Logan

I might call my lawyer. See if I could sue the so-called journalist who’d written the scathing piece about me in The London Times. I don’t know why I hadn’t left the newspaper in the office, put it through the shredder. Instead, I was torturing myself. Reading and rereading. This writer guy didn’t know me. He’d accused me of making money from destroying the lives and legacies of innocent people.

It was bullshit. I never lied or cheated. I was good for my word. A straight shooter.

“So, beautiful, what’s taking you so long?” I called out to the woman I’d met on a negotiation earlier in the week who was about to suck my cock and stop me thinking about journalists trashing my reputation.

Normally criticism bounced off me and I didn’t give it a second thought. There were always plenty of people trying to bring you down when you were on top, but I kept replaying the article in my head.

It was as if it had been describing someone else. My father. Not me. The only thing that might dampen my anger and frustration was a powerful, confident, clever woman, who had almost outsmarted me in business, get on her knees and take my dick in her mouth.

When I was younger I’d had my fair share of models and actresses, but they didn’t have the same appeal as a successful woman who liked to dominate in the boardroom, and beg me for their orgasm in the bedroom.

I tipped back the last of the whiskey she’d left me with before she’d disappeared, shrugged off my jacket and slumped on the couch. The wall of floor-to-ceiling windows opposite the sofa was black, speckled with the lights of London’s still-busy streets. My reflection ghosted over the cityscape, which meant I’d get a good view of her head bobbing between my knees from two angles.

Nice.

“Just freshening up,” she said, striding back into the living room wearing just a black lace bra and knickers. And her six-inch heels.

Very nice.

This woman was my type to a tee. Tall. Cool. Sophisticated. A gym-honed body with tight muscles, golden skin and small, high breasts.

“I could do with a little freshening up,” I said. “Come here.”

She placed her palms on my thighs, bent over, then slid to her knees between my legs. I leaned my head back, ready to empty my mind of arsehole journalists and enjoy what was coming next. She could warm me up a little by sucking me off and then before things got out of hand, I’d stand, hold her head while I fucked her mouth deep, watching as her eyes watered as she gagged. Nothing better than a female hedge fund manager who oversaw assets of hundreds of millions of euros and was used to putting men in their place letting me do whatever I wanted to her.

My dick strained in my trousers as she ran her nails down the outside of the fabric. A little teasing was okay, but if she didn’t have my cock in her mouth in two minutes I’d make her pay for it later. As if she could hear what I was thinking, she unzipped me and clasped her fingers around my length. She’d need two hands.

I groaned as she squeezed, preparing myself for the feel of her tongue when the familiar ring of my phone sounded from my jacket pocket. Shit.

“Tell me you’re not going to answer that,” she said, her lips poised at my crown.

In most similar situations I would ignore it. Silence it and refocus on what was happening to my dick, but the article had me on edge.

“I have to get this. Stay where you are, on your knees—it suits you. I won’t be long,” I said, sitting up straighter as I saw it was the number of my real estate agent. Why the hell was he calling me?

“You’re an arsehole,” she said, releasing my erection and leaning back on her knees.

I grinned as I answered the phone. Well, I hadn’t promised her romance.

“Howard?”

“You know way back when we first worked together you asked me to track that house in Woolton Village and to let you know if it ever came up for sale?”

I shifted, zipping up my trousers. Howard had my full attention. “I remember.” How could I forget? It was the whole reason behind my success. My ambition and drive came from needing to get to a point in my career where I could afford to buy that house. I’d long had enough money, but the current owners had always turned down my generous offers over the years.

“Well, I just got word that it’s going on the market tomorrow morning.”

“Badsley House?” I wanted to be sure we were talking about the same place.

I held my breath waiting for his reply.

“Yeah, that’s the one. You want me to find out how much it’s listing for?”

My hand clenched the phone tighter. “No. I want you to buy it.” I’d bought and sold millions of pounds worth of property, built an empire worth billions, but I wouldn’t ever feel successful until I owned Badsley.

“Right. Okay. Do you have a ceiling price?” Howard asked.

There was no price I wouldn’t pay for that place. It was my opportunity to right the wrongs of the past, to make the only person in the world who I cared about happy. To prove once and for all that I wasn’t my father. “No. Just get the deal done. I’ll expect to sign paperwork tomorrow.”

“You don’t want a survey or—”

“No. I want to own that house by the end of tomorrow.”

Howard paused before he answered. “I’ll make it happen.”

I ended the call, wanting to digest what had just happened. Badsley House was finally going to be mine and I couldn’t wipe the grin from my face.

I was about to fulfil a lifetime’s ambition.

I was about to buy my grandmother’s childhood home back.