Falling for my Dirty Uncle: A Virgin and Billionaire Romance

by Alexis Angel

  But for now, I’ll have to find an alternative.

  I toss my phone on the grey marble kitchen counter and head towards my master bathroom.

  I’ve only just moved in, but one of the first things I arranged was to have furniture. And I made sure it fit my new CEO lifestyle—bold and luxurious.

  This is where I take after my mother, in some respects. Really, I just like to have nice things.

  I don’t think that’s a bad trait to take on, though, considering I could’ve inherited a few others of hers that I still cringe at.

  The sun shines through the floor-to-ceiling windows in my living room, and I pivot my direction so that I can move the velvet cream curtains to either side to make room for more light. I love when the light hits the gold and crystal chandelier; it makes it sparkle, and the reflections on the wall shine like diamonds.

  I stare at the twinkling crystals, almost amazed and ridiculously amused by the reflection. It’s amazing what can happen when you open yourself up to a world of new possibilities.

  Wow, Mira. Calm down. Apparently, I can now relate to a damn chandelier. Hah. But I guess there are worse things to relate to.

  I continue my path to my bedroom while running my hand over one of the white plush couches. I revel in the feel of it against my sensitive skin.

  My nerves are so tightly wound, as they have been since the moment I laid eyes on my now step-uncle, who I saw devour that woman in the cake room.

  God. I need a release before I combust from too much pressure.

  I quicken my pace down the hall to my bathroom, passing the new collection of artwork I purchased from an up and coming artist. I don’t usually buy art, but I was engrossed by the way this artist captured their subjects. Or, rather, pieces of their subjects.

  They’re all snapshots of a human’s body, focusing in on a person’s hand, the crevice of their upper thigh, the curve of their collar bone.

  The sensuality of it all moved me when I first saw them, and now it’s more fitting than ever as I walk pass them feeling my desire for Owen burn through me.

  I don’t even care that he’s technically my step-uncle. Like I’ve said before, we’re barely related. If we were royalty, no one would even bat an eye at our relationship.

  So why not pretend that I am? For the time being at least…

  Stepping into my Elizabethan-style bathroom—see, I told you I can play royal—I undress, folding his shirt neatly, not wanting to let the smell of him on it escape.

  I get a whiff of my perfume from the night before. Ugh. It’s clinging onto me.

  But now, it’s mixed with a sour-y sweetness. And a hint of his musk. I want him to stay on me, in the most primal sense, but I follow my better judgement and shower.

  I turn on the waterfall shower head and wait for the water to warm. I look at myself in the mirror and see something different in my reflection.

  Maybe it’s him, and this new part of me that I can’t get enough of. This ravenous, sexual being who wants nothing more than to be fucked by a man I can’t have.

  I enter the enormous shower and let the water cascade down my body, warming and wetting me. I lather my vanilla and cherry-scented body wash over my skin, and I close my eyes. Visions of Owen’s body come to me, and I imagine that it’s his hands touching me, moving the soap across every inch of my body.

  My hands slide over my breasts, tugging at my nipples. In my mind, it’s his mouth that sucks them in, teasing them with his tongue, nipping each one with his teeth.

  I moan softly, feeling my ache for him intensify.

  I imagine his hands move down my back and grab my ass, just like on the dance floor—but rougher—and he pushes my cunt into his mouth.

  My fingers graze over my clit, teasing it at first, and then gradually adding pressure. Thinking Owen’s tongue likes to tease.

  He’d rub my sensitive nub and fill me with his fingers. They’d stroke me, gliding against my aching walls. And his tongue would lick and suck my clit.

  My fingers move in and out of my wetness, and my thumb moves to my clit, mirroring his technique. My other hand holds me up, occasionally pulling at my breasts when the pressure becomes too much.

  I envision him fucking me with his tongue until I burst, and as I come, his cock thrusts into me, my cunt greedily taking all twelve inches of him.

  That’s right, my dirty little slut. Take my dick, I hear him grunting out inside my head. I hate that word, but I love when he says it…like that. Aggressive and rough, wanting more of me.

  My body jerks when my fingers hit my spot.

  “Ah, Owen!” I cry out.

  He flips me over and takes me from behind, hitting that delicious spot I found with every thrust.

  I imagine hearing the muffled sounds he makes. He says my name, repeatedly, and it sends me over the edge.

  I reach in front of me to turn the lower shower head on and put it on full blast. It hits my clit, touching the nerves my thumb can’t reach. It’s his hands who massages those nerves, winding and building me up to the point of eruption.

  I see my breasts and raw nipples smash against his soft, red covers, tickling my heated skin.

  “Ah!” My body tenses as the water thrashes against me and trickles down my body. My hands mimic how I imagine his hands would rub my clit and how his cock would fuck my cunt.

  I rub my clit, harder and faster, and my body stills. My hips move against my hand, and my orgasm ignites every nerve of my body.

  As the water hits me, I visualize Owen filling me with his cum. I continue to massage myself, prolonging my orgasms, and I place my hands against the wall in front of me.

  “Fuck me!” I scream, frustration getting the best of me.

  That was…amazing.

  My breathing steadies as my reality comes to focus.

  I need to fuck him.

  I finish showering, hating the fact that my fantasies can’t come true. Or at least, he won’t let them…yet.

  When I get out, the coldness of the air sends shivers down my spine, and I slide my silk robe on. It slithers over my hard goosebumps, and the coolness steadies my rising temperature.

  I try to shake him off, but when I go back to the kitchen and get my phone, my fucking step-uncle won’t leave my thoughts. I open my email, trying to distract myself with work. Or anything unrelated to Owen.

  But I instinctively think…what would he do right now with me bending over the counter, with nothing on underneath this clingy robe?

  I shake my cunt in the air like some dog in heat, and the robe brushes against me.

  And again, with him in mind, my imagination gets the best of me, and my hand drops my phone and slides between my legs.

  I’m sure Mr. Step-Uncle has more than enough stamina for round two…

  THE CAPITALIST CHRONICLE

  The Morning After: Who’s the mystery blonde leaving Owen Westbrook’s house?

  By Lis Langley

  New York—The Wild West family seem to have no shortage of drama this week. After last night’s unknown incident took place at the Westbrook-Wilder wedding, which left newlyweds Carl Westbrook and Carol Wilder looking frazzled leaving their wedding suite, half-brother Owen appears to be back to his infamous “bad boy” antics.

  This morning, a mysterious blonde was seen leaving the billionaire’s penthouse. Of course, that part is hardly news. Everyone knows that random women, from D-list actresses to models to reality TV stars, are often spotted stumbling out of his expensive penthouse in the wee hours of the morning.

  But whoever Owen escorted out of his apartment this morning, he made sure to keep her identity hidden. Pictures of the couple show Owen shielding his blonde companion from photographers by throwing a jacket over her face. It left us only a view of her strappy Louboutin stilettos. He then rushed her into a limo as if he was a security agent protecting the president.

  Who’s the mystery girl, and why is he so concerned with protecting her identity from the public? Why is it so imp
ortant? According to a neighbor, who exclusively spoke to The Capitalist Chronicle, he alluded to the woman being a wedding guest as well.

  “I saw them come home late at night while I was walking the dog,” said Herman Williamson, an art dealer who lives across the street.

  “They were wearing nice clothes, like they came from somewhere upscale. The girl looked like she was drunk. Was carrying her shoes. I didn’t see her face. I could tell she was young, though. That’s how Owen likes them. Bastard,” he added.

  Unfortunately, after speaking to several other sources, no one else had any more information regarding the blonde woman’s identity. As a reporter, I should avoid speculating, but surely you, my dear readers, can begin to connect the dots. Though I’d be happy to assist with some mapping of my own.

  Let’s start with yesterday’s Westbrook wedding, an affair that would put Dynasty to shame.

  The night was a typical affair full of important elites gradually stroking one another’s egos, but it ended with a bit of a commotion. As previously reported, an argument between Carl and Owen possibly took place during the reception. Perhaps in the wedding suite where they were both seen coming from?

  Owen then left in a hurry with an attractive blonde, who jumped into his car. And now, this morning, another unknown blonde is seen leaving his house. It’s very likely the blonde from the wedding and the blonde from this morning are the same person, which makes this story even more perplexing, albeit interesting.

  If the mystery blonde attended the wedding, that means she’s probably someone important. Those red bottom heels are indicative of elite status alone. But if she’s just some random wedding guest, why hide her identity?

  Whoever she is, she clearly can’t be seen with Owen. But why is that? Is it because she’s married? Is she an ex or a rival of Carl’s? What’s with the secrecy?

  And keep in mind, Owen doesn’t have a reputation for caring about what the public thinks. The Capitalist Chronicle has written numerous articles about him and his philandering ways, and I’m sure he’s laughed at each and every one of them. After all, he has openly admitted to reveling in his infamy.

  So why does he suddenly care now what the public thinks of this woman? Is it possible that the blonde’s identity is so important that if it’s to be revealed, it could ruin either one of their reputations? If that’s the case, then readers, we might have a scandal in the making.

  For more updates on this developing story, stay with Lis Langley. I’m always seeking to uncover the dirt that the Westbrooks try to hide. And this time, I’m most interested in Owen’s Louboutin blonde secret.

  Chapter 15

  Owen

  Armed with Mira’s dress and still ripe with her perfume, I decide to take a visit at the Wilder Lingerie office to personally deliver it. Like I said, it’s what a gentleman would do.

  Of course, I could have easily sent one of my drivers to do it, but fuck that; I just want to see her hot body one last time. Besides, I just rubbed one out, so I think I can behave myself accordingly in her presence without exploding. Hell, it’s an office, so it’s not like anything crazy can happen.

  Although, if she has a private office…

  As I step into the suite, the first thing I see is a white wall with nails sticking out of it and a sad-looking table with nothing but a phone on top.

  Uh, am I in the right place?

  I step out of the office into the hallway and check the door again.

  Suite #305. This is it.

  Holy fuck. How can this be Wilder Lingerie? It looks like a battered rehearsal space a couple of stoners pay $50 a month to “jam” in.

  What’s with the bare walls? No sign for the company? And where the hell is the receptionist?

  As I stand by the sad table, which looks like it was found on a street corner, I can’t help but feel bad for Mira. Maybe the interior of the office space is nicer—I mean, I can’t imagine it looking any worse than this shit.

  After waiting a few minutes or so, I realize the receptionist is definitely not showing up, if one even exists.

  I walk out of the entry area and turn down a hallway. The drab white color continues, but at least the walls have been decorated with framed magazine covers and articles.

  One of them includes a feature from Forbes about young CEOs.

  Mira is pictured all dolled-up in professional hair and makeup while holding her hands on her hips. It’s kind of weird seeing this other side of her. She looks so…pure.

  I then close my eyes and imagine her all dirty and naked in my kitchen. Now that’s the Mira I know.

  As I walk away from the picture, I hear a loud crash behind me. I turn around and see a ceiling tile broken in pieces on the floor.

  That almost fucking hit me! God, this office needs a warning label.

  I enter the main workspace, and it just gets worse.

  It’s like a start-up office designed by a sadist; all departments are crammed into one massive open-floor with co-workers layered on top of each other, sharing small desks. Everyone’s typing on ancient computers while looking up from their screens with a pathetic look in their eyes.

  I feel like I’m in some war-torn country, and these people need my charity. Either that, or at least an office that won’t give them a concussion from falling ceiling tiles.

  This place is a fucking disaster. Mira’s clearly getting screwed over by these investors. If this is the best their money can buy, then they’re clearly not doing enough.

  As I continue my depressing tour of the office, I hear a familiar voice. It can only be one person, one obnoxious asshole of a person.

  “You went home with him?!” the muffled voice carries from somewhere in the back of the office. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you stupid? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”

  I look around at the co-workers who are all trying really hard to ignore the commotion coming from a closed office in the corner.

  “I’m sorry, I…” an inaudible woman’s voice echoes behind the yelling, followed by loud sobs.

  Shit, is that Mira?

  I follow the sound, weaving my way through the office then thrusting open the door. Inside, I find Mira and the asshole I so gratefully get to call my brother, Carl. I knew it was that fucker; you can’t mistake that weaselly voice.

  Both of them swirl around quickly when they see me, their eyes wide with shock. I’m probably not making this situation any better, but there’s no way I’m going to stand back and let Mira get grilled by this pompous dick.

  “You!” Carl storms over to me. “Why, if it isn’t the man of the hour. And you’re just in time, too. We were just talking about you.”

  “Oh, you were talking about how charming and handsome I am?” I love getting under his skin. “How thoughtful of you.”

  Carl isn’t amused. He snatches Mira’s dress out of my hand and crumbles it in his fist.

  “So, it is true!” Carl throws the dress against the wall.

  He’s being completely overdramatic.

  “I fucking knew it!” He then points furiously at Mira. “You lying little bitch!”

  “Carl, calm down…” I put my palms up and wedge myself between Carl and Mira, hoping to redirect his attention my way. “Is that any way to talk to your step-daughter?”

  Carl looks at me as if he wants to laugh. “Who gives a shit about the family? You two clearly don’t.”

  He stalks behind me, peering out into the drab office where all the co-workers watch us like we’re some goddamn Shakespeare play.

  “Christ, does everyone need to know our business?” Carl slams the door and pulls a folded-up article out of his pocket. “Did you see this, hmm?”

  He waves the article in my face, and I snap it out of his hands.

  I open the paper and read the headline. Fucking Lis Langley again. Is this what people call journalism these days?

  “You let photographers catch your step-niece leaving your house?” Carl’s voice is loud and i
rate. He storms around the office like someone’s angry dad who just caught his kid fucking.

  “Do you know how big of a fucking scandal this will be once people find out?”

  “They won’t.” I shrug as I fold up the article and place it in my pocket.

  I look over at Mira’s who’s wiping her tears with her low-cut shirt. I hate to see her like this, but she still looks fucking amazing. She looks up at me and grins automatically but freezes once Carl looks back at her.

  “And what makes you so fucking certain of that, Mr. Hotshot?” Carl places his hands on his hips, looking at me like some angry, bespectacled rooster. It’s quite a sight, and I try not to laugh at how ridiculous he looks.

  “The Capitalist Chronicle already knows you left with a fucking blonde at the party, and now another mysterious blonde is leaving your house the next morning? It doesn’t take a complete idiot to figure out this fucked-up mystery.”

  I already know what he’s saying is true. I realized that when I walked away from her the second time, but I won’t get him the satisfaction in knowing he’s right. Fuck that.

  “It’s not what you think.” Mira approaches Carl with her hands clasped. “I went over to Owen’s place because I was too drunk to take myself home. Nothing happened, I swear! The reason Owen covered me with his jacket when I left his place is because we both knew people would jump to conclusions.”

  “Like you’re doing right now, Carl,” I chime in, wanting to help her.

  Carl buries his face in his hands. This guy looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.

  “You expect me to believe that?” Carl’s face is beet red. “You two were fucking around at the reception. You expect me to believe you two then went to his place just to sleep? You must think I’m a complete moron!”

  I snort with laughter. He isn’t lying. But as Carl and Mira snap their heads towards me, I quickly try to cover it up with a cough.

  “Sorry, allergies,” I say as I touch my throat. “An investor of yours should really consider updating the air ventilation in here.” I glare at Carl.