A Bad Boy Billionaire: Forbidden Alpha Male Romance Read Free Page B

ability to do more if you have the right mindset, but lucre can drive a man mad. Trust me on this one. I know. If not from experience than from seeing it happen to people around me. The higher up you get, the fewer people you have around. I'm on a pedestal to the heavens on my own.
    As she smoked a big fatty, blowing the smoke into rings that float around the room, I go down on her as if her juices were an elixir of life and I was some Spanish explorer looking to make it big. Her lips get larger and opened up. She coughs then giggles. A little more firm, she says. I love when she tells me. I hate walking around blindly. I try not to as much as possible. She grabs the back of my head, running her fingers through my hair, pushing me closer to the spot she likes licked the most. “Oh fuck, that's it,” she moans and I know it's close.
    I stop but don't pause. I don't want to cause her to cum quite yet. I let her take another hit or three and then come back with another volley of kisses that take her over the edge. She writhes and I move away, knowing she's too sensitive to be touched. I don't like to torture her. We've already been through so much tonight. And it's tight. The prose. The road to the rose between her legs. I finish the rest of the joint as she rolls another.
    On the deck we look out and down. The moon is high in the sky. Almost as high as us. Maybe higher. I'm not good at science or math. That's not how I made my money. She talks to me of nothing really. We exchange words for a few minutes, but we do not connect on any inner level. She is a deep person at times – I think I see this in her – but together we do not match. Different voltages or something. Who knows. I enjoy her company for the night and in the morning when I wake she's gone.
    A funny note on the refrigerator warns me about the plums being no longer around. I smile and don't save her words, tossing the paper into the garbage. I'll savor the memory – and the fresh pineapple – if not the plums. She gets me and inspires me. I want to be inside her pussy and inside her mind at the same time. Same place at the same time and the way we bump and grind until we cum and then snuggle and hold close and then mix it up again. She can read the many sides of me.
    As I eat small piece by piece I think of DH Lawrence. He didn't write in this or that genre. And I'm not him, but I can respect him from the place I occupy in this particular moment in time. But these words are my words. The way I describe the shape of her ass. The way I remember the way she smells when she comes to me. The way she moves when she cums for me, with me, next to me. The many ways in which out bodies writhe and I want to occupy more of her time, but as always I fear the motivation and the lack of connection. Is it just me?
    I finish eating and head outside to think and sit and just bask in the immensity of the universe for just a while, just a bit. Then I think of her tits and I want to call her. I have to wait. I have to wade further into the water, closer to the point of no return as the black hole calls me as if I'm a galaxy to devour. My mind notices her absence. I notice too much for my own liking, but I'm learning to come to terms with the facts. The truth is more important than the facts. You hear that? A drone flies overhead – the least sexy thing in a piece of erotica. Romantica. I invent a new genre and invest my time investigating the crimes of the mind.
    By the time the night comes around as the planet swings and sways in the vast openness around us, I ponder buying a bus and naming it Even Further and traveling here and there across the world to touch the lives of some of the 99 percent. Not to give out money (or fish), but to teach how to make these really good toasted cheese sandwiches with fresh garlic. I stole the recipe from a hippie. She didn't sue me, of course. She liked American music too much which is why she parted, but I got the memory in the form of food. I