The Bullion Brothers: Billionaire triplet brothers interracial menage

by Tania Beaton

  When we met, he couldn’t peel his eyes out of my cleavage, except when it was to roam around my generous hips and my thighs, or over my round ass. All of a sudden, he doesn’t want to see me like that when we’re out together.

  When or if. Soon after the invitations started to come in from the agents and artists and gallery owners, Petroc started ‘forgetting’ to mention them to me, or he’d say something like, ‘Oh, don’t you have a thing that evening?’ or, ‘You really don’t have to come.’

  Like I’d worked my black butt off to get him into these places, and I wouldn’t want to come along for the follow-up? No, it hurts like hell to think it, but I had to face the facts, Petroc was thinking that he could do better. He could do better, now. Now that I had helped him to gain some credibility, I’d served my purpose for him, and he was ready to move on. FUCKER!!!

  I took a walk on my first solitary Saturday in months, feeling utterly miserable. I went to Central park and sat on a cold rock by a lake for a while. The autumn sunlight sloped beautifully across the trees. The towers on Central Park West sparkled with a dark gold to match the leaves on the thinning branches.

  Thoughts of Petroc brimmed whether I wanted them or not. Little things he’d given me. Believe me, they were all very little things. Bizarrely, the smaller the thing, the more trivial the event, the more sentimental the memory made me.

  I recalled the first time we had dinner together, gawky, awkward thing that he was then, reaching across the table to brush a hair out of my eye and I welled up and almost lost it completely.

  The whole of the time we had spent together washed through me like an endless series of ocean waves. Inside I was drenched in the overwhelming regret and remorse. I rolled, slewing between ‘how could I let something so simple and fragile get so messed up?’ and ‘how could I have let that emotional cockroach into my life?’

  There was no way I could stay by the lake then, I had to move. Several blinks, a long, slow straightening of my clothes and I carefully, hesitantly stood. One more pull of my lips between my teeth and I set off.

  The warm breeze in my face helped me back to the real world. Visualising the past blowing away behind me like ribbons and thinking of myself striding into the future, I clenched my teeth just for a moment as I strode off.

  Traffic noise faded behind the birdsong and rustling leaves. Children squeaked and scampered nearby. All of it left me miserable but with a clean feeling.

  I left the park and crossed the busy street. I walked by the Dakota building where John Lennon had lived. And died. And I was miserable again, but the feeling was transforming.

  I crossed the noisy traffic of Broadway by the block with the lovely green Beaux-Arts domes and carvings and I wandered aimlessly down to Riverside Park, where the Hudson gleamed and shimmered. There’s a pretty café by the marina where I thought I might get a coffee and an ice-cream.

  As I got nearer the idea made of it me lonely and glum. Fuck it, Petroc was hardly the world’s most eligible bachelor, but I’d put a big chunk of my little life into him and I had really believed that we could be going somewhere. Only to find out that he wanted us to be going to different somewheres, and he’d tossed me away like a candy wrapper.

  Well, I was done crying about him. I did so much of that last night, I must have shed a couple of pounds of saltwater at least. So, best fucking foot forwards, Maya, onwards and fucking upwards.

  As I got closer to the dazzling waterfront, the trees behind me muffled the honking buzz of traffic. Lower, slower, sputtery engine sounds of the river ahead were occasionally punctuated by the rasp of a boat horn that echoed on the water.

  Across the river is New Jersey, hundreds of thousands of apartment windows, where people were all living their lives, just like they were yesterday, just like they would be tomorrow.

  Leaves were turning golden yellows, reds and browns on the trees in the park, and every few moments a jogger huffed by. The breeze carried a few brown leaves, and a slight chill.

  As I wandered towards the river’s edge, and a big, unsteady street-dweller came towards me, his arms outstretched. Nine times out of ten in Manhattan, these encounters are funny, charming or just plain goofy.

  As a girl, I always expect them to be the one time when it’s not any of those. The large, round man had a straggly beard and a grin with an incomplete set of teeth.

  His breath reached me long before he did, a mix of fuel and decay. I tried not to flinch as he croaked, “Hey, baby,” at me. His hand reached out towards my shoulder and I moved a step back. “Aw, don’t be like that,” his gappy grin widened and I saw a flash in his eyes that I didn’t like. I shrank back towards the bushes. He came after me.

  Then he froze. He was looking past my shoulder. His eyes stretched wide and his face went gray. Behind me I heard a rustling in the bush, then a deep low, grating sound. Soft but still shocking. I didn’t think I could risk taking my eyes off the wooly homeless man, even though he was starting to back away slowly, with a look of terror growing across his face.

  Behind me I heard a rustle of leaves and I felt heat. The warmth of a large body moved close to my back. When the homeless man had backed a safe distance away I turned, but all I saw was a large shape slipping back into the bushes and I heard the rustling of the leaves.

  As I looked around, the homeless man fled in a panic. The few other people I could see were just enjoying a balmy Saturday, like nothing was going on. In the marina nearby, little boats bobbed on the water, and a massive, silver yacht was cutting through the Hudson and heaving by.

  On the prow stood a big, fine looking man in white pants, a white shirt, Raybans and a white sailor’s cap. He shielded his eyes and gave a jolly wave towards the shore, the way that people on boats do. I gave as jolly a wave as I had in return. His golden beard made him look like the man from Gush.

  In Manhattan, that kind of a chance meeting never happens. Not to me anyway, and not to anyone I knew. He pointed. I looked around, he must have been waving to someone else. Me, misreading signals again. I didn’t see anyone, and he was still pointing, towards the marina.

  I knew that he must be gesturing to someone out of my view, but I gave him a friendly wave goodbye as I turned back. Then I heard a man’s voice in the distance. It sounded familiar. It sounded as though he was calling my name. He couldn’t be

  But he was. “Maya!”

  I looked back up. That really couldn’t be my arrogant companion from the gallery opening, shading his eyes on the front of the yacht. It couldn’t be. He called out again, “Maya! Wait for me!” and his voice carried easily across the water. He turned and headed towards the rear of the boat. It wasn’t a short walk.

  A motor launch was winching out at the far end of the yacht, and as soon as he reached it, he climbed into the launch and it began to lower into the water. The boat reached the river and was released from the winch and I heard the engine start.

  I stood transfixed, plucked out of my miserable meandering as I watched the big man expertly steer the long, sleek wooden launch to the shore. As he jumped out, he seemed to tie the boat up in a single, fluid movement.

  A thrill that I tried to suppress ran through me, watching the lithe skill he displayed. Then he strode rapidly up the gray wooden jetty towards me, pointing again at the café.

  My teeth clenched. Is that how he treated everybody, I wondered, telling them what he wanted with nods and gestures and expecting them to comply? In spite of myself I waited at the entrance to the café.

  I watched his long, thick legs, beautifully draped in the white flannel pants. The top of his broad, dark golden chest peeked out of the loose white shirt. As he peeled off the sunglasses, his deep brown eyes locked into mine and my insides turned to jello.

  His arm stretched out and went around my waist. I realised too late that he was coming in for a European cheek kiss, or maybe a fashionable metrosexual hug. My arms were already as far around him as they would go and his scent was like a big leather armchair b
y a crackling fire.

  Feeling my soft, hot cheek against his warm, hard chest, my swelling breasts squeezed against his firm rippled stomach, and my arms tight around him, the emotions that I had been holding down and suppressing bubbled and frothed over, and I let out a quiet sob. No blubberer, me, I held on just long enough to get some composure, then I pulled away.

  It was a reluctant retreat, I admit it. My nipples had sent crackling sparks all the way into my panties. Standing there, holding him, enfolded in him, I had felt a tenderness, a huge strength, and I felt so safe, as though nothing could reach me there. Nothing but him. I felt as though something was growing between us. And something had been quite literally growing between us.

  Something hard and strong and very large had uncoiled and hardened against my stomach and it made my thighs quiver. If I had stayed pressed there against him for much longer, I don’t know what I might have done. Out there, in the broad daylight.

  I needed to recover myself. In spite of everything he was the perfect gentleman. He said, “Maya, I think you might like something to eat. Perhaps you’d allow me to buy you lunch.”

  His low, honeyed voice melted my insides. At that moment, he could have finished his sentence any way he liked. Perhaps you’d allow me to… Yes, I probably would. I would likely have agreed to just about anything he could have said.

  He guided me into the café in the sharp morning sun, and he sat across a metal table from me. I had no appetite, but he told the waiter to bring me coffee and a piece of lemon meringue pie.

  “Pie?” I said when the waiter had left, “Do I look to you like a girl who needs pie?”

  His grin was as infuriating as it was delicious. It had an easy warmth and, even with the assumption that I would do what he told me, there was an openness in his face. There was nevertheless something that was perpetually amused and unbearably pleased with itself.

  The sound of his voice was soft and intimate under the café sunshade as he said, “You look to me like a girl in an urgent need of pie. I would say that you were a borderline emergency.”

  He was playing with me. I tried hard not to like it. I hate it when men do that. I reminded myself so. Repeatedly.

  He continued, “Maya, I see someone who needs to be loved and who wants to be needed. Someone born to care and be cared for. Someone to protect. Someone made for nurturing.”

  I watched his eyes. Was that a sardonic twinkle or was he being sincere. I had no way to tell. My teeth clenched. My eyes were fixed on his strong, broad chest. I was trying to take in what he was saying.

  He said, “I’ve been looking a long time, Maya. Hunting, you might say. I need a woman like you. My family needs a beautiful woman, exactly like you, Maya.”

  I was flustered. I didn’t know how to respond. His words made me tingle and thrum inside, but I couldn’t process his meaning. And still I hadn’t registered who he was or put his obvious wealth, his wry smile and his scorching hot bod together to identify his lethal reputation. I peered into his eyes.

  Not knowing what to do and playing for time, I changed the subject and said, “Listen, I’m sorry I ran off like that on Thursday. I really didn’t mean to be rude.” The relaxation pulled out of his look and his face tightened back up.

  He said, “Funny. That’s exactly what I was going to say. I looked for you, but something came up and unfortunately I had to leave. I’m so very sorry.” I thought about the two big, dark shadows of men that slipped into the back of his Bentley. “And I’m so glad now, to have found you again.”

  As he said that, his eyes shone with an intensity that shook me. His eyes sparkled, and crinkled in the corners. His strong, white teeth shone above his perfectly cleft chin. A girl could get herself into a whole lot of trouble looking at a man like this.

  A very large piece of pie arrived, along with my latte. I said, “Aren’t you having anything?”

  He said, “I had a late brunch on the boat.”

  “Is your boat going to be OK out there in the middle of the Hudson?”

  “It’s a big boat, it can take care of itself. Besides, it’s not my boat.”

  “Really?”

  “Strictly speaking, no. A smart man said, ‘always rent if it flies… or floats.’” I caught his hesitation. I said,

  “Flies, floats or fucks, wasn’t it?”

  He smiled and said,

  “I only apply it to machines and vehicles.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Oh, yes.” His grin was so mischievous it made me want to do something very wicked. He said, “The man who said that had an insatiable appetite for Japanese girls. Beautiful girls to whom he was wildly generous and permanently unattached.”

  “Are you permanently unattached, then?”

  “Not permanently, I hope.” Now I couldn’t tell whether he was playing or not. I was even more infuriated by his grin as it left. It wasn’t easy to tell whether it had actually grown more infuriating before it melted away, or whether the effort of not slapping him was just getting too much for me.

  The pie had that perfect pastry base that dissolves on contact with warmth and moisture. The sweet pastry and sharp lemon was a heavenly balance with the crumbly cloud of meringue. His attention was rapt as he watched me eat. In spite of my protest, the pie did make me feel a whole lot better.

  A last triangular piece of lemon pastry sat among golden crumbs on the plate. He said, “You should finish it. It’s doing you good.” I wanted it, but I also wanted to show some restraint. To myself as much as to him.

  “Really, I’ve had enough.”

  “Mm. Enough is as good as a feast?”

  “Sure.”

  “But there’s nothing wrong with an occasional feast.” He picked the little triangle up with his fingers. His nostrils flared as he lifted it and inhaled. His eyes flashed as he held the scrummy morsel towards me.

  I tried not to lean forwards. I didn’t succeed. My lips parted and I leaned towards the little treat. It was still just out of reach. He held it nearer, moved it between my lips. Popped it into my mouth.

  As the sweet pastry melted, his strong fingers gently traced my tingling lips. His tongue moistened his own lips as he watched me eat that sweet scrap. Our eyes stayed locked on each other’s as I felt his fingers, still on the plush pillow of my lower lip.

  My heart pounded as he watched me, as the sweet meringue and tangy lemon flavor melted away in my wet mouth. When I swallowed, I tilted my head slightly, slid my lips over the top joints of his fingers, drew them into my mouth, licked and suckled them.

  His eyes burned as they lingered on my lips. “I’m a man of very special needs, Maya. The three of us are, as you probably know.”

  “Three of you?” Something scratched at the back of my mind but I still hadn’t put two and two together. Or one and three, as it would be in his case.

  His eyebrow lifted and a trace of a real smile lit through his eyes. “You don’t know. You really don’t know, do you.”

  “Know what?” but in the stubborn dimness, a picture was emerging in my head. When he said, ‘Three of us,’ that opened a door and I began to recall some headlines.

  Most of them were about high finance deals. Mergers and acquisitions by the ‘Bullion brains,’ or the ‘golden triplets.’ I’d only seen those in passing.

  What I did recall were stories about a gorgeous young actresses. Pictures of Oscar nominees with makeup wiped and smeared across their faces, most of their clothes ripped or missing in action.