Chapter 1

Aaron

My laptop is my fucking life.

No, but seriously. It’s how I keep my business at the top of the industry. It’s how I stay ahead in the game.

My laptop is key to who Aaron Bennett is.

And I, Aaron Bennett, am the fucking king of the internet.

Self-proclaimed, of course, but my opinion goes a long way if you ask the people closest to me. And I don’t even have to pay them to say it.

It’s early morning, and I’m leaning over my marbled white granite kitchen counter, my laptop screen casting a white glow over my face.

What’s a billionaire doing, slaving over his laptop while the sun is barely up, you ask?

Well, let me tell you. Billionaires don’t become fucking billionaires for nothing. Not unless they’re born and bred in the back pockets of their filthy rich parents, learning to read balance sheets before they’ve begun reciting the alphabet.

No. The reason I’m a fucking pro at my job, the reason I’m drowning in more cash than anyone needs in one lifetime, is because I work my ass off.

I guess you can say I like micromanaging my own business. But that’s how I roll. I employ the very best to do their very best―but I still dip in the waters, treading to make sure there isn’t any trash in my sea of people.

My self-assigned job is to cat-fish unsuspecting, pussy-whipped billionaires. I know, I know. Can’t imagine a fucking CEO doing the dirty work, can you?

Well, you haven’t met me. And I’ll be the first to tell you, if you did, you’d have the same reaction to me all the women do. You know, ready to drop to your knees at the snap of my fingers. Anyway, back to my job.

I fucking love it, even though I’m a dude.

Think of it as being an actor, only I’m behind the scenes. I talk to high-rolling losers who are both new and regular clients of my website, making sure they’re not treating any of my female clients like shit or taking advantage of my employees.

That’s the kind of fucking CEO I am.

I’m here to make sure Thebadboys.net stays afloat, with the competition trailing far behind. Preferably drowning and close to death.

I also have a standard to uphold. Thebadboys.net isn’t the premier billionaire dating site in the world by mistake. No, I make sure we only host the best of the best clients. Which is why I’ve developed my online persona to lure them in. It’s quality assurance, plain and simple.

Yes, I’m both the owner and a “client” of Thebadboys.net. And yes, it’s exactly like it fucking sounds: dirty shit in the sexiest ways possible.

Besides, it’s good for the brain. So much better than Sudoku. It helps let my creative juices flow in the cover-up name I’ve built from the ground up: Ms. Winters.

She’s a seductress, a temptress, and a sexy ass bitch―but she’s one-hundred percent made up.

If I’m being honest, that’s part of the thrill of the job, getting a kick out of cat-fishing these assholes and making sure they keep throwing money at my feet. Well, Ms. Winters’ feet, at least.

I’ve just finished checking my e-mails and making sure I’m not missing anything. It’s a free day―the rare, once-in-a-year day that I don’t have any fucking meetings. Usually, I’m being whisked away in my limousine from one restaurant to another, meeting investors and advertisers and other big money men in black suits, looking to make bigger money so they can buy more black suits.

But today, I’m off. So I decide I can stop being Aaron Bennett early and start my day as Ms. Winters. I log onto the site as soon as I close my e-mail window.

My morning routine is the same ritualistic bullshit that probably mirrors ninety percent of executives out there in the workforce.

I yawn sleepily and scratch the scruff on my face. I guess I need to shave pretty soon.

I glance at my reflection through the screen, at my dark straight hair tousled almost artfully. It’s a little chilly in the room, the cold air touching my abs and making me shiver. I sleep naked, since that’s always how my bedroom guests want me, anyway…

What do you expect from a workaholic CEO with washboard abs and enough money to buy any-fucking-thing I want? Of course women come knocking at my door all the time.

Wait, that’s not accurate. They schedule appointments with my executive assistant first.

But since there’s no pretty mouth waiting to wake me up with a morning blow today, I settle with how the rest of the country usually starts their day.

That means I’m waiting for my saving grace, my life-link.

The reason I keep on going.

My coffee.

Yes, it’s caffeine and not blood that runs through my veins. It’s my drug, the way I get supercharged and pumped for another exciting day at the office.

I’m right in the middle of entering my site password when my fancy-ass coffee machine beeps, music to my fucking ears.

My coffee is ready, and as I pour myself a refreshing mug, I relish in the smell of that French roast filling my nostrils like fucking perfection.

I take a moment to space out and savor the first few sips of the sustenance that gives me life before I chain myself back to my desk, ready to belt out some work in my new supercharged state of mind.

That’s when my mind drifts to Ben—my son. I miss the little guy like crazy, but he’s in the best place he can be right now. At the premier boarding school in the country. Ever since my wife died three years ago, we both really had a hard time. I work too fucking hard to be both a mother and a father to him, so after a lot of consideration, I decided to send him to the same prestigious school I attended.

One day—maybe—I’ll be ready to settle down again for real. But only once I find the woman who can handle the two of us. However, that’s the furthest thing from my mind right now. No woman has been able to hold up to my standards so far. I need someone who can keep up with me in every way. Ambitious, brilliant, sexy as hell—and a good mom. Yeah, you can see why my short list has yet to even have a name on it.

I sigh, and down the rest of my coffee, then fill my mug up again. No time to get lost in these depressing thoughts today. Time to get back to work.

The jolt of caffeine hits me just in time. I’m ready to get started.

I’m not going to lie―Ms. Winters is the shit. I’m talking the real deal. Yes, I’m fucking damn proud of the alter ego that stemmed straight from my imagination.

She’s elusive and sought after, my pride and joy. I continuously develop her character and charming poise, which is why I think it keeps the big money dudes coming—and cumming. Those filthy rich men just want to witness what other outlandish amazing shit I can root up from my good ole’ noggin.

Not to brag, but Ms. Winters brings in the most revenue out of any other alter ego on the site, and I’m fucking proud of that fact.

I’m untouchable. Watch anybody try to get on my level, and they’ll undoubtedly fail to reach my potential.

The other billionaires of the world are her fresh and prime target, and you better fucking believe I shoot those darts with the aim to hit the bullseye every fucking time.

Because, seriously, who could ever be better at knowing how to bring a billionaire to his knees than another alpha billionaire?

That’s fucking right. No one.

Let me guess…you want to know all about Ms. Winters, don’t you?

Well, let me appease you by giving you a slice of heaven on a platter.

Ms. Winters is cool and sexy, fun and adventurous. She’s got long, golden blonde hair and huge, beautiful blue eyes the color of the Caribbean waters. Yep, her eyes are a token trademark.

She’s tan and slender, but muscular at the same time, with perfect legs that guys want wrapped around their waists.

Ms. Winters doesn’t buy into hype or bullshit, but if you’re ready to get naughty and play the game, you bet your ass she’s going to be there front and center playing her cards right.

She’s the kind of girl who will let you cry on her shoulder (if you need that), but she’s also fun-loving enough that if you decide to go to Vegas on a whim, she’ll meet you at the airport with a bag she’s already pre-packed.

That’s what makes her so appealing to the men who get lured in. She’s up for anything, scared of nothing. Challenge is child’s play to her.

I take another sip of my delicious coffee and squint at the screen, ready to dive right in to an engaging conversation with another idiot with an overstuffed wallet.

Except there’s another name that catches my eyes.

Another client.

His name is Mr. BadBoy.

What the fuck?

That’s fucked up, but at the same time takes some serious fucking guts. This guy’s balls must be the size of New Hampshire.

How the fuck is he even getting away with that screen name? HR filters names and make sure they’re appropriate for the site. What the fuck?

We go through the pleasantries, but I’m impatient. I want to know who this asshole thinks he is.

Where do you live? I type the words into the chat box not long after I say hello, expecting Mr. BadBoy to respond with a vague answer like ‘SoHo.’ But to my surprise, he gives an actual address.

I live at 35 Houston Street in a brownstone.

No fucking way. Is this guy for real giving out his address to a stranger so early?

I need to fucking find out more about him.

You’re bold, giving out your address like that.

The pause is extended, but finally, I see the prompt pop up that notifies me that the other person is currently typing.

I don’t have anything to hide.

This guy is giving me a run for my money, but I have to remember that I’m posing as a female and that I have to mask my real animosity towards him.

There’s nothing wrong with a little mystery every now and then, I type into the chat box.

You’ll just have to wait and see what I have to offer, Mr. BadBoy replies.

Yeah, you bet I fucking will, you fucking creep. I want to tell him I find him sketchy, but I can’t exactly write that if I want to keep up appearances.

I audibly scoff at my screen, thinking that I have the brainpower and intelligence to top this guy at this game. At my game. No fucking doubt.

I didn’t work my ass off for nothing just to lose.

I’d love to hear what you have to offer, I mildly throw that out there to tread the flirtatious waters.

My prime purpose for Ms. Winters is interviewing these billionaire freaks to make sure they’re not doing any seedy shit. That they aren’t going to tarnish the rep I’ve built for my site.

My goal is to get in their heads and wrap them around my finger. It’s not hard, because most of them are so fucking lonely they’ll fuck a piece of cabbage if it will spread its legs for them.

Anytime, sweetheart, he writes back.

I heave a hefty sigh and glance out the window of my Manhattan penthouse. The view is fucking glorious. The city skyline isn’t a view one often forgets to appreciate.

It’s mid-morning by now, but the heavy fog is still dense, as if I were in the fucking moors of England or some shit.

I guess today isn’t going to be sunshine and blue skies, but that’s okay; my mood is fit for a king, anyway.

I crack my knuckles and contentedly lean back in my desk chair, thinking of the best way to hook, line, and sinker this prick.

Are you still there?

The cursor blinks on my screen. I let this guy keep hanging for a few minutes before I answer.

I’m wherever you need me to be, baby.

There, take that asshole.

I get up to stretch and trudge back to my kitchen, feeling a chill in the air that’s probably just a reflection of the bleak and dreary sky outside.

Plus, it’s a Monday. Who fucking likes Mondays?

I drum my fingers against the countertop and blow out a puff of air. I need to take this Mr. BadBoy on. I’m fucking pissed and offended at his sheer audacity to use the same username as the name of the site.

It’s probably a lapse on the part of my otherwise brilliant HR team. But I don’t want to bring this to their attention just yet. I want to get a feel for this new guy first.

I stare at my liquor cabinet, thinking I might need to add some refreshment to my coffee cup if I’m going to up the ante.

It’s going to be a long fucking day.