Rock Hard German Billionaire

by Paris Rose

  Rock Hard

  German Billionaire

  A Billionaire Rockstar Romance

  Paris Rose

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

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  Chapter 1

  It was getting late, and I needed to make it back to Chicago in time to finish my article, which was due in a matter of hours. I’ve been a freelance entertainment journalist since I graduated college. I’ve done stories in both television and print for outlets like Extra, TMZ, BET, US Weekly, Rolling Stone and Billboard Magazine, just to name a few. My big dream is to have my own show where I get to interview the hottest names in showbiz. I want to be the celebrity that interviews the celebrities! I want my name to be a household name. Giavanna Johnson. I’m not there yet, but I’m getting close, or at least that’s what I tell myself to stay motivated. Most of the time I work for an independent entertainment news magazine that covers underground artists, rising stars, falling stars, and the very rare and occasional A-Lister. It’s not my dream publication, but I haven’t been featured in the bigger entertainment news outlets since the epic fail a couple of years ago that almost got me blacklisted from the industry. I’ll tell you more about that some other time.

  I always feel like I’m just one story away from my big break, and this time was no exception. My heart was racing, and my stomach felt like a thousand anxious butterflies were fighting to escape. I’m sure some of my intense physiological reactions were due to anxiety about my impending deadline. But my sweaty palms and weak knees could mostly be attributed to the exhilaration I was feeling from sitting in a five-star Beverly Hills restaurant, across from the hottest German rock star to hit the American music scene in my lifetime. Through shameless self-promotion, and a few connections in high places, I had landed an interview with the lead singer of the rising international rock band, Aus Deutschland. His name was Christoff Diemacht Hartmann. Christoff stood a little over six feet, three inches. He had a brawny build and chiseled, masculine features. There was nothing about him that wasn’t larger than life. Like any good showman, he changed his hair almost every week. Today, it was a dark chocolate brown, and it fell just below his brow.

  I had been an Aus Deutschland fan since their first album. People are always shocked when they find out that I like aggressive German rock. They never expect it from a Black girl from the Midwest. I discovered them and a lot of other foreign artists while doing an internship for a world music magazine. I never thought that they would become mainstream in the U.S., and not even in my wildest dreams had I imagined that I’d be interviewing one of them. Okay, maybe I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t dreamed about it, because I had, but I never expected it to actually happen, or at least not this soon. Christoff’s aggressive baritone vocals made ladies all over the globe, including me, swoon. But what was even more alluring was his warm, melodic speaking voice. He sounded much different in person than he did on all of his gritty industrial rock tracks. If it could even be possible, everything about him was even more captivating up close and in person.

  I sat across the table silently, as Christoff slowly and deliberately curled his lips around the opening to his beer bottle. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat with every swallow. As he pulled the bottle away, it seemed as if everything was moving in slow motion when a few drops of lager inadvertently missed Christoff’s mouth and landed on his bottom lip. I think I visibly quivered as I watched him roll his tongue across his full lips and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. I love a man that drinks straight out of the bottle. I’ve always found it to be so sexy and masculine.

  My thoughts were interrupted as I felt the heat of Christoff’s piercing sapphire eyes on my cleavage. I pried my attention away from his lips and tried to make eye contact when he discreetly averted his gaze. A rosy, red excitement painted my cheeks and spread across my chest. My light caramel brown skin always betrayed me. I was pleased, and embarrassed at the same time, that I caught Christoff Diemacht Hartmann, the man of every hard rock fan’s dreams, checking me out in my new black and nude dress with the sweetheart neckline. I started to fumble with my silverware to buy time while I thought of something appropriate to say. Of course, I knocked my sauce-covered fork off the table and onto the floor. My heart raced with embarrassment. I hoped I didn’t get anything on my dress. I was trying to decide whether to pick up the fork or leave it when Christoff cleared his throat.

  “You know I really don’t like the press…in fact…I despise them.” Christoff interrupted the uncomfortable silence with his aggressive German accent.

  My breath caught in my throat, and I felt my muscles start to tense. I was both intimidated and annoyed. Sure, Christoff D. Hartmann was amazing, but without the press, he would be a nobody. So many stars forget that. Without me, my entertainment journalist colleagues, and of course the paparazzi, these stars wouldn’t be stars, they would still be starving artists. Aus Deutschland has always had a strained relationship with the press. Many journalists have given them a hard time about their controversial lyrics and tumultuous personal lives. But it really wasn’t fair that Christoff wasn’t giving me a chance. Little did he know, I was a huge fan, and was planning to give him the softball interview of a lifetime. I was crazy about him and the rest of the band so I was going to make sure the interview was a home run for everyone involved. I was terribly put-off by his presumptuous attitude. I tried to stay in control by pulling my shoulders back and taking a deep breath to center myself.

  “Well, then why are we here?” I exhaled.

  Christoff leaned in and lowered his voice, “I don’t know…shrewdness on your part…or perhaps a little business savvy on my end…or maybe, just maybe…curiosity about that dress you’re wearing…do you have anything on underneath that?”

  “Look asshole, I’m here to get the interview you promised me, so I can finish my story by the deadline.” I slammed my hand on the table and leaned in close for dramatic effect. “I’m a seasoned journalist. I’ve done my research and I know who you are,” I asserted firmly.

  “Well, since you know me so well, why don’t you tell me about myself?” Christoff smirked arrogantly and leaned back in his chair.

  I took a long, slow sip of my wine before responding. “You’re a womanizer, a cheater with serious commitment issues, and possibly a narcissist.” The words fell out of my mouth slow and heavy as I psychoanalyzed him.

  “See, exactly why I despise the press. You don’t even know me, yet somehow you think you’ve got me all figured out. You’re just like all the rest of the so-called journalists who make me out to be some womanizing monster.”

  “Well, how about you change my mind?” I said, pressing the red button on my digital recorder and placing it in the center of the table. “Shall we?”

  “I suppose.”

  “So how is the American leg of the tour going?” I threw a softball to loosen him up.

  “It sucks… I’m tired… The laws in the venues are too strict, and I’m sleep deprived and horny.” Christoff leaned back and folded his arms.

  “Aww, poor, over-worked, sexually deprived rock star. I’m so sorry for your pain,” I cooed sarcastically.

  “Well, you asked, so I answered. Are we done yet?”

  �
��You know what…yeah, we are! I don’t need this. There are many names much bigger than yours dying to be interviewed by me, so I really don’t know why you’re being such a pain in the ass. Unfortunately, I can’t let you waste any more of my time.” I gestured for the waiter to come to our table, as I pushed my chair back to walk away.

  Christoff threw a wad of cash on the table as I was halfway out the door. I didn’t know how I was going to get back to Chicago in time to find another story. And somewhere between leaving my apartment in Chicago early this morning and arriving in Los Angeles this afternoon, I had misplaced my laptop. I keep my laptop with me at all times so I can write on the road, but I was so excited about my opportunity to cover Aus Deutschland that I’d been running around as wound-up as an aerobics instructor on a 1980s workout video. Christoff Diemacht Hartmann was my biggest dream, my deepest wish, and my wildest fantasy, but that explanation wasn’t going to fly when I showed up back home in Chicago without a story.

  I was hoping I’d absent-mindedly left my laptop back home and not in the taxi or at the airport. Now if only I could get back home to figure that out. If I had to call my editor and tell him that I hadn’t gotten the interview I’d already prematurely boasted to him about—and that I needed an emergency return flight back to Chicago—I would be in such deep shit. I checked my smartphone. Even if I was willing to part with the money to switch my ticket to leave tonight, there weren’t even any more flights leaving LAX until tomorrow morning, hours after my deadline.

  “Aaahhhh!!” I exclaimed through gritted teeth. I didn’t know who I would call or how I would make my deadline. Why does this shit always happen to me? I paced back and forth outside of the restaurant.

  My thoughts were interrupted by Christoff’s voice. “Looks like someone is a little frustrated,” he teased while laughing at me.

  Even in the frantic state I was in, his voice titillated me, but I wasn’t going to let him know that. “Fuck you!” I blurted, slapping his massive bicep with my oversized Longchamp bag. “I have a deadline to meet, and I don’t know how I’m going to get back to Chicago, and thanks to you I don’t have an interview,” I exclaimed, still pacing. “Dammit!”

  “Aww, poor journalist, so sorry for your pain.” He chuckled.

  I closed my eyes and tried to compose myself. “Look, at least be quiet so I can think.”

  “I would offer to take you back to Chicago on my private jet, but it’s obvious that you don’t want to be anywhere near me right now.” He smiled, knowing he had full control of the situation.

  Maybe I could actually get my interview with him on the way back to Chicago, I thought. And worst-case scenario, at least I would be home in time to come up with an idea for a new piece and a story for my editor as to why I hadn’t gotten this interview. My mind was racing with a million thoughts.

  “Have you ever been on the Pacific Coast Highway during sunset?” he asked with a charming glow in his eye.

  “No, I’ve been on the PCH several times, but never during sunset,” I replied, letting my frustration dissipate.

  “The sun will be setting shortly. I’ll drive you that way on the way to the airport… How about it?”

  The valet brought Christoff’s silver Mercedes Benz around to where we were standing. Christoff opened my door for me, which I didn’t expect. I could tell he was attracted to me, and lord knew I was attracted to him, but at this point in my life, my career was much more important to me than trying to get laid by some celebrity. I had already been there and done that with some of the most promising up-and-comers in Hollywood, as well as the music industry. While it was fun and made for some good slumber party gossip, such indiscretions did not get me closer to my dream of having my own show. In fact, the drama that resulted from some of my romps with the wrong people set me back in certain ways. I’m older and wiser now, and I have more bills to pay and bigger dreams to achieve. No more frivolous celebrity hook-ups for me. My eye was on the prize. I was completely focused on getting my interview and getting back home to find my computer, and write my piece on the revival of Industrial German Rock, or New German Hardness, as the critics so aptly called it.

  I smoothed my dress as I climbed into the car. It was so low to the ground it was hard to get in gracefully, but somehow I managed.

  “Buckle up.” He smiled.

  I complied with his instructions. I didn’t think it was the right time to reopen the topic of the interview just yet, so we rode in silence. Christoff seemed to be a man of little words. The strong and silent type. It took quite a while to drive through the city and get onto the Pacific Coast Highway. I used to live in Los Angeles briefly when my career reached one of its peaks. And I still travel there often to cover stories and visit friends, but no matter how many times I visit, I can never get enough of the PCH.

  Ahh, the Pacific Coast Highway.

  The road ahead of us wound through the picturesque hills of Southern California. The ocean that spread the length of the highway sparkled beneath the amber glow of the sunset. I felt like I was in a sports car commercial as I watched Christoff shift gears and whiz past a cherry red Audi.

  I’ve met a lot of people and seen a lot of places, but being on the PCH in a luxury sports car with the lead singer of Aus Deutschland, escorting me to his private jet, had to be the pinnacle of my adult life. As he shifted down a couple of gears to cut around a sharp corner, the back of his hand inadvertently brushed against my thigh. I started to move my legs away from the gear shift, but I liked the way his knuckles felt against my skin, even though I didn’t want to admit it. I subtly shifted my weight so that more of my skin touched his.

  “How’s it feel?” he asked, interrupting my devious thoughts.

  “What?” I jumped, startled.

  “Cruising down the Pacific Coast Highway at 70 miles per hour in a Mercedes Benz?”

  “It’s exhilarating,” I replied as I took it all in.

  “You know, I’m sorry I was a dick earlier. I’m just a little tense because I’ve been on the road for months. I get paid a lot to do what I love, so I know you don’t have a ton of sympathy for me. I get it. But I’ve been really exhausted and tense.” He ran his index finger up my thigh and across the curviest part of my hip before shifting gears again. I tried not to react, but it gave me chills.

  “No, I understand. I’m on the road a lot, too. Albeit for a lot less money, but I know how it goes,” I said, secretly aching for him to put his hand back on my thigh, but knowing full well it wasn’t a good idea.

  “Yeah, you seem kind of tightly wound, but I guess I can’t blame you. Journalism can be pretty intense. Maybe that’s why the press is always making up nonsense.”

  “Hey!” I cut him a sideways glance.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll leave you alone.” He chuckled.

  “You better!” I flirted back with the stupidest grin on my face. I turned away and looked out the window so he wouldn’t see how giddy I’d become. My face twitched from smiling so hard.

  “Sooo, have you ever fucked any of the celebrities you’ve interviewed?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “That is not any of your business. And even if I did get banged by a celeb, it would be strictly off the record. I would never admit something like that, not to the tabloids, not to anyone, and certainly not to you,” I responded firmly.

  He took his hands off the steering wheel to give me a slow, dramatic applause. “I’ve heard about you, but now I get to see it for myself. I have to give it to you. You are quite the professional, or at least you try to be. You stick to getting your story no matter what.” He put his hands back on the wheel as he took his eyes off of the road and looked me up and down. The longing in his gaze made me more attracted to him than ever before.

  I hesitantly uncrossed my legs as I made eye contact with him. I could hear my own heartbeat resonate inside my ears as I wondered what Christoff would do or say next. He didn’t leave me in anticipation for very long. With one hand on the steering wheel and one ha
nd in my lap, he confidently wedged all four of his thick fingers in the narrow gap between my legs, and he slowly slid his hand under my dress and up the length of my inner thighs until his thumb was toying with the outside of my underwear.

  I instinctively spread my legs. He rubbed his fingers against my clit over my underwear. My excitement was just starting to soak through the thin lining of my satin panties when he slid his hand out from under my dress and up my abdomen, across my stomach, and underneath my breasts. I released the breath that I didn’t even realize I was holding as Christoff returned his hand to the gear shift. My legs fell open even wider as I melted into the seat. I wanted more, but on this rare occasion, I didn’t know if I should ask for it.

  “Someone seems a little turned on,” he said playfully, and he chuckled with a hint of arrogance.

  I bit my lower lip and nodded my head. “Yeah…” I uttered breathily as I glanced over and saw an erection starting to rise beneath his pants.

  He smiled as he switched lanes. My heart palpitated as we matched pace with a bright yellow Jaguar.

  “So how bad do you want me?” he asked with a seductive curiosity in his voice.

  “I think you already know the answer to that,” I breathed almost inaudibly.

  “What was that?” he asked confidentially, returning his hand to my inner thigh.

  “We probably shouldn’t be doing this…but I really want to.”

  “Really?”

  “Mmmhm,” I nodded, spreading my legs for him.

  He slipped my panties to the side and began to play with my clit. It made me feel warm and giddy. He slipped two of his long thick fingers deep inside of me. My abdominal muscles tensed as he slowly slid his fingers in and out of me. I looked over at him; he had a full erection now. It looked like his cock was fighting to get out of his pants. I started salivating as I thought about how I wanted to kiss him and run my tongue all over his athletic body. I was so wet with excitement. He slid his fingers out of me and pressed them against my throbbing clit. He rubbed his fingers against me in a slow circular motion, and my heart began to race for what felt like the hundredth time that night.