The Billionaire and the Babe: A Romantic Comedy Read online

  The Billionaire And The Babe

  A Romantic Comedy

  Ellie Rowe

  Ellie Rowe Writes

  Copyright © 2020 by Ellie Rowe

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Contents

  1. Natalie

  2. Roger

  3. Natalie

  4. Roger

  5. Natalie

  6. Roger

  7. Natalie

  8. Roger

  9. Natalie

  10. Roger

  11. Natalie

  12. Roger

  13. Natalie

  14. Roger

  15. Natalie

  16. Roger

  17. Natalie

  18. Roger

  19. Natalie

  20. Roger

  21. Natalie

  22. Roger

  23. Natalie

  24. Roger

  25. Natalie

  26. Roger

  27. Natalie

  28. Roger

  29. Natalie

  30. Roger

  31. Natalie

  32. Roger

  33. Natalie

  34. Roger

  35. Natalie

  36. Roger

  37. Natalie

  38. Roger

  39. Natalie

  One

  Natalie

  What to pick, what to pick, what to pick.

  There’s a delicious-looking cab, but it’s not on sale. The featured rosé is garbage, I’ve had it before. White wine is not what I’m in the mood for. Ah, to hell with it. I’m finally divorced. Top shelf wine is the least I could give myself!

  I run my hand over the bottles, relishing the fact I’ll finally be able to celebrate, even if it’s just me in my fabulous suite.

  Blake locked it in for a steal, especially in Soho, but, too bad for him! I won it in a legal court of law, and I’m keeping it.

  Not to sound full of myself, but I could pay for it all on my own. I’m one of the hardest working head editors you’ll ever meet. Half of these people take the title and let the peons do the rest, but oh no, not me. Just ask the interns. I run laps around them.

  I’ve still got my eyes and hands on everything that’s published in Chic magazine and that’s not changing any time soon. I stop back at my favorite cab and wonder how many bottles I need. Two? Six? Fifty?

  It’s been a long climb to get where I am in the company, but nothing compared to the last year of excruciating separation from my asshole, finally, ex-husband. Shit, maybe I should look at champagne!

  How many months has it been since I’ve let loose? Blake Western (the aforementioned shithead of an ex-husband) runs a garbage tabloid. Lucky me, right? Staying out of them has been a real trick.

  Mostly I’ve been living like a goddamn nun. Go to work, come back from work. I’ve been taking desperate little sips of leftover white wine late at night from the fridge just to pretend I’m having fun. It’s a disaster, I know.

  But, no longer! This little boutique wine vendor holds everything I need to make this evening one to remember. Or to forget, if I try hard enough.

  A man enters my aisle. My, my, this little shop really does have everything a girl could ask for. I catch a glimpse of gorgeous blue eyes before I turn away.

  No use staring, I’m sure the bottle will be more than enough to handle tonight. I smile to myself as I finally decide on the fifty-five-dollar cab.

  I’m smiling, of course, because I’m imagining smashing it over Blake Western’s thick skull like he’s a ship going on his maiden voyage. Bon Voyage, you fucker! Smash! Though it’d be a shame to waste good wine.

  Satisfied, I fill my arms with four bottles and swivel around, still angrily thinking of Blake’s snide face during our last meeting at court. Unbeknownst to me, the strap of my purse catches the edge of the shelving, and before I know it, the entire shelf is toppling down around me.

  Bottles smash to the floor and I shriek in fear, clinging to the ones in my arms as blends, and Savion Blanc run like a holy river through the aisle. Fuck.

  Before I can think of how-in-the-hell I’m going to solve this one, someone comes rushing around the corner. For a second, I’m terrified it’s one of Blake’s cronies hoping to catch me at my worst. Instead, it’s the shop manager, a burly guy with an old world-looking mustache, looking mad as hell.

  When I was nineteen, I spent a summer in Spain and witnessed the run of the bulls. I never thought I’d see it again, yet the gleam in the shop manager’s eye as he bounded toward me brought me right back to that time.

  “What do you think you’re doing!” He roars, wading through the broken glass and lost inventory.

  “I’m so, so sorry!” I plead, “It was an accident. Please I’ll help clean or —”

  “’Clean’!?” He blurts incredulously, his eyeballs bulging, “there is no cleaning this! This is a fucking disaster!”

  “Now, hold on.” Bristle-stash and I both swivel around. It’s my blue-eyed friend from before. Now that I have free reign to stare, I’m hitting myself for not looking earlier. He’s terribly smooth-looking for someone covered in a shelf’s worth of wine.

  Oh, God, I did that, didn’t I? And on such a nice, and definitely expensive suit. Little dots of red wine fleck his sandy blonde hair and there’s something astonishingly familiar about him.

  “The lady said it was an accident, my man.” He smiles as he looks at the shop owner. The owner looks puzzled, like he might recognize him, too, but isn’t sure. It’s enough to lower his decimal level a few notches.

  “Accident or no accident, who is going to pay for this mess!”

  “I will,” I’m bobbing my head between the two like a ping-pong ball. Did he just say he’ll pay for this? “I’ll have to pay for it, won’t I?” he grins as he shrugs. “I own the building.”

  Holy shit. Holy shit, it’s Roger Zane! The well-known player, Roger Zane, who owns this building, including this wine boutique that I half destroyed. Way to go, Natalie.

  “Don’t worry, my friend, I’ll send a crew to help clean this up. Thank you for keeping a sharp eye out on my investment, but I assure you,” he turns to me now, his blue eyes taking a presumptuous scan of my body, “this kind of thing happens all the time.”

  The shop manager’s mustache twitches, but he calms down. I guess that settles that.

  “I’ll just uh… go and grab a mop,” the shop owner mumbles. “Thank you, Mr. Zane.”

  If my arms weren’t full of wine bottles, I’d clap.

  “Thank you, Mr….” I pause like I don’t know who he is. Why not tease him a bit?

  “Roger Zane.” He flashes me another smile and extends a hand. I’m chock full of wine, so instead, he reaches out and slowly pulls a bottle from my arms. The base of it slides up the length of my cleavage before it’s freed from my grasp.

  “Thank you,” I smile coyly, and extend my free hand to grasp his. He squeezes it tightly, closing the distance between us a little. A thought strikes me. I’m a single woman, after all, and tonight’s a night to celebrate, right?

  “I’m terribly sorry about all this, and your suit!” I wince while looking down at the stains, “but, let me try to make it up to you?” I arch my eyebrow to let him know where this is headed. He looks rather surprised — which surprises me. Doesn’t this shit happen to him all the time?

 
“I was just about to bring these bottles up to my room. I’d love to share a glass or two with you. For your trouble?” He gives me a wry smile, so I press on. “I know you own the store and all, but I promise I’ll pay for these myself.” I squeeze the bottles together, knowing full well they’re pushing against my breasts.

  His eyes flick down to my chest for a moment, then back up to me.

  “I’d be delighted, Miss...”

  “Natalie. Natalie Ashcroft,” I check out sheepishly while Roger makes a call for a clean up crew. Then we hit the elevator together.

  “The deluxe suite?” he asks as I push the button. I smile.

  “What can I say, I like the view,” he chuckles as he slides closer to me.

  “Likewise.”

  We make it into my apartment and set down the rescued wine on the counter. I bend down, right in front of him, of course, to fish out the corkscrew. As I arch back up, he’s now very close to me.

  Good.

  I turn around so our chests are touching. Oh, this is already fun. I haven’t been this close to a man who wasn’t my attorney’s assistant in what feels like months. God, how I miss the chase! And Roger Zane is quite the catch. Catch and release, of course, but a catch, nonetheless.

  I shake my head, tutting as I gently finger the lapel of his suit.

  “I’ve really made a mess, haven’t I?” I ask, biting my lip apologetically. It’s my first time back in the saddle after a while, so I’m allowed to be a little cliché, okay? “Maybe after we open the wine, we could get you cleaned up?”

  I hand him the bottle and corkscrew before swishing my way to the wine glasses. By the time I’ve returned, he’s got the cork popped with a devilish look in his eye. He pours, at the proper angle for a cab, of course – and we raise our glasses.

  “To what?” he asks as I slide up to him.

  “To the shop manager.”

  He laughs and we clink our glasses, both taking huge sips. I moan a little at the taste and open my eyes to see him staring at me as he drinks.

  “Now, about getting you cleaned up…” I say and set down my glass. Inching my fingers up to his tie, I slowly pull it from inside his dress shirt to tug him by the neck. I’ve always wanted to do this. Sex with Blake, as you can imagine, was abysmal.

  This man has hardly spoken a word and his sheer sexual magnetism is enough to make me come harder than anything Blake could manage.

  I pull him into the bathroom and start to slide off his tie as I place one leg between his. I can feel his hard-on growing against my thigh, which gives me the confidence to grab him by the lapels and bring him to my lips.

  Wow. Looks like all he needed was that bit of consent before he unleashes himself. His jacket is off in a matter of seconds, as is my dress. Somehow, he manages to unzip me and tear it off, only pausing from kissing for half a second.

  He stops after he strips me, and seems quite pleased with what he sees. It’s enough to make him charge toward me again. When his fingers find the hem of my panties, I’m already soaking wet.

  I feel him smile against my lips as he slides one finger inside me. Fuck, that feels amazing. He immediately inserts another and arches his fingers, sending spasms of pleasure jolting through my legs. Backing me up into the walk-in shower, he turns it on.

  His pants are now clinging to his hard-on as his fingers work inside me. My bra and panties are soaked, though the latter has been already, and I can’t help but moan into the tile as he starts thumbing my clit.

  I grab his chin to look at him and the outline of his cock and I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. Roger Zane, Manhattan’s sex god, is in my shower, ten seconds from making me come for the first time in months.

  I’m going to make sure he gets everything he wants tonight, too.

  Two

  Roger

  Everything starts happening fast and furious with this girl. Even as she pushes against the fingers I’ve got inside her, she undoes my pants. I remove my hand from her snatch and help her get my soaking pants and boxers off.

  Then she’s got my dick in her mouth and it feels amazing. Her mouth is soft and warm, and the shower is steaming and soothing. She sucks me like a champion. Like she’s been waiting all year for it.

  I could tell she was ready to come a second ago and suddenly I’m almost there, too. So, I pull her up to standing and get down. She starts playing with herself as my tongue goes to work on her clit, dancing between her fingers. She’s almost shaking with pleasure. Then she takes her hand away and presses it into my head, driving me deeper into her wet, widening pussy.

  Let’s give her something to remember.

  I throw her legs over my shoulder and stand. She slides up the shower wall, now several feet in the air, while I keep eating her out. She presses against the wall, and I go all out, bringing her just to the edge of an orgasm before lowering her back down.

  Her feet barely touch the shower stall before she’s all over me. Her tongue in my mouth, one hand squeezing my ass and the other working on my cock. I want to burst in every direction. I run my hands down her back and grab hold of her ass in turn. It’s firm, strong. She’s kind of willowy, but she’s got muscle and all the right sort of curves.

  I put my mouth on her nipple and roll my tongue around. I feel her pressing herself toward my cock. She shuts the shower off.

  We tumble out of the bathroom together, hands all over. By the time we’re in the bedroom, I can tell we’re both still on the verge of coming. It won’t be long, but it’s bound to be epic. As if to confirm what I’m saying, she breaks away from kissing me just long enough to say, “Fuck, I need your dick in me.”

  Will do.

  I lift her up in my arms and sit her on my cock. She lets me in deep. I could come just feeling her around me. I start bouncing her. Her breasts brush up and down against my chest, bringing me closer still. I feel full and long inside her. She wraps her legs around me and uses the leverage to get in sync with my rhythm. She’s already letting out moans of ecstasy.

  I thrust faster. She responds by clenching her muscles tighter around my dick. We go at it like rabbits, and then both of us come simultaneously. It’s noisy, sweaty and memorable. I’m still deep inside her, still throbbing, as we drop together on the bed.

  Takes me at least a full two minutes to catch my breath. And my wits.

  Confession — this doesn’t usually happen to me.

  Yeah, I live the party lifestyle of a guy with my kind of money and my kind of connections. Not going to pretend I don’t enjoy it, either; or that I don’t come back to my penthouse with any number of girls looking to experience whatever part of my lifestyle they can for as long as they can; or even with poor-little-rich-girls who grew up in this world and are working out their daddy issues, banging me for the social status points or whatever motive it may be.

  I’m talking about this kind of off-the-cuff, hey we just met, we’re sober, let’s talk and then… we’re at it? That’s a pretty rare occurrence.

  I like it.

  “More wine?” I ask Natalie when we both finally come back to reality.

  “Yes please,” she purrs contentedly. She runs a hand through her tussled hair, her head sinking deep into her pillow.

  Still naked, I get out of bed. There’s something deliciously naughty about post-sex nakedness in someone else’s place. I enjoy it as I pour the wine and return with two full glasses.

  As I return, Natalie stretches a little, the blankets she’s pulled up around herself shift and reveal one of her glorious breasts as she moves. I consider having another go, but instead, I hand her the wine glass.

  We stay like that for a moment, sipping wine and looking out the window at the Manhattan skyline. It’s nice, actually. After a moment, she stretches again.

  “Mm-hmm! That was… much needed.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I look at her. Hard to believe this woman isn’t getting anything she wants anytime she wants it. That usually means one thing. “Bad breakup?” I
ask.

  “That obvious?”

  “Something in your eyes,” I tell her. Those very eyes take me in. Shit. Was that too forward? That sounded kind of romantic. Did I mean it to be? Why am I so confused by this girl?

  Thankfully, she looks back out the window and I take a second to right my brain. “Bad divorce, actually,” she confesses. “From a slimeball, scuzz-bucket, vindictive, jealous asshole.”

  “But what are his bad points?”

  She laughs, then frowns. “He has the potential to make my life a living hell if he wants to.”

  “‘Vindictive’, you said? Should I be worried?”

  She grips one of my biceps and flashes an admiring smile. “I think you could take him.” Then she kisses me. Our tongues tease one another a few moments, before she lays her head back on the pillow and closes her eyes.

  A second later, she’s out. Sound asleep; her breath heavy and deep.

  As a man, you’ve hit the jackpot when you meet a woman who falls asleep faster after sex than you do.

  I carefully unwrap her fingers from the stem of her wine glass and set it on the nightstand, then drain my own and settle down on the bed beside her. Big-spoon style. It’s nice. Usually, my trysts are of the dine-and-dash variety. No sooner has someone come, does one of us try to get out the door while making false promises to text soon.

  I try to remember the last time I shared a bed with someone for the night. Had to be Gillian, the media mogul’s daughter I was with a few years ago. That was my last long term ‘relationship’. Except after we had sex, she’d spend half an hour on her phone, then fall asleep as far away from me as she could get in my California King. If I tried to cuddle with her, she’d complain about being hot, or being a light sleeper, or something. Eventually I stopped trying.