Her Two Billionaires

Smart, too. A business analyst? Sounded suitably bland and yet signaled she was smart enough to carry her own in a conversation about something other than Kim Kardashian or Fifty Shades of Grey (really – why? Why had every date for the past two months mentioned it?). A real woman. What a refreshing change.



So he continued reading:



“Luscious, curvy Business Analyst seeks friendship and more. Financially independent and self-assured, I'm a fit woman who wants a man (or, more than one! YOLO!) for stimulating conversation...er, yeah. Conversation. Message me (or massage me!).”



Something fierce and hot inside him came to life. From that description it sounded like she...seriously? No way.



"Mike! Hey, Mike! Get in here!" If there were a chance – any chance at all, here, then he had to act fast. Someone this amazing was about to get inundated by messages from needy weirdos.



And he needed to be the first.



His roommate wandered in. Where Dylan was all muscle and brawn, Mike Pine was tall and sleek, a marathoner's body of long, lean tissue. Dylan's dark, Italian, thick looks made him popular with women, but Mike was the golden boy, with blonde hair and blue eyes, the long distance runner with a soft heart, the guy women turned to and poured their hearts out, Mr. Sensitive to Dylan's Mr. Conquest.



Dylan tapped the screen. "Take a look at her." He smiled smugly as Mike's eyes raced across the screen. They'd been waiting for a long time. Too long. His roommate's expression told him everything he needed to know. Score! It might finally be time.



"Do you really think that's some sort of code for being up for a threesome?" Mike asked, eyebrows arched. "I don't know, Dyl...I think it's just some sort of joke she's making. You know how nervous and weird people can be when they try to distill their entire life into a few sentences."



Dylan chewed on the inside of his cheek. Bad habit. "Good point. Well, even if she isn't into a nice menage arrangement, she is one fine woman." A low whistle escaped from his lips. "I have a project on my hands now, don't I?"



Mike nodded, peering at the screen, eyes lingering. "You are going to have a lot of competition."



Dylan snorted. "Like I give a fuck. May the best man win."



Mike went silent, then grinned, his fresh-faced boy-next-door look morphing into a Wall Street trader's predatory smile that made Dylan suddenly uncomfortable for no reason he could pinpoint. "Yeah. I hope he does."



Ding! The little chat box on the online dating site lit up like a Christmas tree. Laura sucked the last mouthful of her coffee and gaped at the screen. You have got to be kidding me, Laura thought. Already? She clicked and read a message from “9inluvr”:



Hey, babe. I live in the city and so do you, so let's hook up for some FWB action.



She snorted. Oh, sure. Just like that. Yer a catch, Bud. A real romantic.



Ding! This one was from some guy named Dylan. Before she read the chat she looked at his profile.



Well hellooooo there, Mr. Firefighter. A thin line of drool formed at the corner of her mouth, an instant response to the picture before her. It was a professional picture, the guy wearing no shirt, a fireman's hat perched at a jaunty tilt. Like a stripper's picture in a firefighter's role. Oh, God. I can't date a stripper, she thought. He'd have nicer g-strings than mine.



But no – he was a real firefighter. The picture, he explained in his profile, came from a charity bachelor auction he was in. Bachelor auction? How much had he gone for? As she studied the picture she figured it had to be a solid four figures. Hell, she was ready to empty her life savings for a night with this guy.



On a whim she Googled “Dylan charity bachelor auction firefighter” and her drool increased so much she would soon need a bucket.



Oh, holy hell. The image search showed the same man, whose name was Dylan Stanwyck, in firefighter's pants, boots, a fireman's hat and suspenders, perched on the floor of a fire station right next to the pole. He was leaning on one elbow and had smears of soot on him, with well-oiled muscles and a smug-ass grin. Whoever set up that photograph needed to be recruited for her company's marketing department because damn – she was ready to use up every available dollar on her credit cards to get a night with him.



Maybe she could save a bunch of money and just set herself on fire. Or her car. It probably wasn't worth much, but if she found out his schedule and whether he'd be the one responding...



And he was pinging her on the dating site? She dropped her coffee and scrambled to write back in the chat room.



“Hi,” she said, all inspiration and creativity vanishing as the heat forming between her legs apparently melted her brain.



Hi. I'm Dylan. Nice to “meet” you. :)



Think, Laura. Think. Man, where was Josie? Of all the times for that girl to be on time to go to work. She needed help figuring out something witty to say.



Hi. I'm Laura. Nice to “meet” you, too!



She wrote back. Then he answered:



You're probably on your way to work analyzing businesses, or businessing analysis, or whatever it is you do ;). I was hoping you might be interested in going out? We can do coffee, maybe? Or go to a nice tapas bar?



Tapas! Her favorite! But wait – Josie always said any guy who likes tapas must be gay. Laura checked the photo again. No way. And even if Dylan was gay, she would still sleep with him. Cute, polite, and loves tapas?



Tapas sounds great! When?



Dammit! Now she sounded too eager. And then he waited. And waited. No reply. Shit! Maybe he was having second thoughts. Or she sounded like a moron. Or he realized he didn't like tapas after all. Or he really was gay. Or this was his cat impersonating him. She began to pace, willing the chat bar to ping. If she stared hard enough, maybe it would come – now! No, now! Or...now!



Finally:



Uh, this might seem too eager, but I don't care. I am free tonight. I work a 24 tomorrow, so this is my last chance for a few days. I don't mean to be rude, asking you on short notice, but...please tell me you're free tonight.



Yes! Yes, yes, yes, she wanted to write. But she needed to play that stupid game, the dance of meeting someone new. Her turn to wait. She reread his message. What was a 24? She puzzled over that one as she chewed on her nailbed, pulling on it until it bled. Brilliant! Screw up your manicure when you have a hot date tonight, Laura.



Might have. Might have. Don't put the cart before the horse.



I am free. Prince William is now taken and so I have an opening in my busy social schedule.



She hit “Send” before she could change her mind. Too cheesy?



LOL. Sounds great. Meet me at Tempo Bistro after work. At 6?



Tempo Bistro? The most expensive, chi-chi restaurant in town? Not tapas, either – something she couldn't quite remember. Asian fusion? How on earth could a firefighter afford that? Not your problem, Laura. And she was making terrible assumptions. She needed to assume they were going dutch. Good thing she was a careful saver.



'lo?



The chat window pinged. Geez, Laura. Get out of your head. She typed furiously:



Sounds even better. I'll see you there and you know what I look like.



And he replied,



Oh, yes. :P



What was that supposed to mean? Her eyes swept over the clock – now she had eight minutes to shower. Damn! Laura just shook her head and walked to the bathroom, stripping naked by the time she crossed the threshold and turned on the hot water.



Sliding under the spray was bliss, the beads of water trailing their way down her body, her hair wet and ropy within seconds, the curl relaxed and the strands stretching long enough to tickle the top of her sacrum. Eh – why not leave the ad up? Who knew. Maybe she'd attract a better breed of guy. Or, at least, a different kind. She eyed the shower head – did she have time? Eight minutes?



More than enough for the last guy she dated.



Just enough time for some intimate attention from Mr. Showerhead, though. Josie was wrong. It wasn't her battery bill that was getting expensive. Her water bill, on the other hand...



Good thing her vibrator was waterproof. As she soaped up she was cognizant of the time, knowing she had minutes to finish. Pulling up the old standby fantasy always worked. Two men, luscious and thickly-muscled, both in the shower with her. Mmmm...



The extra tip of her vibrator slid along the soft, sensitive skin of her clit as she perched one foot on the tub, opening up for access to slide in her fantasy lover, who was soaping her body with his sculpted, large hands, hands that smoothed over her curves, cupping her ass to pull him toward her, sliding his enormous cock in her while the other nameless, faceless lover kissed her, hard, his tongue lashing against her and exploring as the spray rolled down in rivulets between them, gathering at her folds and adding to the tease on her clit.



Her passage tightened as she imagined him bending down, on his knees, his tongue now lapping where the vibrator's little antennae tweaked her, not her own hands moving the thick shaft in and out but the lovers', four hands at once on her as one mouth descended on her eager, red nub, the other man thrusting her up against the shower's wall, her body ready for more.



She tensed, knowing she was so close, craving all these hands, more than enough for two men who wanted and needed her, the familiar muscled cresting of her climax so innate she barely cried out, the release perfunctory but oh, so welcome.



And, now, the guilt. Because how could a “normal” woman really want two men at once? As she absent-mindedly rushed through the rest of the shower, quickly washing off her trusty toy, a persistent voice said, You, Laura. You.



Read the rest at Her First Billionaire.



Her Second Billionaire – a sample:



Mike knew that there was absolutely no chance that she was going to answer his little chat outreach anytime within the next twenty-four hours. He knew that Dylan had a date with her last night, but hoping against hope and because he was an eternal optimist, he decided to log on while he was having his morning cup of coffee.



And just to see if maybe – just maybe – she might have answered him, even though it was now six minutes before seven in the morning. He figured she was still in Dylan's bed, probably going on for round seven (knowing Dylan), and there wasn't a chance in hell that she would...wait, what?



He stared at his phone where he'd logged into the app for the online dating site. Her little icon blinked rapidly – he'd subscribed to her and her avatar had suddenly turned green.



Oh, holy hell, no! he thought. Hell, yes! a different voice answered in his poor, addled brain. Enough with the ridiculous self doubts – he had to grab his chance now. She was logged on to the dating site early in the morning after a date with Dylan. This meant – oh, the implications stunned him. Made him smirk.



Mike took a swig of coffee and quickly tapped out:



Hi, there. Are you on right now?



She typed back,



I'm just drinking my coffee and getting ready for work and I logged in and saw your message, so hi!



Wait a minute. Back up for a second. So if she was at home drinking her coffee, then that meant Dylan had struck out. Ooh! Well that wasn't quite what he wanted. He wanted Dylan to have some success but not to hit a home run. And so it looked like maybe he'd hit a single? A double?



The app stared at him, as if it were mortal. He quickly punched in:



Oh, good morning! Yeah, I'm not really functional without two or three cups of coffee myself