Baby Wanted: A Virgin and Billionaire Romance

by Eva Luxe

  Damn. Blondes are my type. And I love long hair. I just want to reach out and grab it, and not in a friendly way either. In a “let me show you who’s boss” type of way.

  And that ass. I can see part of it from this angle and it’s full and curvy, just like I like them. My cock needs your curvy ass, I want to tell her.

  But that’s ridiculous. I’m in jail, and she’s likely in the legal field, since she’s meeting with Tim and since she’s dressed like she’s auditioning for an episode of Law & Order: SVU.

  Besides, even if she weren’t completely fucking out of my league, she’s not my type. I mean, yeah, sure, her looks are my type— I’d hit that in a second, and then throw her out of bed and never talk to her again— but her personality clearly isn’t.

  I’m into laid-back girls that I can easily talk to, and do a lot of other things with as well. Such as share a beer with them. Or maybe even some whiskey. Or, hell, have a threesome with them.

  And this chick looks like the total opposite of all of that. Stuck-up and snobby, with a stick up her ass and something to prove all the time, to somebody, for some reason. I know the type, and I stay away from them.

  But still. Fuck, she’s gorgeous.

  Out of nowhere she surveys the room and locks eyes with me. She has beautiful eyes, like she just got off a plane from some Nordic country as ice cold and steely blue as those eyes of hers.

  I look back and hold her gaze. Of course, I do. I’m no pussy, and even though I wouldn’t date her, that doesn’t mean I won’t try to fuck her. I don’t “date” anyone, anyway.

  She looks like the type with a boring boyfriend or husband at home, but I don’t care. I don’t want a relationship, just some hot sex.

  She’s probably never had hot sex but there’s always a first time for everything. Just like me winding up in jail for some stupid fight no different than the ones I’ve gotten into since I was a boy, without such humiliating repercussions.

  No one knows what the future holds. I'm sure I’m not her type, either. I doubt she’d date me. But I bet I can get her to fuck me.

  I want to bend her over and pull her hair while I do it. I bet I could have her moaning and yelling out my name all night long. As soon as I'm sprung from this joint.

  I decide to make a move. I’ve never been known for my patience.

  I approach the table and make up a dumbass excuse to talk to Tim. Of course, I do have a valid reason— I’m waiting on my perpetually late attorney— but I know Tim can’t make him appear any faster than I can. I just want an excuse to be closer to this mystery woman.

  Tim’s in the middle of telling this hottie that even though she doesn’t have criminal law experience, he can quickly train her.

  Great, I think. She is a fucking lawyer. And a newbie at that. I hope they’re not wanting to assign her to my case.

  I’ll just stick with Dylan— as awful as I’m starting to think he is— or pay some private attorney out of pocket. Money talks, and a new attorney will have to do what I want, not what the VLA has trained them to do.

  But damn is she fine, I think, as Tim introduces us and I shake her hand firmly, the same way I’d like to grab her ass if I weren’t impeded by this orange jumpsuit and my temporary lack of freedom.

  I return to the table to continue my boring task of waiting for Dylan, all the while thinking, What is she doing here? Instead of only What am I doing here?

  I clearly bashed a guy’s skull in to end up here. But she’s like a fish out of water. Why would she want to represent someone like me?

  When Dylan finally arrives and I jump to the front of the line to meet him, he takes me back to the attorney/ client conference room and I can’t help but look back at Riley one more time. My curiosity gets the better of me and I wink at her. She looks pleased.

  If I weren’t in jail, I’d have her in bed by tonight, I think, as I reluctantly follow Dylan into the conference room and kiss all hopes of fucking Fancy Lawyer Lady goodbye.

  That’s just one of many things in my life I’ll be kissing goodbye. And it shouldn’t even be the most important thought in my head right now, but it is.

  Chapter 8

  Jensen

  As soon as I found out I had pending charges and the police were going to arrest me, I’d called my brother Ramsey. He’s the most level-headed person I know and always has good advice.

  Of course, he’d advised me to get out of the military ASAP. It was a crushing blow.

  “Look, you’re due to extend or end your terms of service and you said you were putting out feelers for the private contracting gig,” he’d said, practical as always. “Don’t they pay well? Isn’t that what you wanted to do?”

  “Well, yeah,” I’d said, exasperated that he was making so much sense but still wasn’t telling me what I wanted to hear. “But that was back when…”

  I’d trailed off, not wanting to finish. But Ramsey knew me, and he knew the situation.

  “Back when you thought you had a choice,” he finishes me for me.

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  And back when I was refusing to admit it was real. Sure, the idea of training newbies to do what’s become second nature for me to do in the SEALs— and getting paid a hell of a lot more to teach it than to do it— sounded appealing, in theory. But in reality, I loved being a SEAL alongside my brothers and friends.

  I wasn’t sure I was ready to leave. But now it looked as if I didn’t have a choice. I guess it’s just one more thing my mom has robbed me of, along with a childhood and a peaceful existence. And, I’m reminded, as I join my criminal defense lawyer to talk about a plan to get me released from jail— my freedom.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Jensen,” says Dylan, as he sits down at the small wooden table in the conference room.

  Enough thinking about my mom and all the ways she’s ruined my life. That’s never caused me anything but fucking heartache, and I’m determined not to let it take me off my focus of fighting these charges.

  “You too,” I tell him, although I want to add, I was beginning to think you’d never show up.

  Instead, I say, “I’ve been waiting to talk to you.”

  “I know you’re nervous about your arraignment. Everyone always is,” Dylan says. “But don’t worry. I have full faith that you’ll be out of here as soon as that hearing is over.”

  “It’s not that. I’ve been needing to talk to you about my case.”

  Again, I let unspoken thoughts remain unspoken. Unspoken thoughts like: You’ve said some things I’m not too fond of, and I want to set you straight.

  Even though Dylan has been assigned to represent me for free, I know that doesn’t mean I have to go along with everything he says. I’m free to fire him and have another lawyer assigned, or to hire one with money out of my own pocket.

  Which is fine because it’s not like I’m hurting for money. I just want to make sure my lawyer listens to me and defends my case the way I want it to be defended.

  “Jensen, we don’t have a lot of time. We need to go out there and tell the judge we’re ready for your arraignment hearing to be called…”

  “I understand,” I tell him, and stop there instead of finishing with that you’re in a rush and you’re shuffling through my case as one of many. “But this is important to me. When we first met, you mentioned using a PTSD defense and I said I wasn’t that into the idea.”

  “Uh huh,” Dylan says absent-mindedly as he flips through my file, highlighting something.

  “But what I should have said is that I really do not want you to use that defense. The more I’ve had time to think about it— and thinking is about the only thing I've been able to do in here— the more certain I am. I don’t have PTSD. I’m not crazy.”

  “Jensen,” Dylan says, looking straight into my eyes. “A PTSD diagnosis does not mean ‘crazy.’”

  “I know, I’m sorry,” I sigh, frustrated.

  Crazy is burning everything my dad ever owned in front of me, simply b
ecause I mentioned his name. Simply because I was mad at her for leaving him— for leaving us. My mom is crazy. I’m not crazy. But any kind of official diagnosis is too close for comfort for me. I’m not anything like my mom, and I never will be.

  “I don’t mean it in a bad way,” I try to explain to Dylan. “I just mean that everyone thinks that anyone who has been to war has PTSD, and that’s just not always the case—”

  “Jensen, you haven’t only been to war. You’ve seen traumatic and life-altering things there. You’ve experienced very bad things.”

  “So has everyone who has been to war,” I say, exasperated beyond belief at this point. “But it doesn’t mean I have PTSD.”

  “It’s the best defense anyway,” Dylan says, perplexed. “If it helps you, you should use it. Not resist it.”

  “Dylan. I’m serious. I want you to just defend the case and please don’t give me some PTSD diagnosis along with a potential criminal record.”

  “Fine. Okay Jensen.” But he doesn’t say it very convincingly. “But today’s hearing has nothing to do with any of that. You’re just pleading guilty and bail is being set, or not. In your case, as I’ve said, I highly suspect it won’t be. You’ll walk out free until your next hearing date. And then we’ll have plenty of time to talk defense strategy.”

  He signals the guard to let the judge know we’re ready.

  “All right.” Just like we had plenty of time to talk today. “I just wanted to make sure I clarified my position with you.”

  “Understood.”

  We enter the small courtroom where the judge holds arraignment and bail hearings in the jail. She reads my charges and Dylan introduces himself, as does an assistant district attorney.

  “How does the defendant plead?” asks the judge.

  “My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor,” Dylan says.

  “And as for bail?”

  “Mr. Bradford committed a heinous battery,” says the assistant district attorney. “He mercilessly pummeled an innocent man. As you can tell by his size, and I’d also note that he has specialized military training during the course of his Navy SEAL work, it was not at all what you could characterize as an ‘even fight’…”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Dylan interjects. “Mr. Bradford is not on trial today. And of course, he has defenses to this charge, which was unfairly brought and of which he is innocent. He should be released on his own recognizance. He’s never been convicted of any crime. And he’s an upstanding member of the community.”

  That part makes me have to try hard to refrain from snorting out loud. Apparently, someone who kills for a living is considered an upstanding member of the community when it comes time to set bail on their assault and battery charge. But if that’s what being conferred “veterans’ status” brings with it, I guess I’ll take it.

  “Excuse me, Your Honor,” interrupts the assistant district attorney, “but Mr. Bradford is not the angel that the defense is painting him as. He’s had criminal arrests stemming from being a runaway teenager with truancy issues and some minor breaking and entering charges, and he’s gotten into some trouble while he was in the military…”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Dylan interrupts right back. “Those are juvenile records that have been sealed. And Mr. Bradford’s military history has nothing to do with civil court. He was honorably discharged after years of faithful service, in hostile war zones. The prosecution is just trying to fling mud and see what sticks, but none of this is relevant here.”

  “I agree,” says the judge. “Move along to the bail portion of this hearing, please.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief, glad that my past hasn’t truly caught up with me. I’m still getting away with things. I’m still coming out on top, although this is the most “upside down” I’ve ever been.

  “Mr. Bradford was born and raised in Albuquerque and he has family in the area,” Dylan continues. He looks down at the part of my file he had highlighted earlier. “A mother and two brothers.”

  She’s not much of a mother.

  “And he works for a private contractor training new recruits at Kirtland Air Force Base, to do the same kind of pararescue work that he himself did as a Navy SEAL while in the military. If he is forced to remain behind bars, the military will suffer. It needs Mr. Bradford’s skill and expertise.”

  “Then perhaps he shouldn’t have beat up a…” begins the assistant district attorney, but the judge cuts him off.

  “That’s enough, counsel. Mr. Bradford, you are free to go on your own recognizance but you must report back for a pretrial conference and for all other hearings in this case."

  The judge nods at me and I nod back, grateful that he's letting me go.

  "Your terms of release are as follows," the judge continues."Until this case is tried, you are to avoid alcohol and establishments that sell liquor; you are to avoid illegal drugs; you are to avoid all contact with the alleged victim; you are not to use any firearms or weapons; you are to seek or maintain employment; and you are not to travel outside of the state without prior permission of this Court. Do you understand?”

  “Your Honor, we have a clarification question,” says Dylan. “With regard to maintaining employment, and not using firearms or weapons.”

  “Yes?”

  “As I mentioned previously, my client works for a military contractor and his job involves training new recruits…”

  “Oh yes, counselor. Let the record reflect that the defendant may only use weapons or firearms as necessary and pertinent to his employment. Do you understand this and all other conditions of your release, Mr. Bradford?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “You will wait in the holding cell until you are called to be discharged. We are adjourned.”

  “Thanks, Dylan,” I turn to him, but he’s already putting my file into his bag.

  “Gotta run,” he says. “I told you it was a no-sweat hearing. See you soon.”

  “When can we meet to…”

  …discuss my case further? I trail off mid-question as he disappears out of the courtroom.

  I head back to the holding cell, hoping against hope that the hot lawyer chick is still there. She’s not, and my heart sinks.

  Get a grip, Jensen. I shake my head and try to purge my mind of thoughts of that ass, that face. But they remain with me even after I’m discharged.

  Apparently, I’m free to leave jail, but not free to stop thinking about a certain someone I met while here and will likely never see again.

  Chapter 9

  Riley

  A week has passed since I’d met Jensen, and I still can’t get him out of my mind. But now I try to push thoughts of him away so that I can concentrate on writing the legal brief for the biggest case of my career.

  My firm is representing Jed Marks and Marks Capital in a case between former business partners involving insider trading. Jack Holt is my supervising attorney and he’s been letting me run with the case. The trial is coming up and if I can win it— and I think we have a good chance— then my partnership is pretty much in the bag.

  I work past five-thirty in the evening and then realize that Charles hasn’t popped his head in to say goodbye to me. He usually does this most days on his way out, as he’s headed to the bar in the hotel downstairs or to the golf course with clients and partners. That makes sense, I think, as I remind myself that Charles’s main job seems to be to schmooze with the bigwigs while mere associates like myself, who aren’t related to any founding partners, put in the grunt work.

  Of course, it’s usually three or four o’clock when Charles leaves and I figure he must have forgotten to say goodbye today. He occasionally stays a little later but it’s rare.

  I head down to his office and I’m surprised to see—through the glass windows that all the offices here have— that he's sitting at his computer. His screen is facing the entrance to his office so I can see that he's looking at a legal pleading.

  Wow, he's actually staying late to
work, I think. This must be an important case.

  Then I notice that he has a chat window open too, on Google Hangouts. I feel bad for spying on him although it wasn't my intention— he is just so lost in thought that he hasn't noticed me walk up.

  “Hey honey,” I say quietly, and then knock lightly on his open door, trying not to startle him.

  Too late. He jumps, and then minimizes his screen but not before I catch the word “Marks” on the document before it disappears. He also clicks X on his Hangouts chat application.

  “You scared me.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m happy to see you’re still here. I thought you forgot to say goodbye.”

  I give him my best fake-pout face, and lower my head as I do, hoping it’ll draw his attention to my subtle cleavage. Charles and I have never had sex but he says the tease is half the fun.

  Or at least he used to say that.

  “Nope. Still here.”

  He turns his head back to his computer, to start shutting it down. He hadn’t even glimpsed at my cleavage.

  I guess the tease just isn't fun for him anymore. He used to beg and plead for me to have sex with him but I don’t know what’s happened. Maybe he's given up on the chase and gotten tired of my refusals.

  I feel silly being a virgin at my age but I just had never found the right person to be with for the first time. I was thinking it would be Charles but I wanted to be sure. At first that drove him crazy but now I'm beginning to wonder if he isn't even interested in me like that anymore.

  Sure, I’ve put on a few pounds but it’s not like I was a skinny waif when he met me. If he’d wanted a smaller lady, he could have gone after Trina or a few of the other female associates who look like models and who whisper jokes about my how much weight I've put on when they think I can’t hear them.

  But those associates aren’t going places in the firm, I remind myself. Is he really just with me because Daddy wants him to be? Why is it always my job to be the good little girl, the straight and narrow one, while Charles gets to do what he wants? Which apparently doesn’t include making love to his girlfriend?