about that!"

  The look in his eyes is one of pure rage and a battered ego. I'm also surprised at his strength. He was never one to work out much, and I attributed his soft body to weakness, but he's stronger than I anticipated. It's shocking, really. Without saying another word, he brings his hands around my neck and squeezes. I place my hands on top of his, trying to pry them loose, but it's not working. I can feel myself running out of breath and in a tiny voice I manage to squeak, "You're hurting me, stop!"

  And just when my entire world starts to fade to black, he stops. I can't believe it. I open my eyes just in time to see another man between us now. He's big—tall, muscular, and broad shouldered. He's not the kind of guy you want to fuck with, and I watch as his fist crashes into Peter's face, breaking his nose.

  "If I ever see you around here again, I'll fucking kill you," he growls, clenching Peter by the collar of his shirt, and when he lets go, Peter turns around and runs, not bothering to look back.

  "Are you okay?" the man asks.

  As he looks down at me, I get the vague feeling that I know him from somewhere. I'm rubbing my throat and besides being emotionally rattled, I'm fine. "I want to thank you—what you did—most people wouldn't get involved, but you saved my life." When I finish talking, I look into the man's eyes again, and I realize where I know those intense icy blues from—the cab ride from the club.

  "Wait… I've seen you somewhere," I say. "You're the guy who tried to steal my cab outside of the club the other night."

  "It was an emergency. I don't normally jump into other people's cabs."

  "Look, I appreciate your help but I have to go."

  "Wait. I'd like to take you to dinner, I—"

  "I'm sure you're a nice guy and all, but I hope you'll understand that I'm in no mood to be setting up a dinner … not after my ex-boyfriend just tried to murder me."

  "Forget him. He no longer matters. Just say yes."

  I look at him—his eyes the color of perfect weather, his strong, broad shoulders, and gentle smile—and even though I'm feeling bruised and frazzled, and I promised myself I'd never go out on a date with a man who frequents a place like Scorcher’s, I surprise myself and say yes.

  Arsen

  With a last look in the mirror I close the locker door and head out of the locker room at the New York Athletic Club. Sure, it’s filled with the same fucking fancy people that I spoke to at the Met—some of these people are still scandalized that I’m in their precious little club of theirs. But guess what? I’m now worth at least $5 billion dollars. If I want to go around joining all the most exclusive clubs in Manhattan, I have the money to buy my way in. They don’t. They’re sitting on their piles of fucking reputation and fake integrity that’s as hollow as a fucking clam shell. Probably got their house mortgaged five times over and a mountain of fucking debt. They’re probably just hoping that they die before the bill comes due so everyone will at least think they’re prosperous and dignified now. Who the fuck cares once they’re dead, right?

  Well, fuck that. I told you once before when I was with Yasmine at Scorcher's and I’m telling you again. I’m always going to be fucking honest with you. You may not like what I have to say or how I say it, but I don’t give a fuck.

  I hand my gym bag over to the attendant at the bar, who takes it to the cloakroom.

  “I have a young lady who will be meeting me outside the Club,” I tell the maître d and he nods and proceeds to go check.

  That’s right. I figured what better way to put Ashley at ease than by asking her to have a drink with me while we’re surrounded by a bunch of rich old men. Oh right. Let me clue you in on a few things. Gorgeous Stripper from Scorcher's whom I rescued a few days back—her name is Ashley Lane. Used to work at Scorcher's but literally, it was her last day working on the first day I met her. Now she works at Simulated Pleasures as a phone sex operator. She has no fucking idea who I am or the fact I own the whole fucking thing. And honestly, I’m not in any mood to tell her.

  Just seeing me in the gym would've made you laugh hysterically. There I was with my tattoos squatting hundreds of pounds. Benching the weight of some people. And these ancient men, with their big egos out in the real world just stared at my physique as they walked on a treadmill. Each of them looked at me jealously. And when I went to shower, I knew all eyes were on me. Well on me, and my fucking foot long pleasure stick. It dangled from my crotch like a sex snake.

  If you’re rolling your eyes at me thinking it’s fucking lazy that I invited a girl to have a drink with me at my gym, then you can fucking stop. The New York Athletic Club is more than just a fucking gym. It's got 2 bars, 3 dining rooms, a drawing room, 3 libraries, hotel rooms to spend the night, and two formal ballrooms for events.

  It’s also got a swimming pool, gym, shooting range, and fucking art gallery. A fucking art gallery. So yeah, you could say that it might be a fucking nice place to take a girl on a date. Especially if it’s a private fucking club that she normally wouldn’t have admission to.

  “Your lady friend is waiting in the lobby, Mr. Hawke,” the maître d informs me and I nod my head and walk out toward the foyer. Yes, I’m hurrying. Because I want to fucking see her, okay? Told you I’m honest.

  And Jesus fucking Christ, this girl does not fucking disappoint. She’s standing there in a black dress that’s tight without being indecent. It ends just above the knees. She’s got stockings and black heels on. Her h
air is made and she’s got makeup on and it makes her look fucking sexy.

  I feel my cock twitch just by looking at her fucking gorgeous body. The way those slender legs are holding up her frame. I want to suck them one at a time until she squeals. That waist. Fuck, that ass. The dress is just tight enough to hug her curvy ass and I want to take each ass cheek in each hand and fucking squeeze them. God fucking dammit. Those fucking tits. Her dress ends in a wraparound strapless top but it showcases those marvelous tits like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

  “The way you’re looking at me, its like you’ve forgotten what I look like naked,” she says to me with a smile as she walks up to me. She hesitates and I decide for her, leaning in and kissing her on the cheek. I can smell her perfume. It’s intoxicating.

  “It’s like seeing you for the first time,” I tell her. You notice what I did? I didn’t fucking swear. See? I can be fucking civil if I need to.

  “Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Hawke,” she tells me with a teasing smile.

  “Then what about vodka?” I ask, taking her hand and walking her into the bar that I came from. “Because this place makes the best dirty martinis in New York City.”

  Ashley gasps as she sees the interior. Yeah, this is how the fucking other half lives all right. The bar is fucking plush. The wood at the bar is polished to perfection.

  And literally every fucking face turns to the two of us. To the son of the smut lord and the fucking gorgeous woman on his arm. Women stare at us hungrily, and their husbands look at me jealously. Fuck ‘em.

  “Let’s get a table?” I ask Ashley, but I’m not really fucking asking because I lead her over and sit her down.

  “It’s a nice place,” Ashley says as she looks around. “I’m surprised.”

  “Surprised that I would come here?” I ask.

  “Surprised that you’re going through the effort,” she says and smiles at me. “Oh don’t get me wrong. I totally appreciate it and love the fact that we’re on a real date.”