Playboy in a Suit (Cockiest Suits Book 2)

by Alex Wolf

  Brodie: Coming out tonight? Jaxson reserved the VIP room at that new club.

  Weston: I’ll be there.

  Tossing my phone on my bed, I finish toweling off and put some deodorant on.

  Once I get dressed I head into the kitchen to heat up one of the meals Karen, my housekeeper, left before taking the weekend off. I fucking hate when New Year’s Eve falls on a Sunday. It means everything shuts down Monday for the holiday and it assfucks my whole week.

  Digging into my chicken and vegetables, I look at the empty chairs around my table.

  Being thirty-four, most people expect me to be married—settled down in the suburbs with kids. Fuck that. I’m in my prime and love single life in the city.

  Sure, I’ve had my share of flings, but I don’t do girlfriends. I don’t do love. I like to fuck, and I like them to leave. It’s efficient and drama-free, usually. The arrangements work perfectly for me. I rent a room and get my rocks off. There’s no talking about how our day went or sitting through shitty movies to get to the prize.

  I don’t have time for mundane shit, nor do I feel like doing anything I don’t want to do. I don’t need to know that a woman’s cat has allergies or that her hairstylist is a gossip.

  Unlike Pike, I know how to separate my dick from my work. Which is another reason most of my assistants hate me. They see me, a young attractive man with a stable career who is unattached, and they think they can trap me. They think working in close-quarters means maybe I’ll fall in love if I just get to know them.

  There’s only one problem with their theory. I don’t want to get to know them. All I need them to do is fetch my coffee and run my errands. Occasionally pick up my dry cleaning. It’s simple.

  Finishing my meal, I toss out the leftovers and rinse my plate before sticking it in the dishwasher.

  Glancing at the clock, I go back to my room and fire off a text to Rick, my driver, to bring the car around front.

  When I exit the building, he’s waiting. Like I said, efficiency.

  Brooke

  Come on. It’s New Year’s Eve for crying out loud.” Misty screeches through the speaker on my phone.

  “I can’t. I’m still recovering from the vacation from hell.” I stretch out on my couch with a bowl of popcorn watching a Twilight movie marathon. Jacob is about to turn into a werewolf, and I’m going to sit right here and debate which team I’m on.

  I let out an aggravated huff and take a sip of my water.

  “We’re not even thirty. Get off your ass. You can’t be a crazy cat lady until you’re thirty-five, at least.”

  Running my fingers through Casper’s fur, I laugh lightly. He looks up at me as though he takes offense to her tone.

  He purrs as I scratch behind his ears. At least Casper is loyal. Unlike my ex-boyfriend, Sean. He blamed his cheating with my former roommate on my job. Said I cared more about my work than I did our relationship. Maybe he was right. I don’t know.

  My life seems to revolve around my profession. I love my job, but Sean was right, I don’t know how to shut that part of me down as often as I should.

  “I got us a table at that new club. You know what I had to do to get Mr. Pike to get me this table? Please?” She draws the word out.

  Mr. Pike is her silver fox asshole of a boss.

  “No, and don’t tell me.” Misty and her boss have a special relationship. Meaning she’s his plaything, sidepiece, whatever the kids call it these days. I don’t know why she works for the man—I really don’t—but she’s a big girl. She can take care of herself. Not my concern.

  She can deny it all she wants but I know she’s in love with him.

  “Meet you there in like an hour?” Her voice is desperate, a pleading tone.

  Ugh. I hold my phone from my ear and look at the time. In Misty speak that means more like two hours which would give me time to get ready, if I was going out.

  I do have a hot little red dress I’ve yet to wear and the perfect shoes to match.

  Hmm.

  “I didn’t hear a no.” Her voice is nasal and singsongy.

  “If I say yes, will you stop talking like that?”

  “Maybe.” She does the voice thing again.

  “Fine. Text me the address and don’t be late.”

  “I promise.”

  She’s full of shit and I’ll be sitting at the table drinking alone for at least two songs before she shows up.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Yay!” She squeals in my ear before the line goes dead.

  Clicking the power button on the TV off, I move Casper from my lap and put a lid over my popcorn bowl to save it for tomorrow night.

  That red dress hanging in my closet screams my name.

  When I get inside the club, it’s filled with people wearing New Year’s party hats and dressed to the nines. The bar’s jam-packed, and the waitresses appear to be running their legs off for the private party going on in the VIP section that sits up a flight of stairs and overlooks the club. I’m twenty-eight. I should be living it up like the group up there. Maybe I will, for one night, anyway. I deserve it.

  I’m married to my job because I love it. I’m an attorney on retainer for a women’s non-profit. I represent women who can’t afford someone on their own. I know I can’t save the world, but I try.

  Maybe it’s time I put myself back out there again. It’s been nearly six months since I ended things with Sean and moved into my new apartment on my own.

  Closing my eyes, I take a moment to let all my worries go. Tonight, I need to cut loose. It’s almost a new year and the air seems full of possibilities. Smiling to myself as my mind clears, I move to the music, swaying my hips with the beat.

  Right now, I don’t care that Misty’s late. I don’t care that there will probably be ten new cases on my desk when I return to the office on Monday.

  Right here, right now—there is just me and the music.

  “Fuck me, that dress would look fantastic on my floor.” An oddly familiar voice growls in my ear and a hand slides around my waist from behind, pulling me into a solid chest.

  Woodsy cologne envelops me, and I shake my head.

  I know who it is without looking.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Out of all the bars in Dallas, fate has delivered the asshole from the cab.

  “Weston?” I don’t look back, and hope to God it’s him or I’ll feel ridiculous.

  I haven’t been able to stop thinking about his cocky smile and that heart-piercing dimple, ever since he disappeared from the cab. I can practically feel his smirk burning a hole in the back of my head.

  “I made an impression. What are you drinking?”

  Normally I’d smart off, but I do need a drink. Besides, I need to kill some time until Misty arrives. “Whatever you’re having.”

  He clears his throat, and I turn around to face him. I think he was expecting a snarky remark, and his face actually looks a little disappointed.

  “Champagne in the VIP room. Want to join me?”

  Is that hope I see sparkling behind his dark eyes?

  “Okay.”

  “Seriously? That’s it?”

  “Nope. It’s New Year’s Eve and a time for new beginnings. Why don’t we start over?” I smile and hold my hand out. “I’m Brooke.”

  He grabs my hand and electricity shoots straight to my pussy when he smiles, exposing that dimple I spent a good part of the night dreaming about. “Weston.” He gives me a side eye.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know how I feel about this yet.” He wags a finger up and down my body.

  “I thought you liked the dress?”

  “I’d like what’s underneath more.”

  And, we’re back.

  “I’m sure you would. I could use an errand boy to take it to the dry cleaners for me.”

  “That’s better, cab girl.” He grins.

  “Can I call you Wes?” I stare into those dark eyes and everything and everyone around us
seems to freeze. It’s like we’re the only two people standing here while the rest of the night blurs past. Only a minute has passed but it feels like forever.

  “No.”

  “So, about that champagne you were going to fetch me?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

  He doesn’t let go of my hand, simply moves his other to the small of my back and leads me to the velvet rope that gates the stairs to the VIP area. His hand is like fire, just inches from my ass, and I think I might combust.

  He nods at the bouncer who lets us through.

  As we approach the tables where his group is seated, a few of the girls flash me nasty looks. Guess they think I took him off the market for the night. I ignore them. I’m only using Weston to occupy time until my friend arrives.

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  SHAGGED

  I don’t like people.

  I avoid them whenever possible.

  They always want something from me whether it’s money or attention.

  My ten-figure net worth isn’t the product of being what people would consider a “nice guy.”

  When I see something I want—I take it.

  I’ve been called an asshole more times than I can count, and I don’t care.

  Caring about things makes you vulnerable, and vulnerable is the last thing I’ll ever be.

  Until Christina walks in and threatens the foundation of my life with her tight little body, sassy mouth, and soft curves.

  She doesn’t put up with my sh*t.

  She makes me human.

  I fight the attraction.

  But, there’s one problem…

  I have to have her.

  And I will have her.

  Chapter 1

  Matthew Spencer was a man who had it all.

  He woke up to the sound of fake birds chirping and artificial sunrise creeping up his wall. It was a program on his phone, designed specifically for that purpose.

  He ran a rough, calloused hand through his hair and sighed contentedly. His eyes blinked open, focusing on the golden sun that slowly climbed to his left.

  Another beautiful day of being me.

  The rich aroma of his morning coffee wafted into his nose and he sniffed, then rolled over in bed, feeling quite rested and rejuvenated. Matty knew his morning routine by heart. He would get up at his own leisure, have a cup of coffee, eat a healthy breakfast prepared by his personal chef and nutritionist, and then maybe he’d consider starting work. Maybe.

  His phone switched on using the same system that handled his alarm routine. It buzzed with an influx of text messages and missed calls.

  Matty Spencer was a popular man. He was a loved man. But he was also a busy man, and he was not about to leap out of bed for anyone.

  They knew his phone was off all night. If it was important, they could come to him. They didn't need his attention. They just wanted it.

  Although being loved was a rewarding feeling, to Matty, it was also very tiring. He was not a machine, made to constantly please others. He was aware of how desperately they clung to him for his wealth and connections.

  The phone lit up again and rattled against the nightstand. He sighed and tensed up. It was as if he were under attack.

  He glanced at the phone and decided to scroll through. His mother and a couple of friends had tried to call him. The jingling-coins ringtone told him that he’d received a message from one of the countless gold-digging sluts on his booty-call list. He snickered at that.

  They all thought he was unaware of their intentions. He laughed at how foolish they were, knowing that he could play people the way they tried to play him. For all the people he despised and had to be polite to, there were hundreds more willing to grovel at his feet. He knew it was wrong to enjoy this, but he didn't care. Why should he put up with all the responsibilities of being wealthy and popular if he couldn't enjoy the perks?

  As his body acclimated to the day, he rose and scrolled through more of his messages. Thank God he kept separate phones, one personal and one business. He couldn't imagine digging through the pile of shit trying to find an important memo from a client or partner.

  Good morning texts from countless numbers who didn't even have names attached to them came through like clockwork. Sexts from three different girls—two with pictures. He didn’t ignore those.

  A message from his mother consisted of three hundred emojis and a cat picture. A few were friends begging for handouts. And, of course, one girl throwing a hissy fit because he’d rejected her the previous night.

  It wasn't his fault he wasn't always in the mood for her. Sometimes he wanted someone else.

  If there was one thing that Matty Spencer knew, it was the fact that he was an asshole. He wasn’t so deluded as to believe that everyone liked him, or that he couldn't try harder—that he shouldn't be better, but at the end of the day, he knew he didn’t have to be. It was good enough to be a billionaire, have every girl he reached for, and to be respected and admired.

  When he was younger, he’d often cared what others thought of him. He’d done everything he could to please them. It’d only taken being ripped off twice to realize that you couldn’t be a pushover in this world. From then on, he’d lived only for himself. At thirty-one, that philosophy had yet to fail him.

  He dropped his phone on the floor and walked to the window, pressing a button and watching the screen roll up. A beautiful view of the London skyline appeared in front of him. He nodded and smiled, pleased with the day, before wandering over to the other side of the room where his coffee would be ready.

  He sipped it. Perfect aroma, perfect taste, and perfect temperature. Modern technology was a wonderful thing, coordinating his mornings for him. He streamlined everything in his life to suit his needs. And to think that he’d funded and co-developed all the programs which made his house run so seamlessly. No doubt his shower would be ready to begin, his chef would’ve just received the message to prepare his breakfast, and his maids received an alarm telling them his bed would need to be made. Most mornings he didn't even have to think actual thoughts until eleven or twelve. It was beautiful.

  His business phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. A loud tone, immediately associated with one person. His secretary at his office. She knew not to contact him unless strictly necessary. Sighing, he called out to his robotic assistant on his phone. “Mia, answer call.”

  Emilia Hernandez's voice came through crystal clear as though she were standing next to him in the room. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Spencer. I’m sure it’s some misunderstanding, but—”

  “It's fine. What is it?” He took another sip of his coffee.

  “The partners from Watanabe Corp are here. The agenda does say you have a meeting with them.”

  “When? It's not on my planner.” He scrolled through his daily tasks.

  “About an hour ago. I tried to get hold of you, but it went straight to voicemail.”

  “Shit, I must have synced it with my personal one.” Matty groaned. “I don't see any appointment listed.”

  “Well, they’re in the office, and they’re pretty angry. I can try and stall, but it’s probably best if you get down here.”

  He groaned and straightened up. “Tell them my cat died this morning. I’m distraught. They'll buy it.” Matty snickered to himself. Even the rich were idiots sometimes.

  “Of course. Anything else?”

  “Nope. Mia, end call.”

  As soon as the phone shut off, Matty said, “Mia, call Mr. Johannes. I need to rearrange some things.”

  He grabbed his clothes as Mia connected him.

  This inconvenience perturbed Matty. He was a busy man—not a rushed-off-his-feet, nine-to-fiver. He didn't have to get up at six, and had no desire for a morning commute—but he was busy all the same. The thought of an eight-hour workday vexed him to no end. He’d carefully structured his life to avoid these types of circumstances, and his foolproof system had failed him.r />
  He ran a vast company selling smart-home solutions, about to enter trade with one of the biggest app developers in the world, and his own system had let him down and caused him to be late.

  “Yes, Mr. Spencer,” said Mr. Johannes, as soon as he picked up. “How may I help you?”

  Matty shrugged on his button-down and moved to the mirror, running a pre-warmed brush with a light layer of gel through his hair. “Is Terrence here? I’m running late for a meeting. I need a ride.”

  “Terrence has the day off, Mr. Spencer.”

  Matty’s jaw clenched. He didn’t enjoy inefficient conversations. When he made a statement, he expected a solution. Not a fact. “Well, who is on duty?”

  He could practically feel Johannes wince on the other end of the line.

  “Nobody, I’m afraid, Sir. There are no chauffeurs available until tomorrow.”

  Matty scrubbed a hand through his hair and thoroughly disheveled it. He swore under his breath and ran the comb through it again. “We’re in London. I’m positive there is someone in this city that is capable of driving.”

  “Of course, Sir. I shall call in a new chauffeur immediately. We should have one by twelve.”

  “Twelve?” Matty groaned and his fingers tightened around the brush. “A fucking taxi would be faster than that. I needed to be at the office an hour and a half ago.”

  “I shall call Terrence and pay him triple to come to work right away. But that will nevertheless take at least forty minutes. Considering your present predicament, a taxi may be the fastest option.”

  Matty paused.

  Could he wait for a taxi? Or for Terrence to arrive? No. This deal was important. Not vital, but important. It would help his company. It would make an exorbitant amount of money. Fuck it, he'd drive himself. “I'm driving. Leave the keys to the Lambo by the front door.”

  “Of course, Sir. Anything else before I attend to that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Very well, Sir.”

  Matty took a quick glance in the mirror, flew down the hall, and out the front door. Standing in the street, holding his keys, he glanced around. It didn’t take a genius to realize something was seriously wrong.