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

by Alexis Angel

  Then it’s like every moment of the last year crashes together all at once.

  “YES!” I scream. “FUCK MY ASS, FELIX FITZGERALD! FUCK IT LIKE YOU FUCKING MEAN IT! MAKE ME YOUR FUCKING WHORE!”

  I hear him chuckle as I lose it. I’m going crazy against him, bucking my hips to try and force his rhythm faster. Moaning against the windowpane where pretty much anyone across the street at the Birmingham can see.

  Orgasming—oh god, I’m totally fucking orgasming.

  I’ve never felt so happy in my fucking life…and that’s before he reaches around to stroke my clit while he takes my neck in his teeth.

  After—hours and fucking hours after—we’re lying in my bed together, totally spent. I’ve got my cheek against his thigh with his cock right there—up close and personal. Any closer, and he’d be inside me all over again.

  We smell like sex and victory, and I’ve just finished telling him how insane he’s made me. The better part of a year with nothing exciting in my life but spending money and staring at his dick? Any girl would have gone mad in my place.

  “Have you ever thought about getting into film, babe?” he asks, brushing hair away from my face.

  “I can’t act,” I laugh.

  “I don’t believe that. But if you wanted a new business…”

  I smile at his cock. “A film studio? Don’t you get enough work without fucking your producers, babe?”

  “Mmm. I do, in fact. But it’s a different type of film studio that I have in mind. Have you ever heard of…the male gaze?”

  I kiss his thigh as he tells me all about it.

  A female-focused film studio…

  I don’t just love his dick now, I realize.

  He’s got a pretty sexy mind, too.

  It’s exactly the kind of way I’ve always felt that life and art should both play out…

  If you don’t like the story…

  Change it.

  Alexis and WineBar #6

  “What kind of wine would you like to order?” the guy sitting across from me at dinner asked.

  We were sitting at Rue 57 and I was trying my best not to roll my eyes.

  I mean, it had been like six days and I was determined to get out of the funk that I was in.

  I tried to start dating. Black YSL with Louboutins that would make heads turn.

  The Tiffany bracelet with the infinity logo.

  A bagful of all the Sephora I could afford.

  I walked down Fifth Avenue with a sway to my hips and a glint in my eye.

  I was on the prowl.

  But I had already been caught.

  In San Francisco.

  So when the guy I was set up with asked me what kind of wine I’d like, I only thought about how WineBar would order for me. How if he didn’t approve, he’d order something else.

  And where did that leave me?

  Thinking about his cock inside of me.

  I thought about the time he made me crawl on the floor. I crawled over to him and he took his pants off. Then he held me by the hair and fucked my face.

  Afterwards, he tied my wrists to my ankles and made me curl up into a little ball.

  He took off his belt and spanked me with it.

  I came. Over and over.

  And I realized that I could try and fly as far as I wanted, but I’d never run away from WineBar.

  That Tiffany bracelet with the infinity logo? He had bought it for me.

  It was time to go back.

  That night, after dinner, I didn’t go back to the boring dude’s apartment.

  I went to JFK.

  Let whatever fate had stored for us have its way with me.

  Katherine & Alexander

  One

  Alexander

  “What is this bullshit?”

  “The Bradford.”

  “I know it’s the damn Bradford. But what the hell are we doing here?”

  I glance at the building in front of us again, take another swig of the whisky bottle I’m holding, and wipe my lips with the back of my hand.

  “So?” I ask, not impressed by their choice of venue.

  Sure, The Bradford is nice and all, but this is my fucking birthday. These guys should be dragging my ass to the sleaziest strip club in town, not to some upscale Manhattan building.

  I mean, come the fuck on! We’re three young men making money hand over fist with every concert we do, and there are thousands of willing fans in Manhattan alone. Why am I not making out with the hottest model in a one-hundred mile radius while keeping the groupies at bay with a fucking sword?

  “It’s your birthday, man,” Mike tells me, looking at Chris and grinning suspiciously. They’re both as drunk as a goldfish in a vodka bowl (nothing new there), and there’s something about the way they’re eyeing me that I simply don’t like.

  “I know it’s my birthday. What I don’t know is what the hell we’re doing here,” I repeat, waving my whisky bottle at the Bradford. “I see no girls, and I see no liquor. Your idea of a good time is a fucking twisted one, that much I can tell you.”

  “No faith in us, huh?” Chris asks dramatically.

  “None.”

  Shit, I hope these guys didn’t buy me a fucking apartment. I know I’m turning thirty and shit, but there’s no way they’re gonna kick me out of the tour bus. The damn thing is a pussy-magnet on wheels, complete with a fully stocked bar and a fucking full-time chef.

  Yeah, let’s not even call it a bus—it’s more of a mansion you can drive around the country.

  It’s fine if you feel impressed. I mean, even I’m impressed sometimes. It’s not like I ever expected to be filthy rich while having having thousands upon thousands of adoring fans all over the world.

  You see, I was never voted “most likely to succeed” in high school. I was just your garden variety nerd.

  I know, I know—you’re used to seeing me up on the stage, right?

  Fancy leather jacket, ragged jeans, forearms covered in sick tattoos, and melting everyone’s panties with my guitar. That’s me, alright. But that wasn’t me twelve years ago.

  I had glasses, no tattoos, and I used to play the fucking tuba. How did I go from that to being voted Sexiest Man of the Year? (By three different publications...not that I’m bragging or anything.)

  It’s pretty simple: heartbreak.

  I react poorly when bad stuff happens. So when my eighteen-year old heart was broken, something else inside me broke as well. I smashed the fucking tuba, moved cities, picked up the guitar…and poured my fucking heart into the music.

  My fingers bled for months. Next thing I knew I had Mike and Chris with me, and we were crushing it. Seriously, I don’t know who chased us the most—the fans or the record labels.

  So, yeah, that’s me—Alexander Reeves, asshole galore. Just in case you’ve been living under a rock or something.

  “So, this is what you’re going to do,” Evan starts, reaching for me and taking the whisky bottle out of my hands.

  “You’re gonna get out of the limo,” he continues, straightening my jacket, “you’re gonna walk up to the building, and then you’re gonna ask the doorman for a certain Katherine Collins.”

  No.

  No fucking way.

  “Uh-uh,” I say, shaking my head. Leaning forward, I tap the partition separating us from the driver.

  “Driver, get us out of—” I start, but Chris and Mike just push me back and pin me to the fucking seat.

  “Do I need to repeat myself, man?” Chris asks with a sigh, although I know for a certainty he’s going to repeat himself. “You’re gonna get out of the limo, and you’re gonna get your ass inside the Bradford.”

  “Have you lost your fucking mind? There’s no way I’m going in there and ask for…her.”

  Jesus fuck, I can’t even say her name.

  “Yes, you are,” they both tell me at the same time, and the look on their faces tells me they’ll kick me out of the limo if I refuse to cooperate.

  “I m
ean,” Mike continues, “we’re a bit tired of that my-heart-was-broken bullshit, you know? It sure made us a lot of money, with you writing all those songs and whatnot, but I think it’s time you face your demons.”

  “Katherine’s not my demon. I haven’t thought of her for ages now,” I lie, even though my heart has just tightened as her name danced on my lips.

  Fuck, I dream of her every single night.

  Katherine.

  The first time I saw her, I was ten.

  It felt as if I was hit by a bolt of lightning.

  Pretty, smart, and a laugh that grabbed at your fucking soul and squeezed it tight. For eight years, I pined for her. But what could I do?

  I was a nobody, and she was the daughter of a tycoon billionaire. Next thing I knew, she was dating some rich British asshole, and they were planning to go away for college together. That shit fucking tormented my eighteen-year old self, let me tell you that.

  But I couldn’t let that happen, could I?

  Nah, I might’ve been a nerd, but I wasn't a fucking spineless one. So my eighteen-year-old self decided I’d stop them. I mustered enough courage to walk all the way to her house and tell her I loved her.

  Thing is, when I got there, there was a limo parked up-front. Her pretentious boyfriend was wearing a suit, and he was down on one knee; even from the distance, I could see an engagement ring glistening in the box he was holding up.

  I turned on my heels as fast as I could, and the rest you already know: twelve years of drinking, fucking, and being a badass motherfucker.

  Hey, I did alright.

  But still…I never stopped thinking of her.

  “Are you gonna do this or what?”

  “She’s married, and—”

  “You don’t fucking know that, do you? It’s been twelve years, for God’s sake! For all we know, she’s turned into a fucking monster, and you should have a harpoon on your hand. Either way, get in there, take a hard look at her, and move on with your life. It’s been too long, man.”

  “Fuck, alright,” I mutter, and only then do I realize that my hands are shaking.

  What the fuck’s wrong with me? Feeling as if I’m in a daze, I open the limo door and climb outside. The air’s cold, and there’s a slight breeze. I fasten my jacket and cross the road, still barely believing I’m actually doing this.

  Inside the Bradford, I ask the portly doorman for Katherine.

  “Not supposed to say,” he confides, “but I can’t say no to Alexander Reeves, can I?”

  No, you fucking can’t, I think to myself, although all I do is politely thank the guy and take the elevator upstairs.

  My heart feels like a jackhammer inside my chest, and even my vision is blurred. Maybe I’m just drunk. I mean, what the fuck—I can’t be nervous over a girl, right?

  Stopping in front of her apartment door, I suck in a deep breath and knock.

  I stand there for God knows how long, and then I hear soft footsteps coming from inside the apartment. When the door swings back, my heart stops.

  There she is.

  Katherine.

  Two

  Katherine

  My first instinct is to reach for a mace.

  He smells of whiskey, he has an old leather jacket on, and I can see the tattoos peeking from under the jacket’s sleeves. And even though it’s past nine p.m., he still has his sunglasses on.

  If it weren’t for the fact that this man—whoever he is—looks like a sex god, I would’ve probably closed the door by now. As it is, my feet are glued to the floor as I mentally take in every detail of his well-built frame.

  Chiseled jaw, stylishly dishevelled hair, and lips that seem as if they were designed for nothing more than kissing. And the way his shirt hugs his torso, Jesus…I swear I can see the outline of his abs from here.

  Keep your mind out of the gutter, I admonish myself, preventing my gaze from going further down.

  If above the waist he looks this good, I don’t even wanna start picturing what he’s hiding below his waistline. Without saying a word, the man reaches for his sunglasses and slowly pushes them down the bridge of his nose, peering at me over the rim of the lenses.

  I look him straight in the eyes, cock one eyebrow, and place my hands on my hips, waiting for him to say something.

  “Kat…?” he asks me, and my knees suddenly grow weak.

  That voice…these eyes. No, it can’t be him.

  Without even thinking about what I’m doing, I take one step back and shut the door on his face, the sound of it closing like a gunshot. I stand there, in the middle of my apartment, staring at the closed door as if I had just seen a ghost.

  “You’re not real. Go away,” I say, the words bubbling up to my lips before my brain can filter them.

  No, this can’t be happening.

  Alexander Reeves?

  In here?

  Just exactly how much wine did I have for dinner?

  “It’s me, Kat,” I hear his voice from the other side, and my knees start shaking.

  Slowly, I reach for the door’s handle and turn it, my heart feeling like a hand-grenade inside my chest. For half-a-second, I almost expect for the corridor to be deserted, and for the whole thing to be an hallucination. But no—the moment the door swings open, there he is.

  Alexander Reeves, in the flesh.

  “Alex?”

  “That’s me,” he smiles, and I think back to the last time I saw him this close.

  We were…what? Eighteen?

  We were good friends, and then he vanished. Just like that—one day he was there, the next he had vanished off the face of the Earth. I tried calling, I went to his parent’s place, but no one knew where the hell he had gone.

  He just packed his things and left, almost as if he had never existed in the first place.

  A few years later, and I finally saw him again—except he was on TV, smashing a guitar onstage in front of a crowd large enough to fill a stadium. In case you’re wondering what my reaction was, I think I can still find the hole my jaw made when it dropped to the floor.

  I mean, I didn’t even know what to think at the time. I had this image of Alexander as a sweet boy, and next thing I knew, he was this tattooed rockstar, a God towering over common mortals.

  But he never called.

  He never showed up.

  I just figured that, with his newfound fame, that he had forgotten all about me. I never forgot about him, though; even though the years passed, my mind insisted on running circles around those memories of so long ago.

  Oh, how I pined for that boy!

  But he was too gentle, too kind, and he never made a move. And then he vanished.

  I thought I’d never see him again, that that door had closed for good.

  But now…here he is.

  “You fucking asshole!” I find myself saying and, before I can stop my body from moving, my hand has closed into a fist, and I punch him in the chest.

  He doesn’t even move, and I think that all I managed to do was hurt my wrist.

  “Ouch,” he says, feigning some pain and rubbing his chest, “what was that for?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t think.”

  Well, that’s a lame excuse, even for me.

  He cocks one eyebrow.

  “I mean…you disappeared for twelve years! Not even a text, Alexander. And now you show up just like this! I thought we were friends.”

  “We were friends…” he starts, taking one step forward and placing one hand on the door, preventing me from shutting it again. “But you weren’t just a friend to me, Kat. You were more.”

  “More?”

  Oh my god, is he saying what I think he’s saying?

  My mouth’s turning dry, and I can’t peel my eyes away from his.

  Jesus, even my lips are parting of their own accord. I feel as if electricity’s crackling under my skin, making my heart beat faster and my mind work slower.

  “More,” he nods without taking his eyes from mine.

 
; Before I know it, he takes another step forward, his body now almost pressed against mine. One second passes, two seconds pass, and then…he starts leaning in, slowly, and I can’t help but part my lips.

  Oh, shit!

  “No, stop!” I say, remembering myself.

  Lowering my voice, I point with my thumb at the couch in the middle of my living room. There, three-year-old Anna is fast sleep, wrapped tight in a mountain of blankets.

  Alexander’s eyes follow the direction my thumb is pointing at, his eyes find little Anna asleep on the couch, and then he just stands straight and runs one hand through his sandy hair.

  “Oh, man,” he sighs, “I need a fucking drink.”

  Three

  Alexander

  Note to self: murder Chris and Mike when I get back.

  I can’t believe they dragged me all the way here just so I had to face the harsh reality: Katherine’s happily married, and she has a daughter.

  Oh, man, this is way beyond fucked up.

  For a second there, I almost fucking kissed her.

  For a second, I almost…believed.

  Turning on my heels, I bolt out of her apartment and walk down the corridor in a daze. Without even bothering to say “goodbye,” I make my way toward the elevator and punch the button over-and-over again.

  I just want to get out from this fucking nightmare.

  “Slow down, Jesus,” I hear Kat say behind me, and I look back at her over my shoulder. She followed me all the way to the elevator, and now she has her arms folded over her chest, tapping one foot against the floor.

  Fuck, she looks even more beautiful than I remember. Flawless skin, high cheekbones, and lips of a violent red. Long, straight blonde hair, almost like a sheet made of the most perfect satin.

  And her eyes…still the color of a clear blue sky, just like I remember them.

  And don’t even get me started on her body. With a tight black dress hugging her curves, she looks like she just walked out of a Victoria’s Secret’s magazine ad.