Burning Hearts: A Second Chance Secret Baby Romance

by Vivien Vale

  “You okay?” His voice is husky, his eyes full of lust and desire.

  I nod.

  “Fuck me, Braden, please. Fuck me now.”

  His hands move to my pussy, where they’re met with my slick juices.

  I groan and thrust my hip up toward him. I want his cock in me right fucking now. I want to fuck him so bad it hurts.

  His fingers play with my clit and tease me to the point of orgasm. The lips of my pussy are shuddering against his fingers. I don’t want to come, not just yet.

  I pull him toward me. This means he’s partly lying on me. I kiss him again. I demand entry to his mouth and explore it like I’ve never been in it before.

  His cock is pressing against my pussy. We were made for each other. Braden adjusts his position to shove his cock inside me.

  His hands are holding my hips. He slams against me. I can feel his balls hitting my skin. He thrusts deep and hard, in and out.

  I throw my head back in sheer pleasure. His hands leave my hips and grab my breasts. He massages them and keeps thrusting.

  Braden grunts, and I know he must be close to coming. I use my fingers to find my clit as he keeps thrusting in and out. I love his cock inside me and I love when his hands play with my nipples. My pussy is starting to spasm against his cock.

  Since I found out I’m pregnant, fucking Braden has become even more intense. My orgasms are even more extraordinary. It’s beyond words.

  I lift my head to look at him. His muscles are tense. I can feel his passion with each powerful thrust.

  It won’t be much longer before I come. He’s getting close, too. I can feel it.

  He slows down a little. Then he stops. His breathing is hard and fast. His lips find mine. He whispers into my ear. “You still okay?”

  The tenderness is overwhelming, and I almost cry. I nod. I may be pregnant, but I still feel the need to have him come inside me.

  “Do it, Braden. Don’t stop fucking me. I want you to come inside me,” I demand, and thrust my hips to meet him.

  Braden starts again. My fingers now dig into his back. I’m so close to the edge.

  His rhythm is increasing. I feel the orgasm build deep within me. My muscles tense just as he starts to tense up as well. We come together. Shockwave after shockwave of pleasure rips through me. I groan and moan in ecstasy. All of me is tingling with pleasure. Brandon calls out my name as his muscles start to spasm and he empties his hot cum into my pussy.

  The pleasure wave we ride is fucking unbelievable, and as he finishes, he lays down on top of me, gently.

  I kiss him on the neck. He’s breathing heavy and I feel his sweaty chest against mine.

  I wrap my arms around him, overcome with emotions.

  “I love you,” he whispers into my ear.

  “I love you, too,” I whisper back.

  I watch him grab his clothes and put on his pants again. He helps me up and his eyes linger on my little baby bump.

  “You okay, little fella?’

  I laugh. He’s going to be such an awesome father. I can feel it in my gut and heart.

  I pull my clothes back on. Life’s good. No, life’s great. Perfect.

  “Ready?” He holds out his hand and I take it. I smile at him.

  We head out the door together to go for our customary evening drive. I glance out the window before looking at Braden as he manoeuvres the car along the road.

  His skilful fingers are pure poetry in motion. I love watching him drive a car.

  We’ve come a long way. We’ve mellowed a fair bit, and I can’t wait to welcome the newest member of our family into the world. Will it be a wild child like his or her father?

  I smile. It doesn’t matter.

  I turn to Baden. “Do you miss our wild days?”

  He smiles and puts his hand on my thigh.

  “What’re you talking about? Sounds like you’re talking past tense. We’re still living our wild days, and they’re about to get wilder.”

  We both laugh and I grab a hold of his hand to give it a squeeze. Like I said, life’s absolutely perfect.

  Hard Pressed

  A Billionaire in Disguise Romance

  By Vivien Vale

  Copyright 2017 by Crimson Vixens

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work intended for adults only.

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  Xavier

  I try not to do this too much. ‘This’ being whisking people up and away, taking them to far-off lands for multicourse dinners. It’s a little too Aladdin. It’s a little much and, honestly, not the glamorous fun it seems in the movies.

  Here’s the basic truth: I drop more than a hundred grand to make people feel uncomfortable. They’re rarely enjoyably wowed. This might be my fault.

  I don’t tell people to bring their passport, bustle people into my private (but shared) plane, and get a last-minute reservation to a Michelin-starred restaurant overseas all because I love them and want more of their company.

  I do it only because I see doubt in their eyes. Or, no. It’s not doubt I see, but a look of discovery when they suddenly realize who I am is not what I seem.

  Like this one sitting across from me. Her name is Jane, but she seems like an Amber or Topaz. Someone either born into luxury or someone so hungry they grab at opportunities, determined to make one stick.

  We met at an event at a TriBecA gallery yesterday. She handed me a glass of sparkling wine and when I went to grab a cocktail napkin, she handed me her headshot folded into a sharp square, small enough to slide into my trouser pocket.

  She winked at me. I laughed. Chutzpah can be sexy, but mostly it’s annoying.

  Later, I followed her as she walked around the room with a tray full of canapés, each one capped with perfect mounds of shining caviar. When she stopped and turned to look at me, I took one and, before I popped it into my mouth, I asked if she’d get a drink with me when she got off work.

  Jane-Amber-Topaz smiled and then she nodded. She turned on her heel and walked to the back of the gallery and through the doors hidden behind a towering sculpture of a faceless man carved in onyx.

  A minute later she was next to me. She was wearing dark lipstick and her navy trench was belted tight.

  “Let’s go,” she said. I arched a brow and smiled down at her; she was tall, maybe six feet, but I’m taller still and bent slightly toward her.

  “Your boss is okay with that?” I asked, my voice low.

  “I’m hoping to convince you to be my boss,” she said.

  We left, slid into a cab. I let my hand brush her thigh.

  “This is about work,” she said, so I removed my hand and nodded, looking out the window. I brushed my hair out of my eyes and tried not to be annoyed. “Ok, let’s start with work. Which one of my businesses are you trying to break into?”

  “I’m an investigative reporter,” Jane said, “and Hard Pressed has one of the best teams working right now: the Russian dossier, the CH Jones scandal…well, I guess, I don’t have to tell you about the scoops your team has racked up over the past few years.

  I nodded curtly.

  “No,” I said, “You don’t.” Jane’s forefinger pulsed on her thigh. She was nervous, but her eyes gleamed with excitement. I asked her, “Are you good? Where have you published?”

  “Mostly in mid-market newspapers, but yeah. I’m really good. I’ll send you my clips. But also consider the facts: We didn’t just run into each other, obviously. I sought you out. I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable,” she said. She wet her lips with tip of her tongue and continued. “In order to find you, and get you to talk to me, I had to do a small investigation.”

  “You could have just made an appointment
with my assistant,” I said, feeling fascinated and wary. The air in the cab had gone still.

  “We both know you wouldn’t have seen me,” Jane said.

  The cabbie leaned on his horn. The moment broken.

  The evening went on. We didn’t talk about her investigation. I planned to leave her at the bar and head back to my apartment alone. But she was beautiful and tenacious. I found myself fascinated and curious about what she wanted to happen next.

  I listened to her talk and answered some of her questions. We both drank our bourbon neat. When the server brought the bill, I put down my black AmEx card over the bill for our drinks.

  “I’m not going to hire you,” I said. “Not like this and not for that team. You want me to admire your gall and I do—to an extent. But finding out where the CEO of a major media group will be on a Wednesday night isn’t a deep dive investigation, a two-penny PI could have done just as well.

  “On our investigative team, there are five Pulitzers between them. By asking questions and digging through thousands of files, they brought down one major bank and an online sex trafficking ring. What do you know about these kinds of investigations? You’re a cub reporter, tenacious but green.”

  Even in the dark of the bar, I could see the blood rush to her face. At first, I thought she was embarrassed, and expressing it like a kid by blushing from her toes to the roots of her hair, but as the moment stretched I realized she was furious.

  “I haven’t told you what I know about you, Stanley,” she said.

  I was getting up from the table, but sat back down when I heard her.

  “I changed my name,” I said, trying for nonchalance. “I’m not exactly the first person to do that.”

  She nodded, smiling slowly.

  “Sure, Xavier, that’s true. People change their names and you absolutely look the part of a debonair business god throwing around his black card in a dive bar in the East Village. Xavier is something else, but Stanley is…nothing much.”

  I forced a laugh.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said, taking care to keep my voice so low she had to lean slightly forward to hear me.

  A slight look of surprise flashed across her face.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  I smiled coolly.

  “To your house to grab your passport,” I said. “I assume you have one, Jane.”

  She looked me dead in the eye, and belted the last of her bourbon. A sharp nod and then she took off for the door.

  We didn’t talk much and then we both slept on the plane. I had the flight attendant bring out Dom Perignon and a bowl of caviar from the Caspian Sea. I told her to use the crystal champagne flutes.

  When sudden turbulence caused the plane to jolt, I watched Jane’s full champagne glass fly and smash against the side of the plane. I smiled and asked the flight attendant to bring her another crystal glass filled close to the rim with champagne.

  “Let’s try that again,” I said.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Rome,” I said.

  I watched her swallow the wine, the caviar in front of her untouched. She looked out her window and I, finally feeling calm, looked out mine.

  Once we landed, I deposited her in the penthouse of the Ritz. Then, later, I sent a chauffeured Rolls Royce to pick her up.

  I didn’t prepare her for the luxurious glamor of the dinner. I didn’t offer to buy her a wardrobe full of designer dresses. I was dressed impeccably, tailored suit, cufflinks, a square of silk tucked into my pocket.

  Now, she’s seated across from me in a dress that looks like it was bought in a Midwestern mall in 2003. She’s still beautiful, but she’s lost her cocksure attitude.

  “You’re not eating, Jane,” I remark, taking a sip of the rare vintage I ordered for us. “Is it okay? Should we call the chef over?”

  “It’s perfect,” she says, a note of bitterness obvious.

  I incline my head.

  She picks up her fork and puts it down again.

  “You’ve made your point, Xavier,” she says.

  I lift my eyes to hers.

  “Let me be very clear, little girl,” I say. “You may think you know me and understand some part of who I am or where I’ve come from. You learned I came from a small town, was raised by a single-mother. You might know every facet of my life, but I am and will always be more than you are: smarter, richer, more powerful, more accomplished. If you cross me, threaten me, follow me, I will—” here I pause and lean back in my chair for effect, “crush you.”

  I watch her wilt. I feel both shame and satisfaction.

  “Now,” I say, dabbing my lips with the napkin. “We have a few minutes before the plane will be ready to take us back home, should we get dessert?”

  I watch her as she lifts her head and squares her shoulders.

  “Whatever you like, Xavier.”

  Back on my plane, she’s staring out the window while I’m smiling to myself.

  Allie

  I’m not sure why I’m here again, sitting on the black leather chair in this stuffy, cramped waiting room. The guy sitting at the back of the room looks like the receptionist, but he isn’t.

  His name is Brock, a douchey name for a douchey guy. He’s the youngest talent agent in this three-person outfit and the one who didn’t get a private office with a door. Everyone who walks in and treats him as if he might be helpful in connecting them with another agent in the office is rudely and pointedly ignored.

  Or, if he’s in a playful mood, he looks you up and down and says something like: “My clients are all animals, but I might make an exception for you and your horse’s face” or “you and your bullfrog’s mouth” or “sloth’s hands” or “hippo’s grace” or “cow’s titties” or whatever animal part comes to his mind in the moment.

  The poor person who makes the mistake of thinking he’s a decent human being, mostly innocent teenage girls, blink stupidly at him, and then sink into the other chair in the room to wait for their actual agent to stick their head from behind the door and call their names.

  The smart ones, however, turn and take off, speeding out the door.

  You better run, I always think, but Brock never acknowledge their reactions and goes back to barking into the mouth piece on his headset.

  In all my years, sitting in this chair in front of his desk, I’ve never seen him meet with a client himself or close a deal. He must do something, though, because I’ve noticed his clothes have stopped hanging off his body. He looks like a man who eats good food regularly and he carries himself like a man who has a trainer, a masseuse, and a tailor.

  I know all this about Brock because I sit here forgotten for hours by my agent, Cheri. I know all this because years ago I was the green and hopeful kid, still sporting my cheerleader-perfect ponytail.

  The first morning I walked into this place, I was going to meet with my agent—my agent!—for the first time. I’d tied a red ribbon in my hair that morning, but before I opened the door of my car to walk into the building, I changed my mind. I pulled off the ribbon and slipped it into my black Longchamp bag, a present from my aunt on my nineteenth birthday.

  That was years ago—how many? Seven? Ten? Who knows. That was the last promising day of my career. Since then I’ve wasted days of my life on this black plastic chair watching people walk past me with big confident smiles and leave with watery eyes.

  Those of us who are veterans of this life will nod at each other. I’ve watched so many of them change from having that snappy walk of an eager dreamer to the more measured clipped movement of the determined, to the resigned forward motion of the person trapped in a tortured loop.

  There’s nothing glamorous about this life.

  Today, for example, I’ve been waiting for an hour and forty minutes to see a woman who won’t look me in the eye for the whole of our 15-minute meeting. She won’t waste her words on me or help me when I tell her that I haven’t worked as an actor in months. I’ll tell
her that I’m starting to lose my will to go on.

  I’ll tell her in no uncertain terms, that I wish I was with an agent who took time to work with me or send me to auditions for interesting roles, and she’ll nod along, all the while shifting piles of papers from the left side of her desk to the right. A headset will hang around her neck and she’ll smell like Chanel and stale cigarettes, and I’ll leave without a job and get into my car and drive to Eastern High School where I’ll put in a few hours as the assistant cheer coach.

  I shift in my chair and the plastic sticks to the back of my legs. I’ve been here too long, I think. I’m hungry and will be late for practice, so I grab the handle of the old Longchamp bag and get up just as Cheri sticks her head out the door and says, “Allie?”

  I lift my hand in greeting, but it feels like sign of defeat. She opens the door a little wider, enough for me to slip around the door into the room filled to bursting with boxes and papers. She gestures at the chair.

  “It’s good to see you,” she says to me, but doesn’t look up from her computer screen.

  “You too,” I say flatly.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Well, I wanted to ask you,” I say, bending forward with my elbows on my knees trying to get her attention, while glancing at the computer screen.

  “Uh-huh,” she says. “Go on.”

  “I haven’t been out for a real audition for a while. It’s been more than two months. The last one was for the commercial for the body spray, remember? Remember, I was allergic to the spray and broke out into hives? Ruined my chances to go out for anything for weeks, but I’m better now.”

  I pitch my voice lighter and say lamely, “Look at me; hive-free!”

  Cheri doesn’t look at me. She speaks a “ha” sound, because it was a lame joke but she can’t be bothered to pretend to laugh.

  “Anyway,” I push on. “Is there anything else? Anything at all? I need to work—things are a little tight right now.”

  The noise of keyboard keys being tapped grates on my already frayed nerves.

  “I’m just checking something,” she says to me. “There was something I saw and thought of you right away. Ah, yes, here it is.”