100 Days: A Billionaire Romance

by Alexis Angel

  That first night in Europe we stayed in a villa in the outskirts of Florence, but we hopped all across Italy as my belly grew into a respectably sized bump. Milan, Turin, Rome - you name it, I’ve been there. We’ve also made a few detours to visit some other cities in Europe, from Berlin to Barcelona, but we mostly stuck with good ol’ Italy.

  In fact, we’ve been in Italy for so long that I find myself calling it home. We even decided we’re going to wait for me to give birth here before we head back to the states. We timed it so that Magnus could be in New York just before the Equinox Tower construction begins. It’s been a few months since he clinched the deal, and it took all that time to straighten out all the required paperwork. But now he finally has the green light to start building the tower, and I can tell he’s aching to go back to work.

  I feel the same too. Sure, one year of vacation sounds fine, but I have grown restless as well. I don’t want to be a leech and live on Magnus’ money, you know? Besides, I’ve always wanted to be a journalist, and that hasn’t changed. In fact, I’ve used the little Italian I’ve learned (maybe I should consider myself a fluent speaker by now) to write a few columns for some local newspapers. I guess Italy really sunk its hook in me, huh?

  Even though we’re probably going back to the states in a few months, Magnus and I have already talked about buying a villa in Florence, a cozy and secluded place where we can raise our children. I love the hustle and bustle of New York City, sure, but it turns out I also have a penchant for a quiet country life.

  The way we see it, we can split our time between New York and Florence without breaking a sweat. We just go where we want, when we want. Sure, a lot of that is going to depend on how busy Magnus is, but there’s always some leeway.

  I stretch lazily in my chair, remembering every turn of the path that led to me being here right now with Magnus, and look up at the first glowing stars in the sky with a smile. There’s a slight breeze in the air but the night is a warm one, the fingers of summer already reaching for the green hills of Genoa.

  I hear Magnus’ footsteps coming from inside our bedroom, and I turn back on my stretcher to see him walk toward the balcony. “Hey, babe,” Magnus whispers, leaning down and planting a kiss on my cheek. I look up at him, smiling, both my hands on my oversized belly.

  “Hey there, handsome,” I whisper back, and he sits by my side. We’re sitting on the balcony of our room in a villa in the vicinity of Genoa, one of Italy's most important port cities. The sun has just set, but its orange glow still falls over the world like a curtain, and I can’t help but feel like I’m inside a living picture.

  “How’s my boy?” Magnus asks me, slowly reaching for me and caressing my bump.

  “Girl,” I correct him with a laugh, but he just shakes his head.

  “Nah, it’s a boy. I can feel it,” he tells me, a smile on his lips.

  We decided against knowing beforehand if it’s going to be a boy or a girl, but now we find ourselves betting on who’s right. I tease Magnus by telling him it’s going to be a girl but, deep down, I think he’s right - there’s a miniature Magnus growing inside of me.

  “Did you know everything would turn out the way it did?” I find myself asking him, looking at him with a gentle smile. He smiles right back and, leaning toward me, brushes his lips softly against mine.

  “I didn’t have the slightest clue,” he shrugs. “I just knew I wouldn’t leave your side, come hell or high water.” Without saying a word, I reach for his hand and squeeze it in mine; this time I’m the one leaning in toward me, planting a kiss on his lips.

  “I love you so much,” I whisper, feeling the warm summer breeze caress my skin.

  “So do I,” he replies, softly pushing me out of my stretcher and taking it for him. He pulls me into his lap then, and I swing my legs over his, my arms laced around his neck.

  We sit there in silence, the steady chirping of crickets filling the atmosphere around us. Closing my eyes, I press my head against his chest and take a deep breath. Sometimes happiness is as easy as this - one smile, one kiss, one hug. And, with Magnus by my side, happiness has never been any easier.

  If I had to describe my life with one word right now, I know exactly which one I’d use.

  Felicità.

  A Note From The Author

  Dirty Daddy was so much fun to write in a taboo dirty kinda way.

  Next, we have…Jailbait!! The first thing I ever wrote!

  Then, a copy of Scandalous, by Alexis Angel. This book is no longer published and provided for free with every copy.

  Then we have Client 5, by Alexis Angel. It has an added new epilogue as well! This book is no longer published and provided for free.

  This then has a copy of Man Chaser by Alexis Angel. This book is no longer published and provided for free.

  And finally, a copy of Gambling For the Virgin, by Dark Angel! This has never before been provided as a thank you until now!

  And then I have a very special treat. Completely brand new! My collected NLs!

  After that, I have two short stories.

  Athena’s Puzzle, a short story by Alexis Angel.

  All followed by, Malcolm’s Affair, which is a short story by Alexis Angel.

  Both are never before seen and brand new. They will never be published anywhere else separately.

  Our goal in this is simple.

  To entertain you as long as we can to give you the best experience with the words that we hold so dear. Because while we may be in various corners of the world, the fact that we are sharing these brings us closer together we feel.

  Thank you so much for reading!

  xoxo

  Alexis

  Jailbait

  Jailbait: A Secret Baby Bad Boy Romance

  I’m a bad man. That’s why I’m in jail. And I’m gonna use her as my ticket out…

  She’s sexy, sassy, and cute. But she’s never met anyone like me. I should have no trouble getting what I need from her and moving on.

  I’ve done it before. Broken hearts when I left ‘em after I got what I needed. I can do it again.

  I can’t let that curvy body sway me from my goal. I can’t let those wide eyes and beautiful lips make me forget what I am – an inmate looking to escape.

  Ain’t no way I’m falling in love while I’m using her if I know what’s good for me.

  There’s just one problem. I’ve never done what’s good for me. That’s why I’m in jail, remember?

  Incarcerate yourself with this secret baby bad boy romance—filled with brooding bad boy alpha-males and the women they love! No cliffhangers, but it’s a scorcher with super-steamy scenes. Happily Ever After? You know it.

  Kerri

  The house is quiet. I place my keys on the dining table and walk through the living room. It's dark, but I hear the steady hum of a fan. He must have left it on and then got called into work because I don't hear him, I think to myself. But then I hear a noise coming from an upstairs bedroom. Was that a giggle or a cough, or maybe something else? I can't tell. The sound is too far away.

  I slowly make my way up the stairs. "Hello?" I call out. But I don't receive a response. Maybe Jonathan is home and taking a shower. I approach our bedroom. The door is closed but there is a light on. I turn the knob and push the door open. The stereo is on and I hear our familiar song playing its soulful melody:

  "If the stars don't shine, if the moon won't rise, if I never see the setting sun again, you won't hear me cry, this I testify, please believe me, boy, you know I won't lie, you and me, you and me…"

  I blink back the light of the room as my eyes adjust. At first nothing seems amiss. I notice our rumpled white comforter on the bed and it's moving rhythmically. "Jonathan?" I ask. But before I hear anything else, I now know what I'm looking at, and I'm having a hard time believing it. My eyes burn, and I blink, but when I open them again, I know everything is now changed. My life is irrevocably altered.

  "Babe, what are you doing home? I thought you w
ere working?" Jonathan stammers, holding the comforter up to his chin.

  At first, I'm too stunned to say anything. And then I scream, and once I open my mouth, I can't stop. Words spill out of my mouth like water from a fire hose. "Get out! You bastard, get out! Now! Just get out!" Hot tears are spilling out of my eyes, and I hate myself for crying. I should be stronger than this. My strong-willed mother raised me, and if she were here right now, she'd tell me to be tougher than this. I can almost hear her voice in my ear, with its deep, serious tone, telling me that this man doesn't deserve me. He isn't worth crying about. But I'm devastated—there is no question about it—and the hurt that's coursing through me drowns that all out.

  "We can work this out," Jonathan pleads. He's getting out of our bed, naked, and holding a pillow in front of his erect cock. His hair is a mess and he runs his fingers through it. His face is flush; he seems scared, but he's forcing his mouth into a smile, and I can't help but look at his rows of perfectly white, straight teeth. I used to think they were a thing of beauty, and now I think they make him look fake, like a real-life talking mannequin, which reminds me of a horror movie. He extends his hand to mine, but I don't let him touch me. I swat it away and turn my body before crossing my arms defensively.

  Before this moment, I thought he was the perfect man, even the man of my dreams. I believed that the fairy tale was possible—I bought into the Disney dream that said everyone had their soul mate—their hero on a white horse would come along, so long as you waited for him. I pictured us in this house with kids. I pictured the wedding. I even found myself day dreaming about what kind of flowers I'd use for our arrangements. Hell, I even thought we'd eventually have the mini-van and the weekday soccer practices. It was such a clear picture.

  "I made a mistake," he pleads. "I swear this'll never happen again." I snatch his pillow and throw it across the room. I want him to feel just as exposed and vulnerable as I do in this moment.

  "You're joking, right?" I ask, not waiting for an answer. "It's over."

  And then I look back to the bed, and I see a woman looking for her bra. Her hands are fumbling through the sheets. She's trying to hold her beasts in her hands, but her bra is on the floor and when she finally sees it, she has to reach down and pick it up. Her breasts spill out and I am disgusted with how perfect they look. She refuses to make eye contact with me and her discomfort is palpable. Her hair has that "just fucked" look and she doesn't bother touching it. She's not the one I'm mad it. It's clear she's an unknowing victim.

  "Get out!" I scream again. It's the only thing I can say. It feels as if the walls are crumbling around me—the home Jonathan and I built together, the rainy nights spent in front of the TV cuddling up to a movie, the laughs, all of the good memories—that is all replaced with what feels like a punch to my gut. Everything feels dead and the only way I know how to staunch the pain is to remove these people—to get them out of my sight for good.

  They scramble for their clothes, and hop around the room on one leg, quickly trying to pull their bodies through jeans. They aren't moving fast enough and I can't stop screaming. I'm seeing and feeling red. My entire body is pulsing. "Get out! Get out! Get the fuck out!" The minutes seem like an eternity and they finally leave with their shoes tucked under their arms. The woman runs down the stairs, and Jonathan follows after her. He stops mid-way and looks back at me one last time before leaving the house for good. It's a pathetic look and I hate him for it.

  As soon as I hear the front door close, I slump down against the bedroom wall and sob. It feels like my chest is cracking in half. Everything feels dark and broken. I vow to never trust another man so easily again—maybe ever. Maybe there's no such thing as a Mr. Right. Maybe it's all a lie.

  All I know is that there's now a before and after. I'm no longer the person I was yesterday, or even a few minutes ago. I was once blind and trusting, but time has split me in two. I don't even know who I am anymore. I'm a new person now—the kind of person who has to reconcile the fact that the man who I thought was my best friend is actually part of a betrayal. It's sort of like being slapped and hugged at the same time.

  I don't know who I am any longer, or where I'm going, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let myself sit here, shattered.

  Lucien

  "—6, 7, 8, 9," I say out loud nearly spitting into the dirt next to me. Fuck, this place is hot. It must be 90 degrees out here. My arms and chest strain under the heaviness of the cast iron weights clanking against a steel bar. My muscles are shot and quivering, but I keep going at a steady pace. I feel myself growing stronger, and if I'm honest, lifting weights gives me the same euphoria as fucking beautiful women. Besides, I can't let myself get soft in a place like this.

  There aren't many weights in the exercise yard anymore. It ain't like the movies. The ones left are decades old and rusting, and you practically have to nut up on everyone around you just to use them. I guess some high and mighty prick judge somewhere thought it was risky to let ex-cons get "intimidating muscles," and before anyone could so much as bat an eyelash, the media had its panties all in a ruffle. Everyone was "crapping in their cornflakes" so to speak. Just like that. Boom. Everyone was afraid. And now here we are resorting to lifting library books and doing pull ups on our bunk beds. Lucky for me, this shithole still has a set of weights, and if it's one thing I refuse to do, it's to let myself rot here.

  I rest the weights back on the stand and wipe a thin line of sweat dripping down my temple. I blink back the Southern California sun. I catch my breath and grip the bar again. "One more rep," I tell myself. I release the bar from the stand and exhale sharply. It feels impossibly heavy and my veins are pulsing in my biceps. If this bar slips—if my arms give out—I will be in serious trouble. For a moment I wonder if I should call it quits for the day, but I shake the thought. Get your shit together, I tell myself. I start my new reps and count each press, "1, 2, and—"

  As I count, my mind drifts back to the moment that haunts me every fucking time I close my eyes at night, and every time I open them in the morning. That apartment. That woman. I can still hear her screaming. I can still see that look of fear in her wide blue eyes as she clutched her baby to her chest. "Do it!" Billy yelled at me. "What the fuck are you waiting for?"

  I remember holding the gun in my hand. My fingers frozen against the steel. That baby's perfectly round head nuzzled into her mother's neck like a fuzzy peach. I couldn't do it. I mean, not just in a moral sense, although only a sick fuck could make a move like that, but my entire body resisted too. I completely shut down.

  "You fucking coward," Billy snarled. He grabbed the gun and changed everything. BANG. BANG. There were two loud shots that ended two lives. I had never seen so much red. And then everything went quiet. I exhale sharply again, remembering the unsettling stillness of it all.

  "3, 4, 5—" I continue to count my reps at a faster clip trying to dull the memory.

  It was a revenge killing. Running drugs for the mob isn't pretty, and I've done a lot of shit things in my life, but killing a mother and a baby isn't one of them. Of course no one believes me. And why should they? Billy and the rest of 'em did a damn near perfect job of setting me up—my finger prints were all over the place, including the gun. When the judge slapped me with a life sentence, I swear that a fucking lump the size of a boulder lodged itself deep into my gut. I still have a hard time eating sometimes. I shake my head in disgust.

  I notice a shadow above me blocking out the sun. A voice says, "It's time you let the real men have a turn."

  A shirtless man looks down at me. His eyes dare me to react. He's young, maybe 26. He thinks he's invincible—they all do in this fucking place. A spider web is tattooed across his shaved, bald head and he spits into the dirt next to me. This guy must be new. People know better than to talk shit to me like that. I rest the weights back on the stand and get up off the bench. I stand inches from his face with my fists clenched and my tightened muscles swollen from the bench presses, defying the unsa
id rules of personal space.

  "Says who?" I challenge.

  "Says me."

  "Yeah, well, you can go fuck yourself."

  The man's eyes flash hatred at me. He doesn't blink, but instead moves closer. "What the fuck did you just say?"

  "You heard me."

  "If I heard correctly, you've just signed your own death certificate," he taunts.

  "Right or wrong. It doesn't fucking matter," I say. "The only thing that matters in here is winning."

  I notice he is clutching a sock in his right hand. I wasn't born yesterday. I know what he's planning to do. There's a lock buried in that sock, and I'm not going to let him have the first swing. Without thinking or saying another word, I strike my right-elbow into the bridge of his nose and I hear it crack. It's like turning on a faucet because a river of blood runs down his face, across his lips, and under his chin.

  "You fucking bastard," he growls. He is beyond pissed now. He swings the sock. Predictable. I bend my knees and dodge it, and when I come back up, I bring my fist into his temple. He stumbles and I notice a small crowd has formed a ring around us. Some men are laughing. Some cheering. Some are even making bets.

  He charges me like a ram and slams his head into my collarbone. A sharp pain radiates down my chest but this spurs me on. He may be big, but he doesn't stand a chance. I put him in a headlock and we tumble into the dirt. He head butts me and I feel a hot cut form on my cheek. His neck is now in the crease of my arm and I squeeze harder. I'm on top of him and I put my knee into his jaw and pummel his ribs with my fist. Our brawling is kicking up a cloud of dirt and I blink rapidly, trying to keep it out of my eyes.