A Sugar Daddy’s Secret: Billionaire Romance Read online

  “I thought we were more than that. I thought you loved me.”

  “Like we could be anymore than what we are. I don’t even know what that is. But take a good look around this restaurant. Take a good look. Do you see any couples that look like us? Do you?”

  I felt myself breaking inside. I grabbed my napkin and dabbed at my eyes. I couldn’t believe how cruel he was being. But what I didn’t know at the time was that he had much brutality in store for me later that night.

  “Tell me why those policemen came to your office today. Tell me!” I screamed.

  Every head in the restaurant turned towards us. I saw some of the restaurant staff looking and pointing in our direction.

  “All you fucking art girls are the same. I bet your girlfriends told you about my reputation. And just wanted to come down to the office see who I was fucking, that’s it isn’t?”

  “So that’s all I am to you a good fuck? That’s it. I can’t believe I actually fell for your tired act. So stupid.” I made a move to stand up. He grabbed my wrist and jerked me back into the seat.

  “Maybe you should just go back to the Midwest. Go back there and make your stupid collage paintings. You’re never going to make it in this city, or any other city for that matter. What a joke.”

  “Fuck you!”

  He seemed startled, but quickly regained his composure.

  “Just like my fucking wife,” he snarled. “That goddamn bitch.”

  I felt like he had just knocked me upside the head. Wife? He had told me that he had been divorced for three years.

  “Your wife?”

  “What are you going to cry about that to? Yes, my wife. That’s why those cops came by my office today. It’s not enough that she trying to take all of money, she’s also accusing me of trying to kill her.”

  All this was too much for me. I felt my head get light, breathing becoming harder. I took a long sip on a glass of water and tried to catch my breath.

  “You told me you were—”

  “I told you what you needed to know. I knew you wouldn’t want anything to do with me if I told you I was still married.”

  “You want to have her killed?”

  “Why don’t you say it louder so everyone in the restaurant hears you?”

  He shook his head, attempted to calm himself down and then told me that according to his ex-wife someone had been waiting outside their suburban Westchester home for the past two weeks, staking the place out or something like that. The cops stopped the guy on a routine traffic violation and had uncovered a whole slew of warrants. And now the police were going around questioning anyone who might have a reason to harm her. Thomas was the first name on that list. He had been living in separate residences for the last few months, that’s what he said, and they were going through a divorce.

  “You should have told me. I would have understood,” I said. I stretched my hands across the table. He didn’t take them in his like he usually did. I stared into his eyes, pleading, hoping for some signal that we still had a chance of making it.

  “It’s not enough that she’s going to take all of my money. Now she’s got me involved in some sort of criminal investigation.”

  “But it’s not true, right? It’s all some big mistake, no?” I wanted him to tell me that the police had made a mistake. I wanted him to tell me that there was no way he could possibly be involved in something evil. But that’s not what I got from.

  “You probably suspected all along. I mean, you never wondered why we only see each other once a week. Even after all these months of dating. You really thought I was that busy?”

  Maybe he had a point. There were signs that I should have seen, but I choose to ignore them because everything felt so good, so right between us. But now when I looked across the table, when I looked into his eyes I feared that this man could actually be capable of what he was being accused of. Murder. He paid the check and barked at me to get up.

  Outside the restaurant I figured we would go our separate ways. I thought that he would be glad to be alone, or at least not with me. Maybe another one of his art girls, someone as young and dumb as I was, would welcome him into her arms. Maybe there was another tight pussy, with swollen pink lips waiting for his huge, raging cock. Whoever it was, she would probably get the fuck of her life.

  ***

  If only we had gone our separate ways, everything might have turned out differently. But instead of letting me go off and cry on my own, he yanked me by the arm and hailed a cab. Before we slid into the backseat, he glared at me, gritted his teeth, and said, “You say one fucking word. One word. And I’ll fucking kill you.” I wanted to scream, but my vocal chords wouldn’t produce any sound. Nothing seemed to work. My whole body tensed up. I wanted to drop down right there on the concrete in the middle of Manhattan and wait for someone to come and rescue me, to save me from this man whom I could hardly recognize. He was going to kill me. I was sure of it.

  I must have passed out in the backseat because I had no idea how I ended up back in his apartment tied to the bed with a blindfold over my eyes. For the next three hours, or however long it took, he ravaged my body, slapped me around, jammed his huge dick in and out of me. All I could do was surrender.

  In the morning, it must have been morning because the sunlight filtered through the blinds; he untied me, laid his head on my chest and wept. We wept together, held each other in our arms. He begged for forgiveness, begged for me not to call the cops. They were already watching him, waiting for him to slip up and this would only add to the heat they would put on him. It was only game, he assured me, a very rough game that he wanted to play with me. Then he admitted that yes, he did have someone tailing his wife, but it wasn’t to have her killed he insisted, he just wanted to scare her out of going after so much of his money in the divorce.

  “I did it for you,” he said. “For us. She’s trying to take everything I have. Everything I’ve worked for.”

  He told me that I was his only hope. Despite the fancy suits, lunches and dinners at five star restaurants, and this apartment on the Upper West Side, he was really struggling financially. He had lost a lot of money in the recent financial crash and his artistic investments hadn’t panned out either. Paying the rent on the swanky 4k a month apartment had become a real struggle. He begged for me to stay with him.

  “We can leave tomorrow,” he said, full of desperation.

  “Tomorrow? Where?”

  “Spain. The villa still needs some work but we’ll do that ourselves. Just you and me,” he said.

  He cupped my face in his large hands. I pulled away. I thought he was going to hurt me, but the look in his eyes was so desperate and pleading. He kissed me gently on the lips.

  I looked at him as lovingly as possible and assured him that I wouldn’t abandon him. But wasn’t sure I believed that. I didn’t really know who this man was. There was no way I would run away to another country with man who had hidden this secret life from me. A wife and kids that he never talked about. And on top of that hiring someone to kill the mother of his children? I didn’t feel safe being in the same apartment with him, let alone in a foreign country where I didn’t know anyone and couldn’t speak the language. I knew he was hurt and wounded, but so was I. Samantha was right. It was time that I finally stood up for myself. I had to protect myself. The old me would have stayed with him, trying somehow to rationalize the lies and the brutality. But I had been through that once before and I knew where it ended: drunk on the floor all alone, reeking of alcohol, cigarettes and cum. But still I wanted to believe, despite what I could clearly see, that this man who had penetrated me so deeply, had filled me up so completely, and had promised me the life of artist which I had always dreamed of, was the perfect man.

  I noticed that his cock was beginning to stiffen. It stretched down his thigh. I took into my hands and began rubbing its huge, bulbous head against my clit. It wasn’t long before I was wet.

  He fucked me with every ounce of strength he had
in his body. He fucked me like this was the last time he might ever fuck a woman again. He scratched and clawed my back and I did the same and both of us had blood underneath our ravenous fingernails. I screamed for him to fuck me, to fuck my pussy. He grunted and jammed his rod to the hilt. With each thrust his big balls slapped against my clit. He picked me up and pounded me against the wall. My body went wild with lust. I felt like I was possessed; I shook and trembled involuntarily; a thick stream of cum dripped out of my pussy and down my thighs. I screamed. He grunted then his seed exploded inside of me. We collapsed on the floor. I laid my head on his heaving chest. He closed his eyes and put his hands behind his neck. His cock lay like a big salami on his chest. I gently took it into my mouth and licked off our mingled juices.

  I don’t why but I couldn’t bring myself to leave him. I know I should have bolted out of his apartment the first chance I got, but I didn’t. Instead I went with him to his house in Greenwich, Connecticut. It was a five-acre nature lover’s paradise overlooking a lake. We fished, canoed and kayaked; we sipped champagne, kissed, and chatted for hours in the outdoor hot tub. On the third night there he told me his plan, the diabolical scheme that would make us both rich: high-end art forgeries.

  “Just think,” he said. You won’t have to worry about money anymore. Ever”

  “I don’t think I could do something like that,” I said. “It seems so dishonest.”

  He snickered. “Stop being so damn naive.” Many famous paintings hanging in renowned museums are forgeries.”

  When I hesitated before agreeing, he assured me that he was getting out of the business. This would be the last forgery that he put on the market. It was an early century Thompkins—extremely rare. A buyer willing to pay millions was already lined up.

  “Who’s been painting these for you during the last three years?” I asked.

  He seemed annoyed by the question, looked away, and said something under his breath that I couldn’t make out.

  He told me that I could start tomorrow morning. He would walk me through the complicated and meticulous process. The painting had to be completed in three days time. There was no time to waste. He kissed me gently, squeezed in his arms and led me to an upstairs bedroom, a different bedroom from the one we had slept in the previous two nights. I was too exhausted and overwhelmed by his revelation to ask why he wanted me to sleep in there.

  When I woke up a few hours later it was still dark. My mouth was dry and I wanted to get something to drink from the kitchen. I turned the door, but it must have stuck or jammed. I jiggled it vigorously. Nothing. Maybe he locked it accidentally I thought. I started banging on the door and calling his name. I heard footsteps approaching.

  “Go back to sleep, he said from the other side of the door. “You’ll need to be rested in the morning.”

  “Thomas, let me out! Let me out!” I screamed. I heard his feet stomping away and the stairs.

  I panicked, started banging on the door, screaming hysterically. After a few minutes I fell to floor and began crying. He’s going to kill me, I thought, I know he is. I thought about how stupid and naive I had been in coming here; how stupid it was for me to trust him again after he had already lied to me about not having a wife. Why would I have ever trusted such a man? I tried to imagine all the horrible ways he would kill me or torture me or both. When that became too much to bear, I began walking around the room. I stopped at the window. It was pitch black outside so I couldn’t see how far down the drop was. I grabbed a book of the bed stand and let it drop out the window. From the sound the drop only seemed to be about ten feet. I had no other choice. But where would I go once I got down there? It was impossible to see anything through the darkness. There was no point in jumping out the window if I wasn’t going to be able to get away. A few minutes I heard the sound of what had to be a car approaching or driving past. Yes! I saw headlights coming from a road that was about fifty years away. This was my chance.

  I opened the window all the way, put one leg over the window, then the other. I let myself. I fell into a thicket of bushes. They scratched my skin but my adrenaline was pumping so fast that I hardly noticed. I took off for the main road. One of my shoes fell off but I kept running. Another set of car lights streamed down the main road. I ran as fast I could and managed to get the attention of the driver. I spoke hurriedly, breathlessly. He seemed to understand how desperate I was. He told me to get in and then drove me to the nearest police station where I spent the next several hours explaining to two detectives what exactly had happened to me. They told me that the NYPD had been investigating Thomas for the murder of the painter who had worked for him before he had chosen me as his mark: Amanda Lavreaux.

  When I got back into the city the next day, the story was front page news:

  ***Art Patron Charged with Murder of Brilliant Young Painter

  New York—A former investment banker turned art patron has been charged with the grisly murder of promising New York artist Amanda Lavreaux. The victim’s body was found in her West Village apartment. She appeared to have been strangled and suffocated. The suspect, Thomas Wilson, left Wall Street for the art world three years ago and has used his big money and wide-ranging connections to become a major player in the international art forgery market. Authorities believe Ms. Lavreaux, a star in New York City art circles, was both Mr. Wilson’s lover and the painter whom he called on to produce the high-priced forgeries. Police suspect that Ms. Lavreaux may have been killed because she threatened to expose both Wilson and his partners. Police are also investigating whether Wilson has been plotting to kill his wife to keep her from disclosing his criminal activities.

  I couldn’t read anymore. The paper was shaking in my hands. If I hadn’t jumped out that window and had refused to participate in his criminal activities, he would probably have killed me. I felt lucky to be alive and hungry to start on my next series of paintings.

  THE END

  Bonus Short Stories

  20 Stories

  Please see the next page to start the bonus. Enjoy!

  Bonus 1 of 20

  Love on the Field

  Description

  Bryant Koslow is ready to become the best pitcher baseball has ever seen. He is young, cocky and ripped. Nothing can stop him now. Stardom is his goal. Blonde, blue eyed Emily Riggs is an aspiring sports agent. She is sexy and fun as well as intelligent. Emily is learning the ropes from her uncle, when she meets the hot pitcher after tryouts. The pair comes together and fireworks explode. But, just like those fireworks, the sparks soon burn out. They never expect to see each other again. The fun is definitely over.

  Years later, Emily is shocked to see the handsome baseball star walk into her well-earned office. She had almost forgotten how hot he looked and the fun times they had. Bryant is there to beg for her help. He has gotten himself in a mess and needs the expertise of a sports agent. He has cheated on his ex-wife many times, including with Emily. He was in a public brawl with a former teammate. His exploits follow him everywhere. No team wants a trouble maker with a bad reputation and other agents have turned him down. Is Emily willing to take him on either professionally or privately? Can they reignite the fireworks?

  Chapter 1

  Emily Biggs shoved her red sunglasses against her pert nose as she

  studied each young pitcher closely. The stance, pitching technique, ball speed and players’ age all mattered when it came to baseball. Only the best were recruited for the professional teams her uncle scouted for. You didn’t make money representing has-beens or one pitch wonders.

  Today, she and her uncle were in Chicago searching for the best

  rookie pitcher out there. Uncle Wayne had the best eyes around and he

  was her mentor. He expected Emily to catch every subtle difference in

  the prospective recruits. She had no time to notice all the handsome

  faces. It was all about strikes and speed during the tryouts.

  Emily glanced at her list to see who was up n
ext. It was a young

  hotshot named Bryant Koslow. He had only played one year of college

  baseball and yet expected to make the big leagues. That was a pipe

  dream. He needed more experience. Maybe, it was time for a break. She could go get a coke while he made a fool out of himself. Her uncle wouldn’t mind. He was looking for someone older who would appreciate the offer.

  Emily stood and wiped the sweat from her brow. She took two

  steps down the bleachers and heard a gasp from the crowd. She stopped

  in her tracks to watch the next pitch. A fastball streaked across the plate.

  The catcher was knocked on his backside by the powerful pitch. He removed his glove and rubbed his aching hand on his pants. Okay, the rookie had a good fastball. Could he do anything else? His next pitch was a curveball that sailed smoothly over home plate. Pitch after pitch, the young man had the crowd on their feet yelling for more. He was the best Emily had ever seen. She was shocked to find that kind of talent in such a young, inexperienced player. If he didn’t burn out, his future in baseball was solid gold. All the sports agents would be vying for him as a client. She hoped Uncle Wayne was successful. He needed a new client to wake up the franchise owners.

  After the long, hot day in the bleachers, Emily just wanted a shower, a cold drink and bed. It wasn’t meant to be. The sports agents and some of the fortunate players they had signed were meeting in the hotel bar for a celebration. Uncle Wayne insisted that she come with him. It was all a part of the job. He swore she would forget her tiredness and have fun. He better be right or she would never forgive him.

  Emily showered, applied makeup to her already stunning face and

  blew out her long hair into a shimmering, blonde mass. The short red

  dress clung to every curve and the slight flare at the bottom highlighted