Mountain Man Baby Daddy: A Billionaire + Virgin Bride Romance

by Vivien Vale

  When it’s time for dessert, I complain that I’ve eaten too much.

  “Let’s just go home, my love,” I say to him.

  “Just a bit of dessert,” Wes says. He’s insisting. He’s acting a little strange tonight. I finally give in, and he orders the seasonal sorbet.

  When the dessert arrives, it’s beautifully presented.

  “This looks great,” I say to him. He watches me as I start eating. I take one bite and then another. The third bite has something hard in it, and I frown, taking my napkin and pulling it out of my mouth. A golden ring glitters in my hand. I wipe it off with the napkin.

  “What’s this?” I ask. When I look up at Wes, he’s not in his seat anymore, but kneeling on the ground.

  “Marry me,” he says. “I love you. Be mine forever.”

  It’s so simple, so straightforward and tears well up in my eyes. I nod. “Yes,” I say.

  Wes takes the ring and slips it onto my finger. It’s beautiful – a princess cut with diamonds set around it into the band and it fits perfectly.

  I kiss him. He stands up, pulling me into him, pressing his body against mine. He’s just as turned on as he was when we were at home, and my body responds immediately. I want him.

  “I want you, now,” I say.

  Wes looks around. We’re in a classy restaurant. He calls for the check and pays for the meal before he takes me with him to the entrance where a coat check girl is reading a book.

  “What are you checking in?” she asks.

  “Us,” Wes says, and he slides a couple of bills across the counter to her. She glances up at the manager that sweeps past us in a hurry before she takes the bills.

  “Only a couple of minutes,” she says.

  “It’s all I need,” Wes says and pulls me into the closet.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. We’re acting like teenagers when we have a home to go to and a bed we can fuck in all night.

  “Keeping it fun,” he says, and he’s right.

  The thrill of being caught reminds me of the sex we had in the office so many months ago. Any moment, we can be caught, and that makes it feel so much more fun, even though the sex is always perfect at home. Wes presses me against the coats that are lined up along the one wall, and we’re engulfed in the smells of other people, perfume hugging us.

  Wes doesn’t waste time. He hikes up my dress, pulls down my panties far enough to give himself space and brushes his fingers against my pussy.

  “You’re so wet,” he says.

  “You sound surprised,” I whisper. I’m already out of breath, my skin tingling, my body aching for a release.

  He grins at me, shaking his head. “Oh, no. I know you’re my little office slut.”

  It’s a running joke between us. I don’t have time to laugh at it. His fingers circle my clit a few times, and I gasp before he pushes his fingers into me. I gasp. He finger fucks me for a short while. I reach into his pants and pump my hand up and down around his cock.

  When he lets go of me, I can focus on undoing his pants, and I free his cock. It’s hard and eager, and I want it inside of me.

  Wes hikes up my leg and holds it up, pressing me against the cushioning wall of coats. His other hand is on my breast, massaging me through the material.

  “We don’t have much time,” he says in a throaty growl.

  “Best do it quick then,” I say. I’m already breathing hard. The thrill has me on the edge already, and Wes is so hot and demanding I love it.

  He pushes himself into me without much ceremony and I’m so wet he slides right in. I gasp. I’ll never get used to the size and the feel of him.

  He starts pumping into me, fucking me hard. I moan, and he lets go of my breast, clamping a hand over my mouth to keep me quiet, instead.

  It’s hot. He’s pinning me against the coats with his hand over my mouth, and I can’t help but want more domination. I want him to take me.

  As if he knows what I’m thinking he fucks me as hard as he wants to, slamming into me. I am so close to the edge it’s driving me crazy. He grunts and groans softly as he pounds into me. He was right when he said he didn’t need a lot of time. In no time at all, he pushes me over the edge, and I orgasm. It’s hot and heavy, washing over me, blinding me for a moment. His hand is firmly in place over my mouth, and I gasp through my nose. My orgasm kickstarts his, and he empties himself out inside me, pumping and jerking. He shudders when he’s done, and slowly he uncovers my mouth. We’re both breathing hard.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Wes says. “I want to take you in every position I can, and we don’t have time for that, here.”

  I nod. He pulls out of me and lets me go. I’m unsteady on my feet. I bend down and pull my underwear back on. I don’t have time to clean up, but I don’t mind the wet mess in my panties. We’re going home, and I’m getting more of that.

  Wes pops his head out of the closet and pulls me with him a moment later. The coat check girl looks smug as if she’s happy with her end of the bargain. Wes and I walk hand in hand out of the restaurant and back to the car.

  There’s never a dull moment with him, and I’m sure we’re going to keep having this kind of fun. I lift my hand and look at the ring that sparkles in the dim lighting.

  I can’t wait for the rest of our lives together.

  More From The Author

  Did you enjoy reading Mountain Man?

  Then I want you to check out this sexy story I wrote called Hard Pressed. I put a yummy taste inside this book in case you were interested...

  Get a sneak peek of Hard Pressed!

  Hard Pressed

  Chapter 1

  Xavier

  I try not to do this too much. ‘This’ being whisking people up and away, taking them to far-off lands for multicourse dinners. It’s a little too Aladdin. It’s a little much and, honestly, not the glamorous fun it seems in the movies.

  Here’s the basic truth: I drop more than a hundred grand to make people feel uncomfortable. They’re rarely enjoyably wowed. This might be my fault.

  I don’t tell people to bring their passport, bustle people into my private (but shared) plane, and get a last-minute reservation to a Michelin-starred restaurant overseas all because I love them and want more of their company.

  I do it only because I see doubt in their eyes. Or, no. It’s not doubt I see, but a look of discovery when they suddenly realize who I am is not what I seem.

  Like this one sitting across from me. Her name is Jane, but she seems like an Amber or Topaz. Someone either born into luxury or someone so hungry they grab at opportunities, determined to make one stick.

  We met at an event at a TriBecA gallery yesterday. She handed me a glass of sparkling wine and when I went to grab a cocktail napkin, she handed me her headshot folded into a sharp square, small enough to slide into my trouser pocket.

  She winked at me. I laughed. Chutzpah can be sexy, but mostly it’s annoying.

  Later, I followed her as she walked around the room with a tray full of canapes, each one capped with perfect mounds of shining caviar. When she stopped and turned to look at me, I took one and, before I popped it into my mouth, I asked if she’d get a drink with me when she got off work.

  Jane-Amber-Topaz smiled and then she nodded. She turned on her heel and walked to the back of the gallery and through the doors hidden behind a towering sculpture of a faceless man carved in onyx.

  A minute later she was next to me. She was wearing dark lipstick and her navy trench was belted tight.

  “Let’s go,” she said. I arched a brow and smiled down at her; she was tall, maybe six feet, but I’m taller still and bent slightly toward her.

  “Your boss is okay with that?” I asked, my voice low.

  “I’m hoping to convince you to be my boss,” she said.

  We left, slid into a cab. I let my hand brush her thigh.

  “This is about work,” she said, so I removed my hand and nodded, looking out the window. I brushed my hair out of my e
yes and tried not to be annoyed. “Ok, let’s start with work. Which one of my businesses are you trying to break into?”

  “I’m an investigative reporter,” Jane said, “and Hard Pressed has one of the best teams working right now: the Russian dossier, the CH Jones scandal…well, I guess, I don’t have to tell you about the scoops your team has racked up over the past few years.

  I nodded curtly.

  “No,” I said, “You don’t.” Jane’s forefinger pulsed on her thigh. She was nervous, but her eyes gleamed with excitement. I asked her, “Are you good? Where have you published?”

  “Mostly in mid-market newspapers, but yeah. I’m really good. I’ll send you my clips. But also consider the facts: We didn’t just run into each other, obviously. I sought you out. I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable,” she said. She wet her lips with tip of her tongue and continued. “In order to find you, and get you to talk to me, I had to do a small investigation.”

  “You could have just made an appointment with my assistant,” I said, feeling fascinated and wary. The air in the cab had gone still.

  “We both know you wouldn’t have seen me,” Jane said.

  The cabbie leaned on his horn. The moment broken.

  The evening went on. We didn’t talk about her investigation. I planned to leave her at the bar and head back to my apartment alone. But she was beautiful and tenacious. I found myself fascinated and curious about what she wanted to happen next.

  I listened to her talk and answered some of her questions. We both drank our bourbon neat. When the server brought the bill, I put down my black AmEx card over the bill for our drinks.

  “I’m not going to hire you,” I said. “Not like this and not for that team. You want me to admire your gall and I do—to an extent. But finding out where the CEO of a major media group will be on a Wednesday night isn’t a deep dive investigation, a two-penny PI could have done just as well.

  “On our investigative team, there are five Pulitzers between them. By asking questions and digging through thousands of files, they brought down one major bank and an online sex trafficking ring. What do you know about these kinds of investigations? You’re a cub reporter, tenacious but green.”

  Even in the dark of the bar, I could see the blood rush to her face. At first, I thought she was embarrassed, and expressing it like a kid by blushing from her toes to the roots of her hair, but as the moment stretched I realized she was furious.

  “I haven’t told you what I know about you, Stanley,” she said.

  I was getting up from the table, but sat back down when I heard her.

  “I changed my name,” I said, trying for nonchalance. “I’m not exactly the first person to do that.”

  She nodded, smiling slowly.

  “Sure, Xavier, that’s true. People change their names and you absolutely look the part of a debonair business god throwing around his black card in a dive bar in the East Village. Xavier is something else, but Stanley is…nothing much.”

  I forced a laugh.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I said, taking care to keep my voice so low she had to lean slightly forward to hear me.

  A slight look of surprise flashed across her face.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  I smiled coolly.

  “To your house to grab your passport,” I said. “I assume you have one, Jane.”

  She looked me dead in the eye, and belted the last of her bourbon. A sharp nod and then she took off for the door.

  We didn’t talk much and then we both slept on the plane. I had the flight attendant bring out Dom Perignon and a bowl of caviar from the Caspian Sea. I told her to use the crystal champagne flutes.

  When sudden turbulence caused the plane to jolt, I watched Jane’s full champagne glass fly and smash against the side of the plane. I smiled and asked the flight attendant to bring her another crystal glass filled close to the rim with champagne.

  “Let’s try that again,” I said.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Rome,” I said.

  I watched her swallow the wine, the caviar in front of her untouched. She looked out her window and I, finally feeling calm, looked out mine.

  Once we landed, I deposited her in the penthouse of the Ritz. Then, later, I sent a chauffeured Rolls Royce to pick her up.

  I didn’t prepare her for the luxurious glamor of the dinner. I didn’t offer to buy her a wardrobe full of designer dresses. I was dressed impeccably, tailored suit, cufflinks, a square of silk tucked into my pocket.

  Now, she’s seated across from me in a dress that looks like it was bought in a Midwestern mall in 2003. She’s still beautiful, but she’s lost her cocksure attitude.

  “You’re not eating, Jane,” I remark, taking a sip of the rare vintage I ordered for us. “Is it okay? Should we call the chef over?”

  “It’s perfect,” she says, a note of bitterness obvious.

  I incline my head.

  She picks up her fork and puts it down again.

  “You’ve made your point, Xavier,” she says.

  I lift my eyes to hers.

  “Let me be very clear, little girl,” I say. “You may think you know me and understand some part of who I am or where I’ve come from. You learned I came from a small town, was raised by a single-mother. You might know every fact of my life, but I am and will always be more than you are: smarter, richer, more powerful, more accomplished. If you cross me, threaten me, follow me, I will—” here I pause and lean back in my chair for effect, “crush you.”

  I watch her wilt. I feel both shame and satisfaction.

  “Now,” I say, dabbing my lips with the napkin. “We have a few minutes before the plane will be ready to take us back home, should we get dessert?”

  I watch her as she lifts her head and squares her shoulders.

  “Whatever you like, Xavier.”

  Back on my plane, she’s staring out the window while I’m smiling to myself.

  Chapter 2

  Allie

  I’m not sure why I’m here again, sitting on the black leather chair in this stuffy, cramped waiting room. The guy sitting at the back of the room looks like the receptionist, but he isn’t.

  His name is Brock, a douchey name for a douchey guy. He’s the youngest talent agent in this three-person outfit and the one who didn’t get a private office with a door. Everyone who walks in and treats him as if he might be helpful in connecting them with another agent in the office is rudely and pointedly ignored.

  Or, if he’s in a playful mood, he looks you up and down and says something like: “My clients are all animals, but I might make an exception for you and your horse’s face” or “you and your bullfrog’s mouth” or “sloth’s hands” or “hippo’s grace” or “cow’s titties” or whatever animal part comes to his mind in the moment.

  The poor person who makes the mistake of thinking he’s a decent human being, mostly innocent teenage girls, blink stupidly at him, and then sink into the other chair in the room to wait for their actual agent to stick their head from behind the door and call their names.

  The smart ones, however, turn and take off, speeding out the door.

  You better run, I always think, but Brock never acknowledge their reactions and goes back to barking into the mouth piece on his headset.

  In all my years, sitting in this chair in front of his desk, I’ve never seen him meet with a client himself or close a deal. He must do something, though, because I’ve noticed his clothes have stopped hanging off his body. He looks like a man who eats good food regularly and he carries himself like a man who has a trainer, a masseuse, and a tailor.

  I know all this about Brock because I sit here forgotten for hours by my agent, Cheri. I know all this because years ago I was the green and hopeful kid, still sporting my cheerleader-perfect ponytail.

  The first morning I walked into this place, I was going to meet with my agent—my agent!—for the first time. I’d tied a red ribbon in
my hair that morning, but before I opened the door of my car to walk into the building, I changed my mind. I pulled off the ribbon and slipped it into my black Longchamp bag, a present from my aunt on my nineteenth birthday.

  That was years ago—how many? Seven? Ten? Who knows. That was the last promising day of my career. Since then I’ve wasted days of my life on this black plastic chair watching people walk past me with big confident smiles and leave with watery eyes.

  Those of us who are veterans of this life will nod at each other. I’ve watched so many of them change from having that snappy walk of an eager dreamer to the more measured clipped movement of the determined, to the resigned forward motion of the person trapped in a tortured loop.

  There’s nothing glamorous about this life.

  Today, for example, I’ve been waiting for an hour and forty minutes to see a woman who won’t look me in the eye for the whole of our 15-minute meeting. She won’t waste her words on me or help me when I tell her that I haven’t worked as an actor in months. I’ll tell her that I’m starting to lose my will to go on.