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

by Alexis Angel

  So I can’t help but wonder which La Perla she’s wearing beneath them. Red? Pink? Black?

  God, I hope it’s black.

  “Hey,” she says, biting her lower lip. “So, I just wanted to tell you that, like…so I know how it probably looks, but I’m super not pregnant.”

  That should have hit me hard. After all, whatever little sliver of hope I might have had with this woman just got a lot fucking bigger.

  But as soon as she says it, something else gets a lot fucking bigger, too.

  And here’s the thing about erections: sometimes they can make a man say things that maybe he shouldn’t. Things that he maybe might come to regret.

  So when Sabrina tells me she’s not pregnant, I pull the biggest dick move ever and I ask her…

  “Would you like to be?”

  I’m fucking kicking myself before the words are even done coming out of my mouth. But I’m straight off a twelve-hour shift. The sun is coming up, my cock is hard, and the woman of my dreams is standing on my doorstep, telling me the best news I’ve heard all fucking night.

  To my surprise, she doesn’t even flinch.

  Instead, she narrows her eyes at me suspiciously.

  “How serious are you about that?”

  My cock twitches.

  “Very,” I say. Without thinking. Again.

  But either Sabrina is some kind of karmic gift from a gracious god, or she’s not thinking either, because her next move is one that makes my dick throb and my heart skip a beat.

  “Get your fucking clothes off, then,” she says.

  She puts her hands on my chest and kicks the door shut behind her.

  We spend the next few moments in a frenzy. She tears my shirt off of me, sending buttons flying all over my hardwood floors. I get her jeans undone and her shirt off over her head.

  God help me.

  The La Perlas are black.

  At some point in our desperate scramble toward nudity, her lips meet mine.

  It’s fucking fireworks.

  No. It’s beyond fireworks.

  It’s Disneyland, New Year’s Eve as the clock strikes midnight on the cusp of a new millennium. Mickey Mouse has just announced the end of world hunger, and Donald Duck has just brokered world peace.

  “I need you,” she gasps against my lips.

  Before she can ask me again, I’m on my knees. My lips move against her body, giving her a different kind of kiss altogether, and her little black La Perlas have been tossed with reckless abandon across my living room floor.

  “Fuck!” she moans as I slip my tongue against her clit.

  Not only is she wet—she’s fucking sweet.

  Like honey. Like ambrosia. Like a fine fucking wine that ought to be savored…

  But I can’t stop myself for long enough to slow down and enjoy the taste.

  I need more of her.

  Now.

  I hook her calves over my shoulders and lift her against my mouth. The hours that I’ve managed to squeeze in at the gym pay off as I carry her to my bed like that: riding my face and smearing her juices all over my lips.

  “You’re fucking ovulating,” I tell her, breathing heavy as I toss her into my bed. “You’re in heat—I can taste it.”

  “Fucking good then,” she snarls, crawling across the mattress to me. “Put your baby in me!”

  She’s on all fours, clawing at my belt in an instant. She wants my cock so bad, her fingers have forgotten how belts work. That only makes me harder. I have to push her back on the bed and watch her pout while I unbuckle it myself.

  The button, though. And the zipper.

  Those, she figures out for herself.

  Her mouth on my cock feels desperate. Hungry. She laps my pre-cum up with an animalistic eagerness that makes me want to shoot my cum down her throat until she’s gagging on it.

  Instead, I grab a fistful of bleach blonde hair and pull her lips away. My cock exits her mouth with a satisfying POP!

  “That’s not gonna get you pregnant,” I growl with need.

  She grins up at me, eyes hooded with that same need.

  “No?” she asks, faux-innocent. “Then by all means, doctor—show me how it’s done.”

  Five

  Sabrina

  Personally, I blame hormones.

  The same dangerous cocktail of chemicals that left me acting like a sobbing mess a week ago—and a heinous bitch the week before that—has now made me literally fucking insane.

  Like, there’s some idiotic trigger-happy piece of grey matter deep within my lizard brain that’s overriding every rational thought I might have right now.

  Every part of me that should be telling me that I’m crazy—that this is some truly ridiculous bullshit, and that sane women don’t go having babies with strange doctors who fold their laundry—those parts of me are apparently hanging out back with the rest of my freshly pleated La Perlas.

  Because every part of me in Rainier’s bed right now is spread across his mattress and dripping onto his sheets while I look at him like a wild animal freshly uncaged.

  “Fuck me! Fuck me pregnant like you fucking mean it!” I yell at him, sitting up and leaning into him.

  He doesn’t say anything back. He just takes a fistful of my hair in one hand and his cock in the other. And he smacks me across the fucking face with it.

  A mix of my saliva and his precum smears across my cheek on impact.

  He’s big enough and thick enough, and he hit me with his dick hard enough, that I’m knocked back onto the bed after his shaft connects with my cheekbone.

  He puts his palm down on that little space in the center of my belly, just between my ribs, and holds me down while he moves between my thighs.

  As for me? I’m just laying back, seeing hearts and stars.

  A man like Rainier can smack me with his dick any day.

  “Is this what you want, Sabrina?” The heel of Rainier’s hand massages the lowest of my ribs, then moves in a circle around my belly to show me where our child might grow if he succeeds. “You want me to put a baby right here?”

  “What I want,” I tell him, wiggling my hips so my cunt can press up against his massive dick, “is for you to put your cock inside me—”

  Expertly, I grind my pussy up his shaft. I’m so fucking wet that I slide right up—and when I slide back down, I’m impaling myself on his cock.

  “Oh, fuck,” Rainier grunts as he feels his man meat enter me.

  “That’s right,” I urge him. “Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck me, cum inside me, get me pregnant, and then—”

  He grabs me by the throat.

  By the fucking throat!

  His fingers hold it just tight enough that everything goes all soft and glowy. It makes my cunt feel like a bowl full of gummy bears that have just been nuked in the microwave: hot and gooey and sticky sweet.

  “No.”

  He uses his hold on my throat as leverage to thrust his cock really fucking deep inside me, like balls deep. As deep as a dick can go—and since he’s the biggest I’ve ever had (easily)—he’s totally going where no man has gone before.

  Oh, yeah. It’s a full Neil Armstrong kind of fuck.

  All I can do is whimper, pant, and try to keep my wits about me for long enough to milk his cock with my pussy.

  “No?” I ask, breathing nice and shallow.

  “Fuck, no,” he repeats. “You’re not in charge here anymore, Sabrina. You asked for this, you fucking horny slut. Now, you have no agency in it. No fucking choice.”

  Oh, god. I’m totally getting off on that. I’m like, beyond getting off on that.

  “Gonna make me take it?” I rasp, watching the way his nostrils flare as his tip presses harder and harder against my cervix. “Gonna force me to get pregnant…Daddy?”

  And let me tell you—that bit? That fucking does it for him.

  I see a glint catch in his eyes. Like turning on the living room lights when you come back to a totally dark apartment.

  Daddy’s home.


  “That’s exactly right, you little slut,” Rainier growls, claiming my lips with his kiss. “You’re giving me a baby. Tonight. Right fucking now. And Daddy’s the one who’s in charge.”

  It’s like making love to a jackhammer. A sexy, gorgeous jackhammer with the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. I wonder if our kid is going to have those eyes.

  Then, he makes me cream so hard around his cock that I don’t have any bandwidth in my brain to think about anything at all. The orgasm leaves my whole body shaking.

  No—not even shaking. Thrashing. I’m caught up in a seizure of pleasure—pleasure so intense and fucking foreign to me that I wind up in a spasm against the shores of his sexiness, like a fish out of water.

  “That’s it, babydoll,” he says through his teeth. “Come for Daddy. Come. COME!”

  It’s seriously too fucking much.

  Because the second I stop coming, he starts ordering me to come again.

  And here’s the really crazy thing.

  Crazier than the ridiculous way we met.

  Crazier than the fact that he’s going to put a baby in me when he sprays his thick, fertile, billionaire doctor cum into my slutty womb.

  No, the really crazy thing is that when I finish coming, he tells me to come—so I start coming again.

  Ovulation has left my sense of smell heightened, so every breath of him I breathe in is completely fucking intoxicating. My nipples are hard and tender, and they rub gloriously against his chest hair while he plows me so hard into the mattress that he might as well be fucking me into the floor.

  And my cunt—my slick, hot, ovulating pussy is throbbing around him like it’s trying to jack him off instead of letting him fuck me. So when he comes—when he finally shoots me so full of his salty seed that I can practically taste it in the back of my throat—my pussy is so happy, I nearly fucking cry.

  Hormones, right?

  “God,” Rainier breathes heavy over me, wrapping me up in his thick, sexy arms.

  “That felt amazing. In fact…it’s my professional opinion that we should do it again.”

  His cock throbs inside me, making me gasp.

  I raise an eyebrow at him.

  “Immediately,” he adds, and we smile at each other like two teenagers freshly in love.

  What can I say? Doctor’s orders.

  Alexis and WineBar #4

  After our first date, I couldn't get enough of WineBar.

  He fucked me in the shower.

  He would press me against the wall and bite my ear.

  “Come for Daddy, baby girl,” he would whisper, and I would whimper and hold onto the wall.

  He took me to Bloomingdales and sat down in the man chair as I traveled the lingerie section with the sales lady. Then we went into the fitting room where he had me try them on. He made me bend over and would slap my ass if he approved. When the lady thanked us as he paid, he looked over to her, grabbed me by the small of my back, and responded back with, “No. By the end of the night, we’ll be thanking you.”

  We would go to dinner where he’d order for me when I told him what I was in the mood for.

  My feet never touched the ground when I was with this man. He kept me cocooned up in a haze of pleasure.

  I was his. And he was mine.

  “You’re my queen, baby,” he would tell me.

  I would nod.

  And then he would tell me to come for him.

  Margarita & Thomas

  One

  Margarita

  “Hello,” the pajama-wearing young woman says, her breathing nervous and heavy. “You must be new to the neighborhood.”

  There are some sights you expect to see in an old walkup somewhere down in the depths of the West Side. An aging tenement building on Eighth Avenue, perhaps. One that’s falling apart and carries the stink of neglect and decay going back decades.

  This is one such sight, I’m sure of it. Except this sight isn’t in some rundown flophouse by Penn Station.

  This sight is unfolding, as clearly as my eyes can see it, right here in what’s supposed to be the Upper East Side.

  In what’s supposed to be a luxury building, complete with a doorman.

  In what’s not only supposed to be, but very much is, the hallway just outside my apartment.

  An apartment that’s goddamn supposed to be protected from this sort of thing. Both by geography and by a security staff who must’ve decided it was high time to stop taking their jobs seriously.

  “Who are you?” I’m being calm, calmer than any rational person should be given such chaos. “What are you doing here?”

  “My name is Mary. You must be new to the neighborhood!”

  Oh, dear Lord and Taylor, this is what I get for living west of East End Avenue.

  How did I ever let that walking sweater vest I call a husband talk me into it?

  “I’m not new here, Mary. Are you?”

  “I like to go skiing!”

  “I hope you don’t wear those pajamas to your chalet in the Poconos. At least not until you get inside.”

  “My name is...bye!”

  Goddamn it—what’s really going on? Is she okay?

  “Mary, are you…”

  She’s already skipping down the hallway at quite a clip. Daring to poke my head out the door for the first time, I look down the corridor see several other young women waiting for Mary by the elevator.

  All of them wearing cheap, drab pajamas.

  And all of them giggling as she skips over.

  And there’s Thomas, wearing a light blue cardigan, walking through that whole mess like it’s a perfectly normal thing to see in this building.

  “I still can’t believe they let you wear that to work,” I comment as the Pajama Club boards the elevator.

  “What you really can’t believe is that I have the status to get away with it.” Thomas is still several doors down the hallway, but he’s speaking louder than he needs to.

  “You don’t need to brag so loud the whole floor can hear.”

  “You think I’m bragging?”

  “You know what, dear? You need to be more observant.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  Thomas reaches our open doorway and squares up to me. He immediately starts searching my eyes, trying to figure out how serious I’m being.

  “Did you even stop to think why I was leaning halfway out our door when you got off the elevator?”

  “I’m observant enough to know you weren’t leaning nearly that far out. And besides, I’m sure it had something to do with that improvisational performance art troupe wandering the hallway.”

  “Is that what that was?”

  “Just a guess. Are you going to let me in?”

  Our routine is all thrown off. I’m supposed to be halfway through my martini right now. Thomas’s own martini is sitting next to mine on the bar.

  Usually, I make them at the same time, but it’s well accepted that I need at least half a glass of gin and dry vermouth before having to talk to him in the evening.

  This evening, thanks to Pajama Peggy and the Slumber Party Gang, we’re both starting our cocktail hour at the same time.

  “And I’m stuck dealing with this lunkhead stone-cold sober.”

  “You do realize you said that out loud, Margarita.”

  “Oh, don’t act all wounded. You know I can’t get that drunk from half a cocktail.”

  “Why, that’s just the perfect thing to say, my love. I feel so much better after that bit of reassurance.”

  “Sigh...come on in.”

  “You know,” Thomas breaks into one of his professorial rants the moment we start walking towards our drinks, “most people don’t say the word sigh. Most people just sigh. It’s a breathing thing—not a talking thing.”

  “First question: Do you think I’m five? Second question: Do you not enjoy my quirkiness?”

  “Do you not enjoy mine?”

  There’s no confusion as to which drink is Thomas�
��s when we get to the bar. He eagerly grabs the glass with six olives—I know how my husband likes it.

  “Don’t act like you were just playing along, Thomas.” I add a heavy French accent to his name before finally enjoying the first sip of my shaken cocktail.

  “Mon cheri, je n'apprécie pas cette fausse déclaration de mon identité.”

  Thomas looks so pleased with himself, tipping the rim of the martini glass to his lips.

  “Oh, come off it. We both know you grew up in Gramercy Park.”

  His smug look fades a little, but that ghost of a smirk is still on his face as he takes his second sip.

  By now, I’m supposed to be well into my martini, and I never let myself forget to dim the lights before I spend time with my perpetually sweater-clad spouse in our front room.

  But he got home earlier than expected, and I got distracted by those corridor crazies, and now I’m taking in the full, sober show of my Thomas standing so close to me under the full power of the LEDs.

  There’s an abrupt twinge of warmth in my chest, right around my heart, and I’m compelled beyond reason to reach over and clean than little piece of fuzz from my husband’s left shoulder.

  “Now, we wouldn’t want your sweet little sweater to get all frizzy, would we?” My voice sounds delicate and tender, at least to my ears.

  But, apparently, not to Thomas’s. He takes a horrified step backwards and crosses his arms so fast he almost spills a precious drop of martini on the Brazilian walnut flooring.

  “Uh-uh…I mean, what do you think you’re doing?”

  Taking a step back myself, I suddenly don’t feel like finishing my cocktail.

  We’re still young enough, and so is our marriage.

  So how did we ever get to this point?

  Two

  Thomas

  Uh-uh.

  It doesn’t matter who I’m speaking to, I owe them a better response than that.

  Especially the woman I somehow convinced to be my wife. Those half-formed words just flew out of me, ahead of my thoughts—and the way I recoiled like that.