Mister McHottie: A Billionaire Boss / Brother's Best Friend / Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy

by Pippa Grant

  This is different.

  It’s new.

  And it’s making me ache deep in my core like I’ve never ached before. As though it’s not just my body that craves his touch, but also a part of my soul.

  This is dangerous.

  He slides a single finger up inside me, where I’m hot and slick and ready, and I arch into him. Not fast—there’s a slow spiral building deep inside me, and it’s hard and aching and desperate, but good. So damn good.

  He’s delicious. His tongue, his mouth, his cock—all perfect. I want to suck on his fingers. I want to bite his earlobes. I want to shove him on his back and sink onto his hard, curved length.

  “I like how sexy you are,” he tells my neck.

  His thumb finds my clit, and I pump into his touch. Even when he’s being a gentleman, he makes me wild and carnal and more than a little unhinged.

  “I like how you like me,” I gasp.

  He chuckles.

  I like his chuckle. It’s music.

  It shouldn’t be—I don’t know if this is truly a truce, if he somehow didn’t know about everything that happened ten years ago, or if he hates me beyond all reason and is a master psychopath, but I can’t help myself.

  He knows how to play me, and I’m helpless to resist.

  “You taste like your name,” he tells my nipples.

  And I giggle.

  Lord help me, Chase Jett is making me giggle while he finger-fucks me.

  “My nipples like you,” I say.

  He rewards my good behavior by sucking and biting said nipples until I’m a writhing jellyfish of lust, pumping and thrusting against his hand until I explode in a million little satisfied pieces. And while the world spins, and the hogzilla mating call filters through the ceiling, and my whole body rides my afterglow, he strokes my arm and kisses and licks a leisurely trail from my breasts to my ear.

  “You’re a fucking goddess,” he tells me.

  “My mother almost named me Hera,” I murmur in my satisfied haze. “But she didn’t like the incestuous implications.”

  His hand slows, and I realize he’s shaking with silent laughter. “Your family is fucking nuts,” he says.

  And honestly?

  It really is the nicest thing he’s said to me all day.

  Because we are, and only someone as twisted as all of us could fully appreciate it the way I know Chase does.

  21

  Ambrosia

  I test this newfound niceness between us by complimenting his finger skills, which leads to him having an early dinner between my legs. We both get off while we’re supposed to be showering, and then I let Chase take me to dinner where we discuss the possibilities of world domination if we were to actually combine our powers of evil for the ultimate use of good.

  It’s weird to consider Chase a teammate, but together, we could top any pranks Zeus and Ares could ever dream up. And not just because he can afford like a thousand times better prank equipment.

  Also, when Chase and I are nice to each other, we actually have more sex.

  Regularly. At least, so far this afternoon, that seems to be the case.

  And it’s fucking awesome.

  Who knew?

  “I don’t know if I can completely not hate you,” I tell him over dessert, which he insisted we had to get, because he’s a masochistic bastard who thinks that waiting another hour to jump each other’s bones again will somehow make us better people.

  His eyes glaze over, and next thing I know, he’s hustling me into the backseat of a fancy car with a roll-up partition. “Home,” he tells the driver, then he puts the partition up and attacks me like a rabid bunny. “Tell me I have a crooked dick,” he growls.

  “It’s so twisted it belongs in a mental hospital,” I say.

  He grins and dives for my pussy. “Yeah, baby, my dick and I can both live with you and that ugly mouth.”

  And that’s the last time he makes me come in public for the rest of the day.

  But at his place?

  I don’t know. I lost count.

  22

  Ambrosia

  Work feels weird Monday morning. And not just because I’m ridiculously, wonderfully sore in all the places I’m not supposed to talk about at work, or because I spent the majority of Sunday having wild monkey sex with the boss.

  After hating Chase most of my life, liking him—and admitting it—has me off-kilter.

  Maybe we’re going too fast. Maybe we’re delusional.

  Maybe there’s a part of me terrified that he’s still playing me.

  Whatever the case, I didn’t think about the Bratwurst Wagon or Vassar for most of the day, and I’m working on convincing myself that I can forgive and forget.

  My body has.

  My mind isn’t completely on board.

  Probably because it’s the rational, logical part of me pointing out that while sex is great—and more of it with a sex god like Chase is even better—we have a history we’re ignoring in favor of setting new boinking records.

  Thankfully, things are almost normal in the office. Madison and April and I have a brainstorming meeting where we discuss fall vegetables, spicing up chicken, and a local cheese campaign. If anyone’s still whispering about my sex life, they’re being subtle enough that I don’t notice. April mentioned seeing the write-up about our band and my brothers on Page Six, but didn’t mention Chase at all.

  My favorite snack bar lady let me pay for my own lunch—though she did offer a wink and insisted on sliding me a protein bar—and now it’s nearly four, and I’m positive things here are getting back to normal.

  Excluding the forty-seven times an hour that I’ve wondered if Chase was in the building, or if he was thinking about me, or if he was serious about that thing with the Empire State Building and the bottle of champagne and the blindfold, or if he’s been barely resisting coming down here—heh, coming—to clear the floor out and make it our personal sex room.

  I’m debating the wisdom of sending him a dirty text asking when he’s getting off tonight—heh, getting off—when Madison suddenly says, “Whoa.” She’s standing by the window, peering down and groping for her camera. “I haven’t seen that since I was a kid.”

  April pops up next to her. “Oh my god!” she squeals. “The Bratwurst Wagon!”

  Every cell in my body goes into full-on catatonic seizure.

  The.

  Bratwurst.

  Wagon.

  I hold my breath. It’s just driving by. Thirty seconds from now, this will be a distant memory, forever suppressed by my coping mechanisms. It’s a coincidence. It’s an evil trick of the light. It’s not Chase pulling the ultimate prank by proving that he not only has all the money and power, he also has my pussy wrapped around his balls.

  “Why’s it parked in front of the building?” Madison says.

  “Maybe Mr. Jett’s buying us all dinner,” April suggests. “Remember last week, he sent us all bratwurst for lunch?”

  Parker’s at my side, shoving my head between my knees, which is really awkward in a beanbag chair. “Breathe, Sia, breathe,” she whispers.

  My phone dings.

  I fumble for it, and see a message from Chase. Got you a surprise. Look outside.

  Oh, no, he didn’t.

  But I make myself climb to my feet, cross the room, and stare out the window.

  There it is. Twenty feet of brown, wrinkled bratwurst and tan bun on wheels, parked right there under my window.

  The bratwurst is taunting me. And so is—

  “That fucking douche-shit,” I gasp.

  “Okay, honey, that’s not a thing.” Parker’s using that soothing voice moms use to calm irrational overtired toddlers. She wraps an arm around me and steers me away from the window. “I’m sure it’s a mistake. You know we don’t let non-organic bratwurst in the building.”

  Logically, I know she’s right.

  But he fucking brought up Vassar.

  Then he fucked my brains out.


  He pretended he liked me.

  And then he got me a surprise.

  Why would he stop there? Why not call in the Bratwurst Wagon? Maybe he’s bought the whole fucking fleet and he’s converting them to Crunchymobiles. Does the restraining order still hold if it’s the same bratwurst in a different bun?

  “Sia, stop talking,” Parker hisses.

  I’m talking? Oh my god, I’m babbling. I slap my hand over my mouth, but then I can’t breathe.

  “What’s she talking about?” Madison whispers.

  “Is she crazy?”

  “It’s just the Bratwurst Wagon.”

  “Chase Jett fucked me in the Bratwurst Wagon,” I blurt.

  Parker tugs me toward the door. “She had some bad shrimp at lunch,” she tells our coworkers.

  “I did not.” I shake her off. “He took my virginity on the floor between the cabinets where they store the buns and the fridge where they keep the sausages. And then the cops showed up, and he told me to drive and he ran like a lily-livered dog turd, and I got arrested for stealing a giant bratwurst on wheels while he got to be a billionaire.” I fling a finger at the window. “And now he’s taunting me.”

  Every last one of my coworkers is staring at me like I’m two buns short of a pack. Like I got some sausage and now I’ve lost my marbles.

  The hot prick of tears stabs me in the eyeballs, and I’m mortified to realize I’m about to cry.

  Over a Bratwurst Wagon.

  And Chase Jett.

  And I’m not sure which one makes me more mad.

  I grab my purse and storm out. I need to call my brothers. I need air.

  I need to use the back exit so I don’t break my fucking restraining order.

  And then I need to figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.

  23

  Chase

  I’m grinning to myself, pacing and waiting for Bro when Parker flings my door open. It bounces off the wall and snaps off its hinges. “You.”

  Mavis hustles after her. “She took down two security guards,” she tells me, but unless I’m mistaken, there’s more than a hint of pride in her voice. “Probably could’ve gotten four more.”

  “Damn right I could,” Parker says.

  I quit pacing and blink at both of them. My heart’s suddenly in my throat. I should fire her, but she’s Bro’s best friend, and right now, I need to know this isn’t about Bro. “Talk.”

  “The fucking Bratwurst Wagon? First you throw Vassar at her, and now the fucking Bratwurst Wagon.”

  My secretary looks like she wants a bowl of popcorn. I flick my wrist and give her the get lost or get fired glare.

  Miraculously, it works.

  She tries to shut the door, but it lists off its hinge and swings open again.

  “What,” I grit out, “are you talking about?”

  “Oh, please. Who else is going to park the Bratwurst Wagon in front of our building?”

  In three steps, I’m staring out the window at the street below.

  Sure enough, there’s the giant bratwurst on wheels, right across from the stretch Hummer I ordered. Bro told me yesterday after we got stuck in a weird position in the back of the Towncar that if she’s going to blow me in a car, she’s going to do it in a fucking stretch Hummer, so I got her a fucking stretch Hummer.

  Swear to God, the mutant bratwurst wasn’t parked there a minute ago.

  “What the hell is that monstrosity doing on my street?” I growl.

  “Exactly what you told it to do?” Parker suggests. “Torment Sia until she’d finally quit and leave you and your tar-ridden soul to run your little organic empire in peace?”

  And there goes my heart, flopping and gasping about like a lake trout being eaten alive by mosquitoes. “Sit. Lose the attitude. And if someone doesn’t fucking tell me what the hell Vassar means, I’m going to take away your beanbag chairs and replace them with vinyl bench seats made in China.”

  She gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Do you know what I am?” I say.

  “A dick?” she guesses.

  It’s all I can do to not gouge out my own eyeballs. “A man. With good intentions but limited understanding of the female language. I also skipped mind-reading in college, so you’re going to have to start speaking in words that make sense, or I can’t fucking fix this. Vassar. Now. What does it mean?”

  She gapes at me. “You seriously don’t know?”

  I try to claw matching chunks out of my desk with my bare hands.

  It doesn’t work.

  “Sia got kicked out of Vassar for the Bratwurst Wagon incident,” she whispers. “She had to leave Minnesota and go live with some distant relative to go to community college in Pennsylvania after she did her nights in jail and community service hours.”

  I drop into my chair, an understanding of where I went wrong Friday night finally worming its way into my brain. Makes sense now why Google wasn’t helpful.

  She never made it there.

  “How did you not know that?” she demands.

  “I had a few other problems on my hands back then,” I grit out. “Why’s the Bratwurst Wagon parked out front?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you knew. You know there’s a restraining order prohibiting Sia from getting within a hundred yards of it for the rest of her life, right?”

  “That’s not a thing.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “A vehicle can’t get a restraining order. It’s not human.”

  “You tell that to your backwoods Minnesota sheriff.”

  I shove to my feet again. “Where’s Ambrosia?”

  “If I knew that, do you think I’d be up here?”

  My phone rings on my desk. Eight messages beep on my email. My cell sings some Aretha.

  Mom’s calling. Bro’s gone. And I have to get rid of the Bratwurst Wagon.

  “She told the whole department about what happened between you two,” Parker says. She turns around. “And she didn’t leave out anything. Serves you right. You never should’ve bought her store.”

  “I’m going to fix this,” I tell her.

  She shakes her head and frowns at me. “I don’t think you can.”

  I want to argue, but I’m afraid she’s right.

  Where Bro’s concerned, the only two things I’m good at are fucking her, and fucking her over.

  24

  Chase

  I can’t stop thinking about Bro. It’s been a week, and she’s gone. She hasn’t been to work. She’s not answering my calls or texts. IT tells me she’s not reachable through internal messaging on her phone, which most likely means she’s removed the app. Her formal resignation hasn’t come in, but it’s inevitable.

  If Zeus and Ares know where she is, they either won’t or can’t tell me. There’s no sign she’s been back to her apartment, though the farm-animal-mating struggle on the floor above has been going on every single trip I’ve made to check.

  Parker hasn’t heard from her either. Nor have their other friends. Their band is in demand after the write-up on Page Six, but they can’t book without Bro.

  And I’m a fucking mess.

  One minute I want to throttle her. The next I want to take her to bed and screw her brains out until neither of us can remember anything, from our history to our favorite insults to even our names.

  My childhood was hell. My family was broke white trash, too rich for food stamps, too poor for anything but white bread and the canned baloney Mom brought home from work every week. My father had a problem. Several, actually. Any cash Mom didn’t use or hide quickly enough was gambled away. Bro’s family was my escape. I was still a nobody, but I was a nobody with somewhere to go.

  To the rest of the world, now I’m somebody. I’ll live in the white-collar world until the day I die. There’s nothing my money can’t buy, and no shortage to the people who want to know me.

  But to Bro Berger, I’ll always be that scrappy, angry twit who once tried to set her ponytails on
fire. The guy who banged her inside a giant bratwurst. The jackass who cost her Vassar.

  She doesn’t trust me enough to believe I don’t want to spend the rest of my life throwing it in her face.

  And why would she?

  “Honey, I don’t understand your fascination with this woman,” Mom is saying. I took two days off and flew halfway around the world to have lunch with her in Mykonos. Never doubt the power of maternal guilt. Or fresh baklava. “She tried to wreck your life.”

  I stare out over the sailboats dancing on the crystal waters of the Mediterranean, because despite being thirty years old and having enough money in the bank to buy this entire city, if not half the country, I can’t quite look my mother in the eye. “Mom, she wasn’t lying. I was there.”

  “I’m well aware, though we both wish I wasn’t.”

  I give her a wry grin and go back to watching the sea. It’s a little turbulent today.

  Sort of like my life.

  “Still,” she says, “I know you didn’t tell her to steal that thing.”

  I want to deny it, but I can’t. I know Bro. I knew Bro then too.

  There wasn’t a single ounce of me surprised when she jumped into the driver seat and took off in that bratwurst. She has just as much of a twisted sense of adventures as her brothers. She’s not as loud or obvious about it, but who is next to those two oafs?

  I’d left the parking lot that night thinking that she was Bro Berger. Of course she’d talk her way out of any trouble she’d get into in the Bratwurst Wagon. She always had. Her parents would come to her rescue, she’d fake some tears for the police officers, and her little princess life would go on.

  I’d gotten home to find my mother gray and unconscious on the floor, and I hadn’t given Bro another thought for weeks. Mostly, anyway. After her brothers’ ill-timed visit to defend her honor the next morning, followed by a visit with some questions from the cops, I’d decided she could rot in hell for all I cared. I hadn’t known she’d basically been headed there.