First Comes Love: A Billionaires, Brides, and Babies Romance

by Alexis Angel

  Evan tears his fingers away and drops to his knees again, lapping hungrily at my throbbing, dripping pussy with his hot, thick tongue.

  He grabs onto my hips as my orgasm fades away into desperate little gasps.

  I’m shaking. He’s bristling with unspent energy.

  And as he rips himself away from my pussy, he looks up at me like he knows exactly where he wants to expend every ounce of it.

  “You’re taking my cock,” he tells me.

  Not ‘Do you want it, babe?’ and not even ‘Tell me you want my cock.’

  He just tells me, just like that. That he’s going to fuck me.

  And I just look up at him with my body still heaving from the world-shattering orgasm I just had and my panties stuffed in my mouth like, okay. Because at this point? It’s white flags all around, babe.

  I’ve felt the pleasure. I’ve felt the heat. If I come to regret this, I’ll do it in the morning.

  Right now?

  Full fucking surrender.

  If he wants his cock inside me, then he’d better give me his fucking cock. Any other man would’ve taken me to bed.

  Or…let’s be real.

  Any other man would have tried to take me to bed. I’ve watched horny idiots fumble around with their buttons and flies in frantic desperation. Christ, I’ve seen them get hard and forget that they’re supposed to be between my legs—not the other way around.

  Most men get kind of fucking dumb when they want to fuck me as bad as I know Evan must right now. But most men aren’t him. He gets his dick out before I’m even fully recovered from wave after wave of pleasure I just finished riding.

  Then he fucks me right there, on his leather fucking armchair.

  My body crushes beneath his as he tosses his shirt across the room. I’m bathed in the scent of his skin. My lips find the place where his pectoral meets his shoulder.

  When I kiss him, I breathe everything in.

  The leather of the armchair.

  The tequila on my tongue and the soaked panties in my mouth.

  And him.

  He’s hard rain and singed ozone, lightning tearing through a starless night. Amber whiskey in a glimmering decanter and fresh cut grass. The heat of his skin is unbearable.

  I want—need—desperately—

  More.

  MORE.

  My fingers curl against the firm, burning crescents of his shoulder blades as his cock slides into my slit and forces its way in. My fingernails cut into his skin, and not even my La Perlas can muffle the sound of my moans.

  We come together. It’s not just happenstance. It’s an inevitability. He growls, and I scream. Our bodies are united, not just on a physical level, but in sheer fucking rapture.

  Ecstasy.

  One moment, we’re howling and hissing like alley cats.

  But the next…the next is the best part.

  The next moment, we’re dissolving in laughter against each other—caught up in complete disbelief that what just happened actually fucking happened.

  That this is even real.

  And that it could feel so fucking good.

  It almost feels like the beginning of something.

  …Or maybe that’s just Evan’s cock twitching inside me, coated in his cum.

  Christ. He’s still fucking hard.

  “Round two?” he asks, plucking my panties from my mouth.

  I crack my neck and eye him like a piece of fucking meat.

  “You’re on, tiger.” I grab the back of his head and force his lips against mine. “But this time, I’m on top.”

  Alexis and WineBar #1

  It was July when I first met WineBar. I was sitting with my friend at a bar and we were two women out on the town with no good intentions in our hearts. We were young, single, free, and had our future in front of us.

  We were beautiful. Graceful. Desired. And we knew it.

  And then in the center of all that, he came in.

  He stomped in and made his presence known.

  Intruded on every single self-delusion I’d ever had and completely swept away what I thought I knew about the world and myself.

  All that was left was him.

  Towering over me.

  He smiled and held out his hand. I trembled slightly as he took it and brought it to his lips.

  “Hey baby,” he said to me. “I’m WineBar. What’s your name?”

  My heart stopped.

  My knees were weak.

  And I swear to you, I couldn’t even remember my own name.

  Note

  This book contains 12 short stories, but they’re all interconnected. You’ll follow the story of Emilia and Evan through the eyes of others, and the full impact of their love story will only be found in reading from beginning to end. I hope you enjoy the ride.

  Note that there is a part two to Emilia and Evan, but you need to read through the other stories first or you’re missing out!

  Erin & Fletcher

  One

  Fletcher

  “Oh, god, Fletcher, please! Oh…oh my god. Stop! STOP!”

  I force myself to tear my lips away from the lingerie model’s cunt. Her honey is still smeared across my chin, sweet and sticky and just a little bit too tart for my tastes.

  “Something wrong?” I furrow my brow and wipe my lips with the back of my hand.

  “Oh…god, no, not really…it’s just—”

  Her chest is still heaving, tits rising and falling beneath the garish print of her balconette bra.

  “Too many orgasms?”

  She laughs, dazed. “Yeah. This…I mean, this never happens, I’m really sorry, but like…OMG. I’m just—wow. I’m totally spent.”

  “Not yet, you’re not,” I growl.

  Then I pick her up off my fucking dresser and toss her onto my fucking bed.

  This is just same shit on a different day for me. My friends all ask me how I do it, and I don’t even fucking know. One minute, I’m shooting sexy new photos for the latest Lacy Desirables catalog, and the next, I’ve got a lingerie model’s thighs wrapped around my neck while the flash on my camera goes wild in the background.

  The whole fucking roll of film is probably useless now. At best, it’s a photographic trophy of the latest notch in my bedpost. At worst, I’ve gotta burn the damn thing or else I’ll have perverts and paparazzi digging through my trash again.

  I guess that’s what I get for shooting in burst mode.

  If I were a better photographer, I’d find a way to stop myself. But when getting laid is this easy, why deny myself the pleasure?

  Besides…there are other benefits to turning this photo shoot into a noisy off-the-walls fuck session. Benefits like what happens when I stick all twelve inches of my cock so deep in this ditzy-ass lingerie model that her next orgasm comes with a scream.

  At that point, I go balls-deep and just fucking wait for it.

  Hell, I’m looking forward to it so much that I’m actually holding my breath.

  And then, right on cue…

  THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

  At the noise, a brief look of confusion crosses the face of the lingerie model.

  I just thumb her clit and make her come again as a smug fucking grin spreads across my own face. The next round of thumps shakes the floor beneath the bed so hard that it makes the mattress shake.

  But it’s not nearly as satisfying as the next sound that rises up through the floorboards.

  “Goddammit, 33D! We get it! Christ! You’ve got a big dick—give it up already!”

  Ahh. Like a workweek alarm going off on a Saturday morning. It’s the dulcet tone of my very favorite voice.

  32D—the gorgeous, hateful little bitch who lives beneath me.

  Shit, I wouldn’t mind having her beneath me in a few other ways, if you know what I mean. Long, dark hair. Ruby red lips. Eyes the color of black rum.

  And her apartment number is the same as her bra size.

  Other than that, all I know about her is that she h
ates me—and that she’s fucking tired of me fucking so loudly over her apartment. Not that I’m about to stop or anything.

  Nah. If anything, I just start fucking the model in my bed even harder.

  She starts moaning even louder, too. Too many orgasms, my ass.

  She’s fucking loving this.

  Shame that 32D doesn’t share the sentiment.

  THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! goes the broom that I know 32D must be using to pound away at her ceiling while I pound away at this broad. Her rhythm is fucking excellent, too.

  In fact, I make a point of matching my own rhythm to hers. It makes the bed shake in time—and makes the lingerie model come louder than ever.

  “GET. A. FUCKING. ROOM!” I hear 32D yell up through the floorboards.

  “I’ve already got one, sweetheart!” I yell back down at her. “Maybe you’d like to come up and see it sometime?”

  “Why don’t you come down here and fight me, asshole!” 32D yells back. “GET A ROOM THAT’S NOT RIGHT OVER MY FUCKING DESK!”

  Fuck me. That’s the point when I just fucking lose it. I don’t know what it is about 32D yelling at me like that—but it always makes me blow my load.

  I don’t even see it coming. I hear her cute, pissed off little voice shouting up through the floorboards at me like that, and I can’t fucking help myself. I just fucking explode.

  I leave the lingerie model in my bed as I head into the bathroom to grab a drink of water.

  I make sure to tip the contents of my condom into the bathroom trash before I toss it. There’s a lot of daddy sauce in that thing, and I don’t want any hopeful future mommies trying to smuggle my condoms out of here in their purses again—which happens more often than you’d think.

  As I run my fingers through my thick, messy sandy blond hair and look myself in the greens of my eyes in the mirror, I have the weirdest fucking thought, though.

  32D. I wonder what color hair she likes.

  Oh, yeah. I’ve seen the kind of men she has over to her place.

  It’s hard not to keep track when it’s only one or two a year.

  Last year, she invited a staggering three to stay the night. A pretentious-looking ginger, a douchebag of a brunet, and some bleach-blonde asshole in a leather jacket.

  This year, though, there hasn’t been anyone. I figure 32D has either given up on sex entirely or gone gay. Either way…Christ, what I wouldn’t give to be the one to fix that.

  By the time I finish my glass of water, I’m rock fucking hard again. Figures. When you want to go soft, you think of baseball and grandma.

  When you want to get hard…you think of 32D.

  “Ready for round two?” I stand in the doorway of the bathroom, cock in hand.

  “OMG, what?! I thought—”

  “You thought wrong.” I smirk, seeing how fucking exhausted she is—and watching her spread her legs for me anyway.

  But when I stick it in her, it’s not her that I’m thinking of.

  It’s that mouthy, dark-eyed bitch downstairs.

  When I make the model cum again, I can practically hear the frustration in 32D’s broom-thumps against my ceiling.

  That’s it, baby. Tell Daddy what you don’t fuckin’ like.

  Two

  Erin

  “Oh, god! Fletcher! Please!”

  I shake my head and sneer into my coffee cup. “Em, where the fuck does he even find these bimbos?”

  Emilia just rolls her eyes. “I dunno, babe. I feel like every dude who lives here in Bradford is just—”

  “A massive pussy-gargling douchebag?”

  We look at each other like I just took the words right out of her mouth then erupt into laughter.

  “At least Evan doesn’t live right over you.” I watch her roll her baby blues again and roll mine right back. “Trust me, babe. Having a dick over your head all night is way worse than having one down the hall.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Em shoots me a saucy smile over her latte. “Maybe having a dick over your head is exactly what you need right now.”

  I hold up my hand. “I’m gonna stop you right there—because no. Nope. Absolutely not. Sex is the last thing I need right now. I’m so done with dudes, Em. They’re momentary distractions at best, and I don’t need any distractions right now.”

  It’s the truth, too. If I want to get into my first-choice master’s program here in the city at NYU, I need to make this application fucking solid. I’ve been up all night at my computer for months editing this film together—not that it’s going to matter at this point.

  Because every fucking night for years, 33D has been up all night making my lights flicker and the pictures on my walls shake. I don’t know how the fuck he does it—I mean, he can’t be banging these poor hoes that hard, right?

  What I do know is that when he does it, I can’t fucking concentrate.

  “All I’m saying is that if you were the one he was fucking, you wouldn’t be so bothered by it.” Em sips at her latte and leans back, looking smug.

  I narrow my eyes at her glossy blonde waves. “That sounds like sleeping with the enemy. Besides, I think he likes blondes. Why don’t you take one for the team?”

  Em nearly spits her mouthful of latte out at me. “Girl—no. 33D is your problem, not mine. And the only solution is to let him slip you his 33D, catch my drift.”

  I can’t help it—the idea of banging the fuckboy who lives above me is so fucking laughable, I totally lose it. I laugh so hard I nearly spill my dark roast all over my sweater.

  Then, I laugh so hard that I totally do.

  “God.” I grab some napkins and start to mop up the mess I’ve made. “Does that mean your solution to your Evan problem is taking his dick, too?”

  “Hell no.” Em crosses her arms over her chest. “There are dicks you deal with in bed and dicks you deal with by staying the fuck away from them. Your dick, my dear, is the former. Mine is the latter. End of story.”

  “All I’m saying is…” I glance down at my phone and notice the time. “Shit. I gotta go, babe. My special effects should be finished rendering—and I’m down to the wire on this thing as is.”

  I rifle around in my purse, searching for cash or card, but Em stops me before I can even get through the first layer of lipstick and tampons.

  “I’ve got this. Go.”

  I grin at her. “Leave the poor waitress a big tip?”

  “I will,” Em promises—and then she grins back at me. “As long as you promise you’ll let 33D give you his big tip—”

  I flip her off as I gather up my shit and race out the door of the coffee shop.

  I’m breathless by the time I get up to my apartment, and I immediately fucking regret it. Not only is the scene not done rendering—it looks like my computer has decided to run updates while I was away, so I’ve probably lost that chunk of the project entirely.

  While I wait for the piece of shit to finish updating, I do all the dishes in my sink.

  I clean out my fridge, tossing out a jar of expired mayo and an ancient half-finished can of a brand of beer I don’t even drink.

  I take a shower, washing the day out of my long, dark hair and shaving my legs silky smooth.

  Then, since the computer is only at 87%, I shave my pussy too.

  Who for? I don’t even know.

  I haven’t gotten laid since I finished my undergrad—and at this point, I’m not even sure I want to anymore. When you’ve been off the dick for long enough, you start to feel like maybe it’s totally irrelevant, you know?

  Like, this is my new life as a totally celibate wannabe film student. When I make it big, they’ll put me on the Suspected Asexuals page on Wikipedia with Tesla and Lovecraft and Morrissey.

  Which still begs the question of why I’m sitting here on the edge of the tub with my legs spread and baby oil all over my muff.

  I guess, when it comes down to it, I’m shaving my pussy for, well, me. I don’t do it because I’m supposed to, or because I’m ashamed o
f my own pubic hair. I do it because dammit, it feels nice!

  But then, of course, the ceiling starts shaking again as soon as I touch blade to skin—33D must have brought home a new friend. I nearly fucking cut myself when she screams in orgasm, and what should have been a nice, relaxing evening quickly leaves me feeling grumpy and pissed off.

  I finish up and slump into my bed totally naked, glaring at the ceiling. It doesn’t even make sense to get the broom out at this point—once 33D gets started, he can go for hours if he wants to.

  My computer is at 99% and frozen, so it’s not like I could do any work anyway.

  But as I lay there listening to 33D’s latest lady friend begging for his cock…

  I don’t even know what comes over me, but it definitely disqualifies me from my dreams of being next to Morrissey on a Wikipedia page.

  My fingers slide up and down the smooth, silken lips of my pussy. It’s still lightly oiled from my shave—and so help me god, it’s wet.

  Not just from the water, either.

  It’s wet wet. Sticky with honey.

  When I spread my legs, I can smell myself.

  I listen to 33D’s little sexcapade for a little while, not touching myself or anything—just listening in.

  I think he must have at least three girls up there—and here I am, listening to them fucking like a pervert. Like a bitch in heat.

  I’ve never gone from horny to pissed off so fast in my life. Getting horny listening to 33D fucking? This isn’t like me at all.

  I come to the only reasonable conclusion I’ve got: living beneath this douchebag is mental warfare, and he’s finally pushed me to a breaking point.

  I’ve cracked. I’ve snapped. And now I’m getting wet to the sound of his bed shaking, which is the only evidence I need to assure me that I’ve officially lost my fucking mind.

  I hop out of bed, seething. As I pull on a fresh, deep blue oversized sweater and a pair of long socks, I don’t even think about grabbing the broom.