The Billionaires Surprise Baby: A MFM Billionaire Menage Romance

by West, Harper

  “You do," I agree. But I still can't forget that conversation we had before I left them. "But you don't have to. I mean, you said…"

  Tyler blinks and waits for me to elaborate.

  “Never mind.” Maybe Tyler’s changed his mind about kids. I mean, people do change over time. I never saw myself with kids, but here we are. “Okay, we can talk about it. I’m free tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Great,” he says, “Logan’s schedule is empty, and I can move my meeting an hour or so. We’ll hammer out the details in the morning.”

  “Sounds good,” I say cautiously. Tyler kisses my cheek and heads out.

  I wrap my blanket tighter around myself and tiptoe in to check on Oliver. He’s sleeping peacefully, smacking his tiny lips. He makes me smile.

  “Whatever happens with your daddies, I will always love you,” I whisper softly to him. I want to pick him up and hold him, but I’m afraid I’ll wake him and never get him back to sleep, so I refrain and head back into my own bedroom.

  I put on pajamas before getting into bed this time. Thick ones. And I add an extra blanket on top before settling in.

  I haven’t felt so cold, so alone, since the first night I left them.

  The next morning, I take Oliver to his follow-up appointment with the family doctor that the hospital referred me to and we run some errands together. I get a coffee at an outdoor cafe and the two of us people-watch as my drink cools. Well, I people-watch. Oliver mostly gurgles and tries to wave at people passing by who coo at him and tell me how beautiful he is.

  Like I don’t already know.

  I picture what it would be like to take Oliver home to Logan’s penthouse. He’d have his own little room that we’d paint a cute shade of light blue. Maybe we’d put a trim around the edges of the wall. Robots or toy trains or something like that. I picture Logan changing diapers and Tyler tucking our son into his crib, surrounded by toys. Then the guys and I could all have dinner together and talk about our days and plan out the rest of the week.

  I shake my head. No, that’s a dangerous path to go down.

  Oliver and I have a great life. We’ll be fine on our own.

  Suddenly, my phone sounds. I have a text message.

  Logan: Are you free this afternoon?

  Ivy: Yes.

  Logan: Can you come to my office? We need to talk.

  Ivy: You’re working on a Saturday?

  Logan: I work every day. Can you come or not?

  Ivy: I’ll be there in an hour.

  Patty meets me at my apartment, and I leave Oliver in her capable hands, assuring both of them that I'll be back as soon as possible. I don't bother changing into anything formal. It's the weekend after all. I run a brush through my hair and put on some lip gloss, but decide that my skinny jeans, boots, and sweater are good enough for facing Logan Rutledge.

  I sigh out hard as I take the elevator up to the top floor of our office building. I realize that I’m nervous and silently admonish myself for it. I have nothing to be nervous about. I did nothing wrong. I protected my child from being rejected by a father who didn’t want children. I did the right thing leaving them.

  That’s what I tell myself anyway.

  I remind myself that Tyler would be there as well. Logan can be truly intimidating sometimes. Mostly, it’s really sexy, but sometimes he makes me nervous. He’s unpredictable is all. But, especially after last night, Tyler and I have rekindled our connection. Sure we’ve resolved not to be lovers, but we’ve acknowledged that we need to keep the lines of communication open between us. I’m glad Tyler will be there. I’ll feel more comfortable.

  I figure I’ll knock on Logan’s door this time. I smirk.

  I mean, come on, what’s the worst he’s going to do if I just barge in? Spank me? He’s done it before. In this very office.

  He and I argued, playfully mind you, about whether or not he should refurnish his office with more black leather. He argued that it was sleek and modern. I thought it would make the place look more like a sex dungeon than an office.

  He decided to show me how much of a sex dungeon the place could be without any changes to the current decor. He bends me over his desk and rolled up my dress over my ass. I was wearing red panties that day. Little, lacy things. Thank goodness I wasn’t too attached to them because Logan tore them straight off. I remember the sound of lace tearing vividly.

  I remember the sound of him rubbing his hands together.

  “I don’t have paddles or floggers or bullshit like that,” he’d hissed at me, “So I’ll have to redden your ass the old-fashioned way.”

  I moaned, face down on the desk with my head in my hands, equal parts humiliated and thrilled. I couldn’t help thinking that someone could come inside at any moment and see me, ass in the air, getting punished. The idea of getting caught made it all the more exciting, and I was dripping wet before Logan even laid a hand on me.

  Logan ran his fingers over my slit, coating them in my arousal and I heard him suck them clean before he’d whispered, “That’s my dirty girl, all wet and ready for me.”

  He raised his hand…

  Ding.

  The elevator door opens on the top floor and spits me out right in front of Logan’s office. I shake my head, hoping to rid my mind of thoughts of that afternoon. The last thing I need before meeting my ex-boyfriend to discuss him meeting our son for the first time is to be going in wearing a pair of soaked panties because I’ve just replayed a favorite kinky sexual memory.

  Too late.

  I stand in front of Logan’s big, wooden door. His is the only office without a name placard on it. I guess he figures everyone knows the boss is in here.

  I knock. I wait. I knock again.

  “Ivy?” he asks from behind the door.

  “It’s me,” I say, trying to sound confident and brave. “May I come in?”

  “Of course,” he says.

  I step into the office and close the door behind me. Logan usually greets people sitting down, but today he’s standing. He’s wearing a suit, as usual. This one is navy blue and, like all his other clothing, it’s tailored to fit him like a glove. He pairs it with a crisp, white dress shirt. He’s not wearing a tie today, though.

  Something is off about Logan, actually. He looks a little off. I mean, he looks incredible. His body is immaculate, toned and tanned. But he looks unkempt. His hair is mussed, and he hasn't shaved. I have to admit that the scruff looks really good on him, but it is unusual. And he looks like he hasn't slept. There are bags under his eyes, and he's carrying himself like he has a weight on his shoulders.

  He stops in his tracks when he sees me.

  “You look well,” he says shortly.

  “Thank you,” I manage to get out. “You look…”

  “I know,” he says, “It was a trying night.”

  “Yeah, I know. I was there.”

  He nods.

  “And you've dealt with the stress by throwing yourself straight into work, as usual, I see," I say. I look at Logan's desk, which is usually the model of organization. Well, thanks to Tyler. But, today, it's teeming with paper and folders. And, I suddenly notice a stack of books.

  Parenting books.

  I want to smile.

  “How is Oliver?” he asks, “Wait… where is Oliver? Is he alone?”

  I sputter. "Excuse me? What kind of parent do you think I am? Of course, my nine-month-old son is not home alone. He's with Patty."

  “Who’s Patty?” he asks.

  “My sitter.”

  “Is she trustworthy?”

  “Of course,” I answer, getting a little more than pissed that he’s giving me the third degree on all this. “A childcare agency recommended her. She’s kind and gracious, and CPR certified. She’s perfectly capable of watching Oliver and, quite frankly, where do you get off questioning my parenting?”

  “He’s my son too, Ivy,” Logan points out.

  “Yeah, you've been involved in his life for twenty-four hours, so clear
ly you know everything," I scoff.

  “Whose fault is that?” he shouts, “Had I known he existed, I’d have been there for him.”

  “Sure.” I don’t believe him.

  Logan shakes his head. “Tyler and I would have stepped up eventually, Ivy.”

  “Yeah, well, I couldn’t wait. I was having the baby now. I couldn’t wait around for the two of you to change your minds about having kids and pull your heads out of your asses,” I retort.

  I look around.

  “Where is Tyler? He should be here for this too,” I say.

  “He had a family emergency. His sister's appendix burst, and she's in the hospital. She's fine, but he had to be there," Logan explains.

  “Good. I’m glad.”

  No, I’m not. Tyler is usually the mediator between Logan and me when we fight. Without him here to rein in our tempers, I’m prepared for the shit to really hit the fan.

  Logan stares at me. He looks like he wants to say a hundred different things to me, but none of them are coming out.

  “What?” I say to him, urging him to speak. It’s creeping me out. “Say something, Logan. Ask me why I didn’t tell you about Oliver. Ask me why I left. Yell. Scream. Carry on. Throw things. Fuck, this quiet is making me crazy.”

  “Yeah? It’s making you crazy?” he spits out. “What about me? What about Tyler? We just found out that we have an infant son.”

  “Poor babies. It’s not like you had to go through a complicated pregnancy on your own, then lost your business, and now you’re a struggling single parent,” I shoot back.

  “Well, whose fault is that Ivy?" he bellows, "You could have told us instead of running away like a coward."

  “I'm the coward? The second I said something about babies, the two of you would have run for the hills faster than lightning," I assess, "You would have dropped me like a hot cake. When I found out that I was having Oliver, I decided he was the most important thing in the world. And if you didn't want him, then you didn't want me."

  By now, Logan has closed the distance between us, and he’s a breath away from me. His face is red from shouting.

  “Fuck that, Ivy,” he says, his voice all raspy, “I’m always going to want you.”

  And, just like that, his lips are on mine, trapping me into a harsh, savage kiss that sends volts of electricity through my entire body. Fuck, I feel that kiss everywhere.

  My hands find his shoulders, and I dig my nails into his skin and tug. I wish he'd lose that damn shirt because I really want to scrape into his flesh. We're kissing and grappling like we want to hurt each other.

  Logan swipes one strong arm over the desk, knocking the books, files, and stacks of papers to the floor. He lifts me like I weight nothing and lays me down on my back.

  He's still kissing me feverishly. He presses his hips into mine. He's hard as nails underneath his slacks, and I want to fuck him and fight him in equal measure.

  He stops kissing me suddenly. “Bend over the desk,” he commands.

  “No,” I hiss back.

  “Yes, Ivy," he retorts, "You've been bad. You ran from me, and you lied to me. You need to be punished."

  I hate how much I’ve missed bossy, domineering Logan. I mean, I don’t feel that I need to be punished for anything that I did to him.

  But I realize that he needs it. This is how Logan Rutledge is going to make peace with me. All that time learning to understand the enigma that is this imposing, brutal man before me has taught me that he has to get the initial anger out of his system, in a controlled way, of course, before he’ll be able to talk about it rationally.

  I know Logan. I know he won’t really hurt me. And, quite frankly, I miss a good pain scene. It makes me feel alive.

  I push myself up from the desk and assume the position, bent over, face down, with my hands straight out in front of me.

  Logan strides up behind me, in the perfect position to fuck me from behind, and runs his big hands up and down my back.

  “You need to hurt, Ivy?" he asks. His hands are strong, and he's almost massaging my back muscles as they trail lower to my waist. Then, even lower, over my ass. He grips a cheek in each hand and squeezes.

  “Yes,” I squeak out, “I need it, Logan. Please.”

  He swats my ass lightly. I barely feel it.

  “Come on,” I goad him, “Hurt me. I can take it.”

  He does it again, a little harder. I can’t tell if he’s just teasing me or if he’s really holding back for some reason.

  He reaches around to undo my jeans and shoves them down my hips. He leaves them undone around my mid-thighs, not bothering to take them all the way off. I’m definitely stuck like this, trapped in my own jeans, and I’m pretty sure that was Logan’s plan.

  “I like you in lace,” he whispers, running his fingers along the edges of my little black panties.

  “I know.”

  He doesn’t pull them off as I expect him too.

  “Rip them,” I encourage him.

  That seems to trigger him. Maybe it reminds him of the last time we did this. He doesn’t rip them, though. He just slides them down with my jeans.

  I think he’s backing off when suddenly he winds up and gives me a hard smack on my left ass cheek. I let out a deep groan. Fuck, I forgot how that feels. It stings and smarts, but then it starts to tingle in a way I really like.

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” he grits out, “I’m in charge here.”

  “Sure you are, big man,” I tease, “Show me how ‘in charge’ you are.”

  He grunts as he smacks me again, much harder this time. I don’t flinch. I let out an even louder moan, encouraging him to do it again.

  “How many do you need, baby?” he asks, keeping his voice steady. I smirk. This is the Logan I know. We’ve found that balance of power between us now. He wants to punish me, but I set the terms.

  “Five,” I answer.

  “Seven,” he snaps back, “And those first two don’t count.”

  “Seven and the first two did count,” I hiss back.

  I look back at Logan. He’s still fully dressed while I’m pants-less over the desk. The color and vibrancy he lacked earlier has returned to his face. He’s breathing hard.

  “Fine,” he says, “Five more.”

  I grin and return to the position.

  “Count for me,” he orders. He rubs my ass cheek, readying it for his palm. Then he pulls back and goes for it.

  The crack his hand makes when it comes in contact with my skin is impressive, and I cry out.

  “One,” I shriek. Crack. “Two.”

  I’m breathing hard. The anticipation is killing me, but the pain is exhilarating.

  He smacks me again, on the other cheek this time.

  “Three.” Again. “Four.”

  I brace myself for the final smack, gripping the desk as hard as my sweaty hands possibly can. But instead of winding up, Logan's hand slips between my legs, and his two fingers find their way up inside me. I take them easily.

  “Some things never change, Ivy,” he says in a low, taunting whisper, “The sky will always be blue. Wine will always be tempting. And Ivy Lawrence will always cream herself over a spanking.”

  “Fuck, Logan,” I hiss.

  He starts working me with his two fingers, but I need more. I’m rutting against the desk, desperate for more. I need his tongue. Or his cock.

  “Fuck me,” I beg him, my voice getting ragged and hoarse, “Please. I need more. I need you.”

  And, with that, he delivers the final spank, harder and more painful than the others. The sound that I make is long and low and feral.

  “Five," I scream, "Now fuck me, Logan."

  I hear him undo his belt and zipper. I hear him dig through a drawer, presumably for a condom, and hear the foil tear. He grunts and curses, struggling to roll the rubber down his hard length.

  Then I feel the tip of his cock tease my entrance. He’s so thick that as he pushes it inside, it takes a few seconds to ad
just to being stretched out like that. But I like it. The hurt starts to fade, and it feels good.

  “More,” I command.

  “You sure, baby?” he asks. His hands grip my waist tightly.

  This is my last chance to tell Logan to take it easy on me, and I should considering that I haven't been with anyone is over a year, and I'm probably tight and going to be really sore after this. But I can't tell him to rein it in. I want it rough. I want Logan Rutledge at full force, pushing and punishing and not holding back.

  “Yes,” I tell him, “I want you. I need you. Please, Logan. Fuck me like you want to.”

  He growls as he slams into me.

  “Yes,” I cry out, “God, yes.”

  He fucks me without any gentleness. No patience. No kindness except for occasionally rubbing my shoulders and whispering ‘good girl,’ before picking up the pace. This is fucking with abandon. Raw and reckless. And I love it.

  “I’m close,” I warn him.

  “You come when I say you can come, baby,” he orders, “Not a second earlier.”

  “Or what?” I tease, thought my voice cracks as I ask, so it hardly comes off the way I intended.

  “I still have those cuffs you gave me on my birthday that year,” he says, “They’re in the file cabinet.”

  “Yeah? What’re you going to do with them?”

  “I’ll cuff you to that desk chair,” he growls in my ear, “Leave you there. Horny and naked and waiting for me.”

  “Ugh,” I moan, unable to make any real words come out of my mouth.

  Logan reaches around to rub my aching clit with his fingers, setting me on fire. Every nerve in my body is tingling. It’s like there’s this knot forming in my lower belly and it’s being pulled tighter and tighter…

  “I can’t,” I cry, “I’m going to come, Logan.”

  “Come for me, baby,” he orders.

  It feels like a dam breaking inside of me. Or a wave cresting and breaking.

  “Fuck,” I groan. I cry out for God and Jesus and the archangels and anyone who can help a woman brought down by a powerful man and a mighty orgasm.

  I feel Logan's cock pulse, and he floods the condom, cursing, and hissing and chanting my name like a little prayer until the both of us are spent out and limbless, sprawled out over his desk, his body over mine, heavy and sated.