Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
"Stop fluttering around, Vincent Jeffry, or I'm never going to get this icing right," I said.
"Make sure you get put another flower over here. There seems to be a gap."
I slapped his hand away from the four-tiered wedding cake. "Don't you have champagne glasses to put out, or silver to polish or something?"
"Give him a break, Kiara, he's only trying to help," Ivy said. She reached out a finger to swipe a taste of frosting, and I slapped her hand, too. "Ouch!"
"I just want everything to be perfect," I said.
They backed off. Vincent Jeffry fluttered out the door to check on the place settings in the dining hall, but Ivy settled down at the kitchen island to watch me. Her eyes drifted from my frosting flowers to the large, luxurious kitchen of the Brickman Estate.
"This is like ten of our cottage kitchens all in one," Ivy said. "Doesn't this place intimidate you?"
I looked around the room and shook my head. "I thought you always wanted a place like this. Weren't you going on and on about having a mansion and a yacht, too?"
"Right now, I'd settle for a date to the wedding."
I laughed and offered her a spoonful of frosting. "You'll find someone when you least expect it. Trust me."
"I didn't know you could bake, too," she said.
I smiled. "Turns out I'm good at weddings."
Ivy raised her eyebrows. "Really? Is that why you're hiding in here instead of getting dressed and greeting guests?"
"I am not hiding," I snapped.
She held up both hands. "Sure. Fine. Everyone freaks out in their own way."
Vincent Jeffry burst back through the kitchen door. "There are no dessert forks at three place settings, and I can't find them anywhere. Someone is trying to drive me mad."
Ivy snickered. "See? Everyone freaks out over weddings."
"Give him back the dessert forks, Ivy," I told her.
She reluctantly gave up the small, silver forks. Vincent Jeffry snatched them from her hand and polished them vigorously as he marched back into the dining hall. The door had hardly stopped swinging when he burst in again.
"We have the dessert table all set. Is the cake ready?" the butler asked.
I sighed. I had run out of excuses. "Yes, it's ready."
Two hired waiters carefully hoisted the wedding cake and carried it through the door to the dining hall. Ivy and I could hear Vincent Jeffry instructing them every step of the way.
"Maybe that's what you need," she said. "Step by step directions. First, put down that bowl and turn off the water. There is no way you should be washing dishes right now. Second, go upstairs and get dressed. Third, find your stepsister someone to fall in love with before she grows old alone."
"Ivy, you're hardly old enough to get married, much less grow old alone."
"Tell that to Madison," she mumbled.
"You're still here?" Vincent Jeffry clapped his hands as he marched back into the kitchen. "That's it. Time to go. Put down that bowl, Kiara."
"All right, all right," I laughed as he shoved me towards the door. "What's the big deal?"
"This is one event you cannot watch from the kitchen," the butler said. "Everyone expects to see you walking down that aisle in exactly two hours. Now go get ready."
#
Vincent Jeffry was there at the door to the ballroom when I arrived. After a quick inspection of my dress, hair, jewelry, and make-up, he nodded. I was ready.
"Thank you," I said and squeezed his hand.
The butler nodded, choked up with happy tears. "I just love weddings."
I did, too, but it was hard not to feel a pang of loss. My father and brother were still overseas, and though they were going to watch via satellite, it wasn't the same as having them there. It was hard to imagine what they would be like at a wedding, both in tuxedos instead of flak jackets. The thought made me smile even as tears swam in my eyes.
At least, I wouldn't have to walk down the aisle alone, I thought.
"I look like a giant marshmallow, don't I?" Madison asked. She stood back so I could see her dress, but her hand reached out to grip mine.
"You don't look anything like a marshmallow," I said. "You look beautiful. Radiant."
Madison snorted. "Everyone tells pregnant women they look radiant when they really mean rotund."
I looked at her dress and smiled. "You look absolutely wonderful. Cameron Falcon is going to eat his heart out."
"Unless I do it first," she said. "I'm starving. I don't think I can do this."
"I'm not walking down that aisle alone," I told her.
"Is my dress really pretty?"
I stepped back and studied my eight-months pregnant stepsister. The white gown was off the shoulders except for a wisp of lace on each. The satin neckline was overlaid with the delicate lace and then gave wave to yards of flowing, floating, sheer fabric. Her baby bump was noticeable, but it only added to the glowing goddess effect of her wedding dress.
"Madison, you are the most beautiful bride I've seen," Teddy said. He slipped an arm around my waist and squeezed me close. "So far."
"Is he really there?" Madison asked.
"Falcon?" He nodded. "Oh, don't worry, I walked him to the altar myself. The ballroom's packed, so there's no way he can slip away unnoticed now."
"I'm so happy for you," I told Madison.
Cameron Falcon had broken down a week after he heard that Teddy and I were together. He stood outside the cottage for almost twelve hours straight before Madison decided to listen to him. She'd been pasted to the window the whole time, trying to interpret his every blink, but she wanted to make her point. He had hurt her once, and she was not going to let it happen again. He proposed to her the next day.
"Hold everything," Ivy called. "There's some problem with the doves. We have to wait until the dove guy gives us the thumbs up. Then you can open the doors."
Teddy leaned closed and brushed a kiss along my neck. "Please tell me our wedding will not be this complicated."
I laughed. "I'm not sure Vincent Jeffry can handle another fancy wedding."
We watched as the frazzled butler spun in circles in the foyer, trying to catch a wayward dove.
"Please, Kiara, you promised. Our wedding is the one day you'll let me spend money without watching every penny."
I held up my hand and my giant engagement ring caught the light of the chandelier. "This is as fancy as it needs to get for me."
Teddy grinned. "So we're eloping?"
I kissed his cheek. "Even better. Small ceremony, just our closest friends. I know the perfect little chapel out in your garden."
Teddy smiled and moved from kissing my neck to kissing me. In between smiling brushes of his lips, he asked, "Will you at least let me hire some fancy chef so you can take the day off?"
I shook my head and pulled back from his soft kisses. "No. No fancy chef. I've got a better idea."
"We elope?" he asked again.
"No," I laughed. "Small ceremony, just our closest friends, in the little chapel in the garden. And we have the reception catered by our favorite Brooklyn pizzeria."
"Perfect," he breathed hot in my ear. "I love it. And, I love you."
"Enough, you two," Madison said. "Someone's got to get me down the aisle."
I took my pregnant stepsister's arm and squeezed it tight. Teddy and Vincent Jeffry pulled open the doors to reveal the ballroom. It was decorated floor-to-ceiling with garlands of roses, and there at the altar by the fireplace, Cameron Falcon grinned from ear to ear.
I blew Teddy a kiss and walked down the aisle towards a happy ending.
Zack grinned, lifting me up on top of him, positioning me over his hips. He thrust into my hand, reaching down to stroke me to another fever pitch of arousal.
“Evie, baby, you already have. Now, how many more times can we do this before we have to get dressed and go back to my place?”
I leaned in and kissed him.
“Let’s take our time.”
Zack thrust up into me slowly and I moaned against his lips, knowing that everything was finally right—and that we weren’t going to get shaken up by anything else.
BILLIONAIRE RIDES
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Claire Adams
Chapter One
Ethan
"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Colson?"
"Yes: blow me," I stated.
I leaned back in my chair as my beautiful assistant Angela got down on her knees beneath my desk and went to work. I ran my hands through her red hair as her head bobbed up and down and her mouth worked enthusiastically. Within a few moments, her expert tongue would bring me to climax and I'd shoot my load down her eager throat, and then watch as she picked up her files and went back to work.
This was the life, and I was living the dream every man wished for — only it hadn't come easily. I'd started working at 13 when my mother ran out on my father and me for another man. My father had been weak and couldn't take it. He turned to drinking and could never hold onto a job, so it was up to me if we were going to keep from starving out on the streets.
It was tough, but even though I was working full time, I still managed to keep top grades in school. One of my teachers noticed and recommended me for a special internship in the Business Leaders of Tomorrow program at his alma mater. My father had remarried by then, and I knew he'd be okay on his own, so I went ahead and applied, never thinking that I'd really get in — but I did.
They admitted me on full scholarship, and when the program was over, I was offered full-time employment at one of the nation's top manufacturers of engine parts: Krueger Auto Parts. Even without a fancy degree, I could do the job of running the shipping and manufacturing warehouses in every town I was sent to, and soon I was brought to work in their corporate headquarters in Los Angeles.
I worked my ass off, coming in early every morning and staying late every night. I took on all the shit assignments nobody wanted to do and volunteered to work weekends and even holidays. I climbed up the ranks faster than anyone had ever seen, and by 30, I was running the motorcycle parts division for Krueger.
The job was my passion, and I worked closely with scientists and engineers, wanting to learn everything I could about what made bikes run better, faster, and more efficiently. I talked with long-time riders and kids just starting to learn what they wanted in a bike. On my days off, I went for long rides in the California countryside to get a feel for the wind in my face, the tires on the road, and the motor between my legs. It was a powerful feeling, completely freeing, and I wanted more. Most importantly, I understood what drove our customers and how to give them the best riding experience possible.
I took my ideas to the CEO and founder of the company Martin Krueger, but he didn't give a shit.
"Do you have any idea how expensive it would be to start manufacturing this motorcycle? We would have to sell 100,000 to make a profit," Krueger said, crossing his mushy arms over his fat belly. His balding head was always beaded perspiration, and his skin was a shade too pink, like an angry little piggy.
"So, we'll sell 100,000. I'm willing to work with marketing to get our name out there, not just as a parts manufacturer, but as a creator of the country's best motorcycle. Once riders try this bike, they'll sell themselves. I just need our factories to build them," I said passionately.
I believed in the product I had worked so hard to develop. I'd created cost estimates, profit projection reports, and even had a sample of the bike created as an example, using my own savings. The bike had been test-driven by a dozen different riders, and they all loved it. I knew the bike would be a huge success — if only Krueger would give it a chance.
Unfortunately, Krueger was too stodgy and stuck in his ways. He handed me back my research without even taking the time to look at it.
"If we manufactured that many bikes and they didn't sell, it would ruin us. Just stick to your job of managing the parts warehouses and leave it to Harley Davidson to build the bikes. I didn't hire you for your creativity. Why do you think I plucked you out of the intern program instead of going for someone with a business degree? It's because I want someone who will just be a cog in the engine I designed and not try and one-up me with dumb ideas. Don't forget who signs the paychecks around here. Now quit wasting time and get back to work."
That's when I quit. Krueger gave me a nice severance package, after I put the portly piece of shit in a headlock and threatened to expose some of his muddy little secrets to the media.
I used the money, along with what I made selling off all my Krueger stock, to invest in my own motorcycle company. The bank didn't want to give me a business loan at first, but I had a good reference to co-sign with me — my old teacher was now a professor at the Ivy League university where the banker wanted to send his son and the professor promised to give him a letter of recommendation.
It was all I needed, and Speed Motorcycles was born.
I named my first bike The Rebel, and it sold 200,000 units the first year and double that the next year. After that, I designed the Chrome Cruiser and then Highway Man. Each design was more successful than the last, and when Krueger came to me begging for the contract to distribute our patented specialty parts, I did one better and bought the son-of-bitch out. Now, all parts for Speed Motorcycles bikes were manufactured and sold by our own distributing subsidiary, Krueger Auto Parts, and fat, old Krueger gets his paychecks signed by me.
I could have fired him after that and destroyed his company by selling it off bit by bit, but that's not my style. People don't learn from cruelty. They learn from discipline, carefully measured and distributed with thoughtful intent.
That's how I lived my life from the days of my childhood, when I was just 13, and needed to balance work and studies and caring for my old man. It's how I made it through a grueling internship and years of shit jobs climbing up the corporate ladder, and how I managed social relationships and dating after being abandoned by the one woman who should have loved me. I lived my life by a strict code of adherence.
Of course, being disciplined didn't mean one didn't deserve a reward for work well done. That's where my assistant came in.
Angela Stratham was everything I could want in an assistant. She was 26, bright, hardworking, and sexy as hell. She had emerald-green eyes and voluptuous curves she didn't mind showing off. We'd started screwing around in my office about six weeks ago when I came into my office late one night to find her naked, draped across my desk. It had been a rough day at work, and she provided me with just the pick me up I needed. We'd been fucking around ever since, but I wouldn't call her my girlfriend — more like a really attentive assistant who gives great head.
At the age of 42, I'd given up dating years ago. Women were always throwing themselves at me, but it wasn't real. I worked hard to stay in shape with regular workouts in the gym, and I knew I had the kind of looks they found attractive. I kept my black hair cropped short, and I'd been told more than once that my gray eyes flecked with blue and gold looked like swirling clouds in the middle of a thunder storm. It was all bullshit, though.
These women who were always flinging themselves weren't interested in me. They didn't want to know the real Ethan Colson; where I was born, what I liked, what my favorite foods, movies, and books were. They didn't want to know about my hopes, fears, dreams, and ambitions. They just knew I was the owner and CEO of the country's top motorcycle company. They only saw the luxurious suites of our corporate offices, the fancy cars I rode around in when I wasn’t on a bike, and the sprawling estate of my Beverly Hills mansion. When they looked at me, they were only seeing dollar signs.
Seeing the way my mother had destroyed my father when she left him had taught me one valuable thing: never open your heart to a woman. There was always a part of my father that was visibly scared. He catered to her every whim, he was vulnerable and cowardly. He had been broken and the wounds never fully healed.
I tried having a girlfriend once in college, but when she broke my heart, I saw just how vulnerable an organ it was, and I knew I was in danger of suffering the same way my father had. So, after that, I vowed never to put my heart in jeopardy again. Sure, there was always a beautiful date on my arm for parties and special events — and don't get me wrong, I got plenty of sex — but I never had a relationship with a woman. It was too messy and put too much at risk, so I always cut them off after a date or two. This office fling with Angela had already gone on too long and it was time to end it.
It's just that I was getting tired of being alone, of waking up each morning to an empty pillow beside me and not have anyone I could talk about my day with at night. I realized I was getting sentimental; I turned my attention back to the incredible feeling of Angela's hot wet mouth on my throbbing cock.
"Suck it, baby. I want you to drink my come." I ran my hands through her hair, encouraging her to work even more enthusiastically.
Just then, my office door swung open and Keith Wilkes stuck his head inside. He had the California-blonde looks that were so prevalent here in the City of Angels. People liked him instantly, which made him the perfect guy to head up my marketing department.
Advertising was my one weak point. I liked designing the bikes, figuring out to streamline them and give them more power, crunching the numbers, and finding ways to make things work. I did not like schmoozing people, asking advertisers and investors for more money, or pandering to customers. I left that up to Keith, and he did a terrific job, netting me millions of dollars over the years. There was no one I trusted more. Still, he didn't need to know the secret dirty deed that was happening under my desk.
"We're about to get started with the selections of the models for next month's magazine. Do you want to sit in?" he asked casually.
Angela was completely hidden under my desk, and he had no idea she was there. Still, hearing his voice startled her, and she jerked up her head. I forced her back down, letting her know I wanted her to keep going, and she continued the blow job while I talked to Keith. The excitement of being so close to getting caught doing something so taboo only heightened my pleasure.
"Have you selected a model for the cover yet?" I asked. I was surprised by how normal my voice sounded, even as Angela sucked my shaft with greater fervor and I felt myself nearing climax at an alarming rate.
"No, not yet. I've narrowed it down to the top dozen, and I was going to see how each of them looked on the bike before making a final choice."
"Great, go ahead. I'll be right there." God, what Angela was doing to me felt incredible. I never wanted the moment to end, but I knew it was about to.
Keith nodded in consent and closed the door behind him as he left. No sooner had it clicked shut than I blew my wad, shooting my hot seed down Angela's throat. She guzzled it eagerly and then licked me clean. Afterwards, she zipped my trousers closed, stood up with a smile, and said, "Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Colson?"
"That will be all for now." I flashed her a grin and watched her fine ass sway as she walked away.
Yes, she was a mighty fine assistant. The relaxing blow job she'd given me was just what I needed to clear my mind and focus on the photoshoot. We were preparing to launch a new ad campaign for our newest bike, The All-American. The model chosen would be featured on the cover our publication, Speed Magazine, sitting on the bike. In a town like L.A. that was flooded with beautiful young women anxious to become stars, it was going to be one girl's lucky break.
I'd told Keith I wanted a sexy blonde for the photoshoot, and he didn't disappoint. When I walked into the room, it was filled with a dozen gorgeous young blondes, all dressed in bikinis and high heels.
"These are the finalists. What do you think?" Keith slapped me on the back as he saw me walk in.
"Start putting them on the bike one a time so we can see how they look. When I see the right one, I'll know it."
Keith and I sat side-by-side in chairs as the girls were brought up one at time by Keith's assistant to model with the bike. Some of them were clear professionals and knew how to pose on the motorcycle with perfect poise. Others were clearly a little a lost as they did their best to sit on the bike in a sexy position without falling off. One girl in particular seemed to be having a tough time.
"What's your name?" Keith asked her with a frown as he scribbled swiftly on his tablet.
"Kayla Brandt."
She handed us each a copy of her résumé and a quick glance told me she was 21-years-old. Perfect.
I didn't want the baby-face looks of an 18-year-old, but our cover model still needed to look young and vibrant, with no wrinkles, a perfect body, and large breasts. I knew it was crazy in a town like L.A., but I really wanted a girl with natural breasts and not the kind purchased at a plastic surgeon’s office. There was just something about the way those fake breasts never moved that was a major turn off for me. I wanted a real girl, with real, God-given tits; what could be more All-American than that? And I wanted them to be big and perfectly round with that little bit of bounce that made every guy's dick instantly hard.
This girl had that. Everything about her was fresh, and pure, and as American as apple pie.
The photographer positioned her on the bike while the assistant adjusted her bikini top. Then he started snapping some shots as I read the rest of her résumé. It was disappointedly sparse. She worked full-time as a waitress, had no formal training, and basically no references of note. It was the kind of poor résumé I usually tossed right in the trash, but with this girl, I couldn't. Perhaps it was her lack of experience that I found so attractive. She didn't have any of the pretenses most L.A. models had. Everything about her was natural. I closed her file to just sit back, watch, and enjoy.
Kayla was fumbling awkwardly with her bikini top as she posed with the bike, and I heard the photographer tell her to stretch her arms out towards the handlebars. Suddenly, the strings of her bikini came untied and the top came falling down, giving me a full view of her naked breasts. They were magnificent: full, round, and slightly misshapen in that perfect way that natural tits fall when they're ripe and ready to be devoured. I wanted her like I'd never wanted any woman before.
Blushing furiously, she struggled to cover herself and ended up knocking the bike over. It fell to the floor with a noisy crash, and she ran from the room, clutching her top and crying.
"Good riddance to that mess. We can forget her all together," Keith said, but I'd never been more captivated by a girl in my life. I wanted her to be the new cover girl of Speed Magazine, but after that disaster, it was going to be tough. Still, as I thought of the sweetness of her smile and the perfect way her breasts jiggled as she walked, I knew I had to find a way to make it happen.