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

by Alexis Angel

  “You fucking asked for it, then.”

  Margarita tears my belt from its loops faster than I ever thought it could be fucking done. And she doesn’t just tear my trousers off…

  She fucking tears them in half.

  And, at some point, she got a massive glob of the massage gel in her hand—which she proceeds to slather roughly over every part of my fucking cock.

  “Arghhh!”

  It’s so fucking intense—it feels like my brain’s about to short fucking circuit.

  “I fucking told you,” hisses Margarita.

  When her tongue starts gliding unevenly around my shaft, I can hear myself yelling again, but all I can feel is the tremendous fucking intensity of pleasure flowing around my lower half, around all of me.

  My mind goes in and out of blankness, but during my more lucid moments, all I can think about is how I’m going to return this pleasure—and then some.

  Five

  Margarita

  Breathless, flushed with that new, feverish feeling running through me like the Bethesda goddamn Fountain—this feels like the end of one story and the beginning of another.

  Part of me wants to think the story that ends now began at a little store—an ‘adult entertainment store’ as they call it—on Second Avenue.

  I can’t remember what drove me there that day, although I do remember I was wearing a silk scarf around my head and big Oliver Goldsmith sunglasses in case any nosyparkers—like that goddamn Patricia Sherman upstairs—were snooping around the block for whatever goddamn reason.

  Woman behind the counter assured me that there was no expiration date.

  Trying to catch my breath on the lip of our bed, a couple years later at this point, I’m optimistic about the way that story is about to end.

  I’m not going to say I’m satisfied—not yet—but that’s what I’m optimistic about.

  “What else is in the bag?”

  Thomas’s voice is still slightly weak, but it’s regaining strength.

  His cock is as purple, rigid, and engorged with excitement as ever.

  “Why don’t you go take a look? Feet don’t work?”

  Thomas sits up at last, and his strong, sizable hands begin wrapping softly around my shoulders.

  “I’d rather do it myself.”

  “Do what yourself?”

  “Give you the fuck of a fucking lifetime.”

  “We’ve still got to turn up the heat a few degrees before that.”

  Thomas starts nudging the thermostat immediately. His lips fall gently just above my shoulder, just above the top of my shawl.

  His kisses begin just as gently, maybe even more than that, to the point I can barely feel a thing.

  They pick up in roughness, though, and I sense an untamed and uncontrollable animal in him as he kisses around the bottom of my neck—and tears off my shawl.

  Both of us are breathing heavy enough to create an orchestra of overstimulated panting as our two sets of hands work together to take off my blouse, then my bra.

  “Ohhhhhhhh.”

  Thomas’s roughness reaches a crescendo of sorts as his hungry kisses reach the top of my tits. Each landing of his lips starts to soften as moves his way down my left tit, closer to the nipple.

  Before he reaches the outer edge of my areola, he stops.

  My fingers curl around the surface of our comforter, and my toes start to curl subtly, too.

  Thomas repeats the routine with my right tit, this time getting even more gentle, getting even slower until he stops.

  “Fuck, Thomas, don’t stop.”

  He doesn’t.

  Thomas takes my nipple softly into his mouth as he reaches into my long silk skirt.

  “You’re so fucking wet, aren’t you?”

  He’s hovering just above my tits now, and his hand is just close enough to my cunt to feel how fucking soaked it is.

  “Yes, I’m so fucking wet, so stop talking about and do something about it.”

  As Thomas’s hand slides up towards my panties, his entire body slides up as well, and he takes my left shoulder into his mouth—tonguing it and sucking on it like I did with his.

  “Fuck, we need more fucking massage oil.”

  Thomas doesn’t destroy my skirt like I did to his pants, but he does deftly and efficiently get it off my legs and onto the floor.

  The feel of his head, floating somewhere so painfully close to my pussy, nearly sends me into some sort of hysteric convulsions.

  My husband, for the first time that I can remember, takes the waist of my panties into his teeth, and pulls them down with his mouth like a hungry, wild wolf.

  Thomas’s tongue is soon paying gradual and deliberate attention to every nuance of my insistently tingling pussy.

  As waves of bliss crash through me and the tide of my ecstasy starts to come in, Thomas’s lips get in on the action.

  My hands slam against the top of the mattress, and my feet kick with a powerful climax.

  Thomas leans back only slightly as I squirt like a geyser, and he begins climbing on top of me before the orgasm’s even finished.

  That initial high-water mark of gratification blends and fades into the rising heat and ineffable pleasure of Thomas’s huge cock starting to slide into me.

  “Oof. Oh, holy fucking Chrrrrriiiiiiiiist.”

  Thomas’s face appears above me, an unquenchable fire in his eyes as he slips in further.

  The focus in his eyes starts draining as the pleasure just mounts and fucking mounts.

  The tide is already coming to another high mark.

  Closing my eyes for a second, I let it build. And build.

  Fuck.

  I’ve never felt like this.

  That’s what I want to say, but I can’t.

  I can’t speak a fucking word.

  We’re just letting that tide come in together as it just mounts and fucking mounts.

  My body shudders only slightly with the next orgasm, although it’s even more powerful than the last.

  And I’m still rendered speechless as we keep building after that.

  With my next orgasm, Thomas comes as well, and the world is set on fire with brilliant, white flames around us.

  We hold each other as the beautiful light of our lovemaking fades into an ethereal glow.

  “Next time,” Thomas whispers, “we’ll see what else is in the bag.”

  “Oh, you just wait. That was only the beginning.”

  Alexis and WineBar #5

  But there were problems with me and WineBar.

  He made my head spin.

  Half the time it was in ecstasy.

  But the other half?

  Rage.

  He wasn’t my boyfriend. He didn’t do relationships.

  He made that explicitly clear.

  I kept my dignity. I told him I was a modern sort of woman. I didn’t need relationships either.

  We were just enjoying each other.

  We respected each other.

  It was just fun.

  That’s what we both said.

  Until I saw him in his bar.

  It was brunch and he was behind the counter and some skank who had too many Bellinis leaned over the counter and tried to kiss him.

  He moved his mouth so she got his cheek instead of his lips.

  I was fuming.

  When he picked me up for dinner that night, he could tell something was the matter.

  We fought.

  “What the fuck do you want from us?” he shouted.

  “What do you fucking think?” I yelled back.

  He followed me as I stormed out of the car.

  “We aren’t dating!” he shouted.

  “Right,” I yelled back. “Let’s just keep it casual, asshole.”

  The next day—still crying—I boarded a cross country flight from San Francisco to New York City.

  “Ma’am?” the flight attendant who sold me the ticket asked me at the counter.

  “I’m fine,”
I said sharply as I put on my dark sunglasses.

  I made it through to the lounge and then got onto the plane.

  And I curled up.

  And began to cry for the next five hours.

  Quinn & Felix

  One

  Quinn

  I’m in love with a dick.

  Okay, look, I know how that sounds.

  You’re sitting there thinking, Oh no, one of those women. Not again!

  Same shit, different story, right?

  Boy meets girl, boy hurts girl, boy loses girl.

  Cue rainy montage. Dark night of the soul. Grand gesture.

  Blah blah blah.

  She forgives him, they bang in the final chapters, and have a baby in the epilogue. Three hundred thousand words of unreleased bonus material in the back matter, and sign up here for my fucking newsletter!

  You’ve heard this one before, right? Well, breathe a sigh of relief now, babe—because that’s not quite what I’m dealing with here.

  See, when I first moved into the Bradford, I thought to myself, Fuck yeah, Quinn! You finally made it!

  As far as starting your own company goes, this is pretty much the dream. I sold that enterprise for so much money that I’m set for life.

  Cushy apartment in the swankiest apartment building in NYC. Black cherry Tesla in the garage downstairs. Yearly donations to every notable charity that’s batted its eyelashes at me.

  And the investments I made with rest of that check are so solid and secure that even my spoiled future great-grandchildren won’t be able to squander this fortune. But then, when I least expected it, Cupid’s arrow misfired so fucking badly that I probably belong in like, I don’t know.

  Maybe a mental hospital. Maybe hell.

  See, big city apartment life isn’t always all that it’s cracked up to be.

  Sure, the Bradford is luxurious. In fact, it’s kind of like deep pockets Disneyland.

  But in New York City, even buildings as swish and luxe as the Bradford have to be facing something. And in my case, for better or for worse, my apartment in the Bradford faces the Birmingham.

  The Birmingham is this gorgeous old building. Brick and mortar—real old timey architecture. Sure, it needs a little work, but if you ask me, it’s fucking beautiful.

  The Birmingham isn’t the problem here—the dick that lives in the Birmingham is.

  On my first morning in my brand new apartment at the Bradford, I woke up in my big, plush bed in my silkiest La Perla nightie. For some reason, I just had this feeling it was going to be the most glorious day of my entire fucking life.

  I rolled out of bed and into my slippers, then padded across my hardwood floor to the pretty yellow curtains that cover my ceiling-high bedroom windows. I pulled back those curtains with the biggest damn smile on my face—

  And that’s when I saw him.

  No. Wait. Not him. If there was him involved, I wouldn’t have such a fucking problem.

  No, what I saw was really more of an it.

  But god…what a majestic it it was.

  Across the street in the apartment facing mine—twelve inches long, thick as a sailor’s wrist—uncut, perfectly shaped, fully erect, and saluting me like a valiant soldier to the Red, White, and Blue…

  The biggest, most beautiful dick I’ve ever seen in my life was staring back at me, and I fell in love right then and there.

  Sometimes in life, you look at something and realize that everything about it is just right. Dark, inky black curls of pubic hair. Thighs so powerful and muscular they could crush a watermelon between them with a single twitch of their rippling sinew.

  And the balls—oh god, the balls! They were like two billiard cues stuffed in a cashmere tube sock, dangling so perfectly I just wanted to kneel before them, feeling them slap against my chin while I sucked them fucking dry.

  I saw god in that dick that day. I just wish I could’ve seen more. Because as gorgeous and perfect and world-changingly awesome as that dick was…the man it belonged to was obscured from the waist up.

  Fucking privacy blinds. Only a fuckwit at the Birmingham would go through the struggle of installing privacy blinds then only lower them halfway down.

  The result was fucking infuriating.

  It was the emotional equivalent of building a house of cards, only for some bastard to blow the whole thing down as you place the final peak. Ever since that day, that dick has haunted me.

  It’s become my Lolita, my white whale, my one-armed man, so to speak.

  I fell in love with that dick, but it was an empty love.

  Or, maybe it was just a wake-up call: my pussy is empty, and I only realized how empty it was right then. On that day, I realized exactly how many holes I had to fill—and once I saw that dick, I knew that only that dick could ever possibly fill them to a point where I could be satisfied.

  But what the fuck am I supposed to do?

  Count the floors and windows of the Birmingham, bribe my way inside, knock on his door and tell him, “Excuse me, sir—your cock is truly divine. Might I put my lips around it until it explodes on my tongue, pretty please?”

  Come on—let’s be real. That would be fucking insane.

  Plus, I always chicken out just before the part where I knock on his door.

  I tear my eyes away from my window—because of fucking course it’s there, just across the street, making my pussy wet and my knees weak. The Dick operates like clockwork: it’s there every morning when I wake up and every night just before I fall asleep.

  It thrusts between my tits during my REM cycle—because when I do dream, I dream of dick. Sometimes I wish I’d never seen that dick at all.

  No other man will ever satisfy me now—not now that I know exactly how gorgeous a dick can truly be.

  Other times, I’m glad. At least now I know that the pinnacle of perfect manhood has finally been reached. It lives across the street, where I can see it twice a day in real life and all day long in my mind.

  Two

  Felix

  That tight little piece from across the street is staring at my cock again.

  Kinky bitch.

  She’s what we, dear reader, would call a voyeur—she likes to watch. In the film world, we see it all the time. The audience is the onlooker and the camera is their eyes.

  But in the film world, the camera usually only replicates the male gaze. We see the slow camera pan up the sexy lead actress’ body, accentuating the curves of her calves and the tautness of her thighs…

  The female gaze is something so rarely ever explored.

  Male directors, male gaze. The female directors aren’t usually so fucking cheap about it.

  When they get Hugh Jackman or Tom Hardy in their movies, what do they do?

  They don’t put Tom Hardy in pair of thin white pants and dump buckets of water on him while they find some half-assed reason to turn his dick into a plot point, that’s for fucking sure.

  No—when female directors are on set, they make their male leads give passionate monologues and sacrifice it all for the women they adore. It’s a problem I know all too fucking well, being a hot-ass actor myself.

  So sometimes, it’s fucking nice to be objectified for a change.

  And the kinky little slut across the street at the Bradford indulges me in that desire twice a day—morning and night.

  Call me an exhibitionist—actually, really, you should.

  That’s right on the fucking money, baby.

  I know I’m fine as hell, and I like to be seen. Wouldn’t have gone into acting otherwise.

  But the fact of the matter is there’s so much pressure on male actors to be more than just a chiseled jawline and a smoldering set of eyes.

  I can’t think of the last time I was allowed to play something so simple as the sexy husband. The hot main squeeze to the badass female lead. I can’t think of the last time, because it’s never fucking happened to me.

  Instead, I fucking monologue. I play the same hardened action heroes,
day in and day out. I crash motorcycles through windows, because you bet your ass I do my own stunts.

  In the beginning, it was fun, sure. But that shit got old so fucking quickly.

  I thought that taking a sabbatical from the big screen to tread the boards on Broadway might give a little relief, but if anything…it’s fucking worse.

  For once—just fucking once—I’d like a role where I don’t have to throw myself into the damn thing so completely. The leading lady can carry the film for once, and I’ll just be the eye candy hired to put lusty female asses into movie theater seats.

  Until then…mmm.

  The pretty brunette across the street will have to be the audience that I so desperately fucking need. Is it wrong to be playing her like this? Probably.

  Christ, the way she watches me, it must be fucking torture. To look at a cock as amazing as mine, as big as mine, and just not be able to take it…

  If I could, I’d lift these blinds and give her the show of her fucking life.

  But then she’d see my face and match it to the one staring up at her on the newsstands from this month’s issue of GQ. And if word got out that Felix fucking Fitzgerald was masturbating in the window of his New York high rise…

  Well, I’d have a lot of happy fucking fans, at least.

  The hot little piece from across the street could sell tickets and make a fortune—which, living in the Bradford, I doubt she even needs.

  Jesus, if wasn’t for the fact that no one in Hollywood would hire me ever again…I’d fucking go for it. I’d jack off for them with a smile and wink.

  A non-verbal message: Enjoy the fucking view.

  But since that’s off the table… I toss the script I’m supposed to be studying onto my desk. I might not have the audience that my dick deserves…but I have her.

  And I know that whatever I do at this point, she’ll be enjoying more than just the view.

  It’s not the first time I’ve stroked my cock for her. I’ve taken it into my fist before, just to see if I might be able to tease her into doing something she might regret…or something she might enjoy even more.