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

by Alexis Angel

  I moved here after the aforementioned split with Derek. He and I had shared a place downtown, and once we split, he moved in with the dirty tramp, and I’ve never looked back.

  Living at The Bradford has made me feel like I’m finally home. After years of running from my problems and dating bad men, I’m finally in a safe place, a strong place.

  My interior designer friend, Layla, helped decorate my little space in The Bradford, and she made it romantic with a touch of industrial design.

  I take the bottle of red from my little wine fridge and pop the cork. Then I do something devious, something I’ve been prone to do as of late.

  I walk to my window that’s a stone’s throw away from the building next door where a handsome new mystery man has moved in.

  Talk about rugged.

  It may or may not have become a nightly ritual of mine to see what he’s up to.

  Yes, I know it’s weird to be spying on a neighbor, but if you saw him, you’d be doing the same exact thing.

  He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. And his apartment! Though I don’t have a great view of it, well, I can tell that it’s modern, luxe, dark…and big. The guy practically owns the entire floor.

  I’ve seen him looking at me, too. We have a kind of love/hate relationship going on. He sees me, and I see him, but neither of us will admit to it.

  Not that I’ve actually met the guy. I’ve seen him coming and going in a limousine. He’s seen me getting in and out of Ubers.

  That’s about the extent of it.

  That and the couple times I’ve seen him walking around his place with no shirt on.

  The man has abs—rippling, sculpted abs. And that’s all I’m checking on tonight, to see if he’s home and if he happens to be getting out of the shower or home from a workout.

  Before you judge me, let’s just remember that this is New York City. People live on top of each other here, and it’s virtually impossible to look out my window or to be on my little balcony without seeing a straight shot into his apartment.

  It’s unavoidable.

  He’s unavoidable.

  He penetrates my thoughts, and I don’t even know the guy.

  Fuck, I’m getting myself into something deep. I can feel it, and once I’m in, I know it’ll be hard to get out.

  I look through my blinds and sip my wine, but he’s not there.

  Damn.

  It’s better this way, I guess. I need to not have my desire fueled by this neighborly obsession.

  I take my drink to the tub where I draw out a long and relaxing bath for a day well done.

  That’s the thing about living at The Bradford…there’s never a dull moment.

  Two

  Paul

  Her legs are spread wide for me. She’s always so eager to have me take her across my desk.

  My secretary, Lydia, is begging for it, and that’s all the motivation I need to drive it home.

  I pump into her roughly and grip her hips between my strong hands, trying to keep her in place and from ruining all the paperwork on my desk.

  “Yes, Paul, oh fuck, yes.”

  Yeah, I know, baby. You want it…bad.

  She came on board to my firm a couple months ago, and we’ve made this a little nightly ritual. It took less than a week of her working for me to have her on her knees in my office, begging to suck my cock.

  Who am I to say no? Paul Armstrong does not say no to a beautiful woman so easily.

  I am, by definition, a player, but Lydia doesn’t know that about me. She might’ve surmised it given the fact that I’ve never once invited her to my place or seen her outside of the office. But I’m not about to ruin the fluid sexual relationship we have going.

  That’s all it is—sex. That’s all it ever is.

  I’m fairly new to the city, came in from London a couple months ago. I live in a nice little place—okay, a nice big place while I look around town for the perfect penthouse.

  I grab a handful of her beautiful tits and then I thrust into her harder than ever.

  My twelve-inch cock goes in deep, and she cries out my name again. I cup a hand over her mouth, trying to muffle her gasps for me.

  “Paul, fuck, I’m coming so hard.”

  She always comes hard. Lydia—the twenty-something personal assistant who organizes my life and dresses for my benefit every single day—always has multiple orgasms with me.

  I know I’m the best she’s ever had. I’m the best most women have ever had. That’s why it’s my pleasure to fuck them into oblivion; I’m doing them a fucking favor.

  Today, she’s got a tight little bondage dress on. It’s far too inappropriate for the office, but who am I to complain? She’ll get the message soon enough that I’m not really interested, and then she’ll either quit, move to another department, or hold her head high and come into work every day even as I fuck a new round of women.

  What can I say?

  It takes a lot to keep me interested for any length of time…and Lydia’s just not that interesting.

  Besides, it’s a two-way street. She’s fucking me because I’m the boss and a natural dominant. I’m fucking her because she has nice tits and she’s conveniently located.

  Don’t think I’m an asshole just yet. I’m holding out for love, but at this point in my life, it’s been more about lust than anything else.

  You try finding the whole package in a city like this. I need brains, beauty, and a certain amount of vulnerability that’ll keep my cock hard for a lifetime.

  “Paul, baby, fuck. You’re so hot!”

  Lydia’s screaming and coming all around my thick shaft. I take my time to draw out her pleasure, and then I sink into her deeply and pull out just in time to spray cum all over her tits and torso.

  It glistens so nicely on her flat belly, and I take a second to just watch as she scoops my essence off her chest and licks her fingers clean.

  Good fucking girl.

  I let her pull herself together and make my way to the bar. It’s nighttime already, and I need a fucking drink.

  To say I’m a workaholic is an understatement. I work all the goddamn time, and that’s why Lydia’s so convenient to have around.

  “Mmm, Paul, that was so good,” she says, getting back into her tight bondage-style dress. “Hey, you wanna get a drink somewhere?”

  “Hmm, baby I’d like to, but you know how much work I have to do. You go out, have fun.”

  She pouts, and I go over to her kiss her softly to remind her that it’ll be this way same time tomorrow.

  “Okay,” she says cheerily as she walks to the door. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  “Fine,” I say absentmindedly over my shoulder.

  I’m already burying my head in a stack of new reports.

  I work too much, and I know it, but let’s just say it’s more important to me to get ahead then it is to go out on the town for some mediocre fun.

  I work late into the night, and then I hit the gym that’s close to the apartment. I love to work out late, when no one’s there, when normal people have gone to bed.

  That’s when I come alive. I’m a night owl and survive on very little sleep.

  I work out hard, to the very max, then I shower up and go home. I have a black Porsche that I drive when I want to give my limousine driver the night off. He deserves it.

  He has a family and everything, not like me. I have no one to answer to and I like it that way.

  Tonight is no different, and as I click on the lights of my darkened apartment, I can’t help but think of her.

  She doesn’t have a name. She’s barely even a neighbor. But she lives next door in The Bradford, and she’s so fucking beautiful that I find myself staring from my place into her apartment often.

  I just like to get a glimpse of her, to know that she’s okay.

  And I vow to meet her one day soon.

  It just has to look like an accident.

  Three

  Naomi
>
  My heels click on the pavement.

  Blisters threaten to have me walk barefoot.

  It’s been another long day working on-location. They sectioned off an entire Manhattan street just for this photo shoot, and I have to say I did a stunning job. The theme is “Midnight in Manhattan.”

  I swathed the model in black lace, dark blues, and tons of fucking diamonds. She looked ethereal, set against the backdrop of the gritty street—which was kind of the point: midnight in the city.

  It’s late as I walk the last few blocks home. I like to walk in the city when it’s dark and the tourists and the people have faded a bit into the background.

  I’m a creative, after all. I find inspiration after hours when normal people sleep. I like to do things the abnormal way—or at least a little differently. You’d never find me at a nine-to-five job.

  And that’s why I’m walking home to The Bradford, anxious for my bed and a long, hot bath.

  Every night, I take a sea salt bath, and I listen to Reiki music and just try to calm down after a day of being surrounded by swarms of people.

  NYC is no joke. You gotta be tough to live here. You gotta have a kind of armor on at all times that says, Don’t make eye contact with me. Don’t even fucking look at me. It’s the attitude on the streets, and I am nothing if not full of attitude.

  But in my downtime, it’s a different story. When I’m alone, I can relax and act not so tough and just be myself.

  I walk my tired body home but appreciate the bright lights all the same.

  I may rag on it, but NYC is my home, and it always will be. I’m happy here, happier than anywhere else in the world.

  And just as I start to lower my guard because The Bradford is in full view, that’s when it happens…a limousine pulls up, and the window rolls down, and it’s him.

  My heart beats a little faster in my chest. My breathing becomes unstable.

  He says through the window, “Hey, don’t I know you?”

  I look into his deep hazel eyes and nearly melt.

  “Um, no, I don’t think so.”

  “Sure, I do. We’re neighbors. You live in The Bradford, right?”

  “Um, yeah,” I say, trying to pretend with all my might that I haven’t spent countless nights trying to see if he’s home.

  “Well, listen, can you do me a favor?”

  “Maybe,” I say walking to his limousine.

  I know he’s a not a monster. I’ve seen him many times. He looks safe enough.

  “I have this business function to attend, and my date canceled. Think you could come with?”

  He can’t be serious.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I am. My name’s Paul, and I live in that building right over there,” he points to the place across from mine. “Come with me?”

  I’m not gonna deny this smoldering man. And I am dressed for any occasion in my black Valentino dress. But first thing’s first.

  “Okay, I’ll go with you. But first I need to go change my shoes. These heels are killing me.”

  “I’ll be waiting right out front.”

  I can feel his eyes watching me as I cross the street and go into my building.

  This is fucking crazy. If I hadn’t spied on him a million times already, I wouldn’t even consider this. But as it is, I kind of do know him—and I’m dying to actually get to know him.

  So I swiftly enter my building and ask the doorman as I go, “Hey, do you know a Paul? Lives across the street?”

  “You mean Paul Armstrong? Sure, moved in a couple months ago. They say he’s richer than anyone, old money.”

  “Hmm, thanks, that helps a lot.”

  Paul Armstrong. What a name. I take the elevator up to my place and hurry in. I run to the closet and put on my most comfortable yet classic come-fuck-me boots. Then I hurry to my vanity, tousle my hair with some spray, smear on some lipstick, and then I’m back out the door.

  I turn around to lock it, and I see Emilia and Evan in a heated moment. When did they become a thing?

  I try not to look, but he’s got her pinned against the wall between his arms, and they’re fighting about something in heated tones.

  Should I say hi?

  Should I see if she’s okay?

  I decide that Emilia’s a big girl and that she can take care of herself. Besides, their argument seems more lust-driven than anything.

  I casually walk past them to the elevator in preparation for my own big moment with Mr. Paul Armstrong. Emilia sees me and delivers a small smile that lets me know she’s okay.

  Then the next thing I know she and Evan are going at it—in a totally non-argumentative way.

  I smile to myself as I press the elevator key and suddenly feel myself experiencing waves of mixed emotions.

  I’m about to go out with Paul—mystery man extraordinaire, sexy neighbor, and man with rippling abs.

  How I got in this position I’ll never know, but I can see that tonight promises to be extraordinary.

  Four

  Paul

  She comes out of her building looking fucking hot.

  She changed her shoes, but everything else is the same. I haven’t even got her name yet, and I already know I want to fuck her.

  She runs to the waiting limousine, and I do her the honor of opening the door myself.

  My fake excuse about needing a date worked. I do have a work function to attend, but I didn’t need a date. It’s a dinner, a fundraiser, and totally unnecessary.

  Normally, I’d just write them a check and call it good. But not if she’s gonna be my date. I’d sit through a thousand boring dinners just to be in close proximity to her.

  “Hi,” she says breathlessly.

  “I didn’t even get your name,” I say, inhaling the sweet scent of her rich brown hair as she gets in the limo.

  “Oh, hi, I’m Naomi. And I think you’re right. We are neighbors. I think I’ve seen you before,” she says with a smirk as she gets in.

  Oh, fuck. She’s seen me all right. I knew she had, the little minx.

  My apartment is right across from hers, and I’ve seen those green eyes staring at me from a distance, especially and most conveniently when I’ve got my shirt off.

  I slide into the limo next to her, and she smiles something wicked. I know she’s thinking what I’m thinking. I know she’s wishing I would spread her out right here and claim her and drag her back to my apartment.

  But time will reveal all things.

  “Drink?” I say, proffering some of the best bourbon on the planet.

  “Yes, thank you,” she says swishing the amber liquid around in her glass.

  She takes a sip, eyes locked on mine the entire time.

  Fuck, this girl has the potential to get me in deep. I may never swim out of her endlessly sexy green eyes.

  She’s provocative and seductive and fucking perfect. My time in NYC is looking very worthwhile all of a sudden.

  “So, where are we going?” she asks lightly.

  “A hotel downtown. A boring dinner,” I say, taking in her curves.

  It’s nice to see her up close and personal.

  “Boring, huh? Sounds like a great time,” she quips.

  I look at her intently and say, “I promise we’ll just make an appearance and then we can get out of there.”

  “Okay,” she says simply, staring into my eyes.

  For a second, we’re locked in this moment, sparks flying and an unspoken connection between us. This girl has me on fire already, and I barely even know her. But I’ve watched her for long enough to see that she intrigues me and that I’m dying to get to know her more intimately.

  My driver takes us to the place, and all the while, Naomi chatters nervously away. She tells me about her job as a stylist. She mentions the fact that she was cheated on about a year ago, and all I can think of is what a total fucking idiot that guy was.

  She tells me that she’s lived at The Bradford ever since and that it’s where sh
e licked her wounds, and now she calls it home.

  I can’t seem to stop staring at her. She’s trying to gauge my reaction and to get me to open up, but I’m just not that kind of guy. I hold my cards close to my chest on everything. I’ve found that it doesn’t work to my advantage to have people knowing too much too soon about who I am.

  We get to the hotel, and I help her out of the car. She looks fucking gorgeous.

  We go inside, and the room is spinning with all manner of financial people. A lot of society folk are here, and Naomi seems to fit right in. She, of course, has more style than any of them.

  I lead her easily around the room, making introductions.

  “Hi, Simon, this is my date, Naomi.”

  “Naomi Parish,” she says holding her hand out to greet him.

  The girl is friendly and sociable—qualities I admire, because I don’t possess them. She’s like a goddamn social butterfly making the rounds, getting to know people.

  We drink, and we dance, and we make our appearance—then I decide it’s time to go. Time to enact phase two of the plan.

  “You ready to get out of here?” I breathe the words down her neck as we walk away from the dance floor.

  “Ready when you are.”

  I drag her away from the function and back to my waiting limousine. Suddenly, the idea of restraining my cock for one single second more is too overwhelming. Yes, I want to fuck this girl. But more than that, I find myself wanting to be with her.

  I knew she was gorgeous from the times I saw her through the window, but I never imagined she’d be so fucking charming and smart and funny.

  “Geez,” she says, trying to pull back from my grasp. “You in some kind of hurry?”

  “Yes,” I growl so low that only she can hear me. “I’m in a hurry to get you home so I can peel that black dress off your body and fuck you until the sun comes up.”

  Her eyes widen at my bold assumption. I know she wants it, too—otherwise, she wouldn’t be licking her lips and staring at me with a kind of glazed-over expression.