He thinks he can spank me and still get what he wants.
I think he might be right.
I hate that rich bastard. He"s handsome, cocky, charming, and acts like he owns any room he walks into.
I stay far away from Ben Taylor. I don"t care how stupidly hot he looks in his perfect clothes. I tune his piano and mind my own business.
Until one night, all alone in the studio, I make the best mistake of my life.
Ben"s full lips on my neck, his hands on my hips. I can"t say no, and I don"t want to.
Now I"m pregnant and that night still haunts me. His body pressed against mine, the heat between our skin so intense I could barely keep my clothes on.
It was the best night of my life.
But I don"t want anything to do with that bastard. I"ll raise the baby all on my own, without his help.
At least until he makes me an insane offer.
He"ll pay me thousands of dollars to help him record an album, no strings attached.
I need the money. I have a sick grandmother to take care of and no other family to help.
We"ll be up late every night, he says. He"ll wring every ounce of sweat from my body, working me hard.
I"ll let the rich bastard buy me, but he won"t own me.
Hating the Rich Bastard is a super steamy, over the top, hate to love billionaire romance with adult themes and dirty language. It"s only for readers 18+.
Hating the Rich Bastard is a full length standalone novel. No cliffhanger. Guaranteed HEA!Books by Author:B.B. Hamel Books
I think I"m about to get my dick sucked.
I"ve seen that look a million times. Eyes unfocused, smile vague, body language screaming "take me home and abuse me, Daddy." It"s a look I"ve come to love during my time as the owner of one of the most successful indie record labels in the world.
"What do you think"" I whisper to her. "Think you can take it all""
She nods, blinking. She"s blonde, tan, pretty in a boring way.
I tip it up against her lips and she giggles.
"Go ahead," I whisper in her ear.
She slams the shot glass back, swallowing the vodka, and laughs. I grin as I take my own shot, bristling at the burn on the back of my throat.
"Oh, shit!" she says, grinning at me and grabbing my arms. "It"s my song!"
She starts dragging me toward the dance floor. We"re in the middle of this expensive and exclusive club called Sweaters. The pulse is pounding, a deep and unrelenting thud reverberating through the space. I"m trying to remember this girl"s name, but for the life of me I can"t figure it out.
I know that if I follow her out to the dance floor, maybe spend ten minutes grinding up against her, I"m going to get my dick sucked. I just know it, deep down in my bones. I have a sixth sense for this sort of shit.
I"m like the Ghost Whisperer, except I can tell when drunk girls want to fuck me.
It"d be so easy. I mean, it"s why I"m here alone at one in the morning. I"m looking for an escape, some decent pussy to keep me occupied. I"m drunk, but I"m not hammered, and this girl should do nicely.
Except I"m not interested.
The thought of taking her home and letting her lick my shaft for ten minutes, unenthusiastically pawing at my cock, followed by twenty minutes of hardcore fucking where she moans faker than a porn star just sounds pretty exhausting more than anything else.
I"ve been there, done that. It used to excite me, used to make me feel alive.
Now it just makes me feel tired.
"You go without me." I pull away from her. "I"m good."
"What"" she asks, looking shocked. "You don"t wanna dance""
"Not in the mood." I head back toward the bar, hoping she doesn"t follow.
I think she gets the idea. I post up in an empty stool at one end and watch as my girl disappears into the crowd, a disgusted look on her face.
I have another drink before giving up. I know nothing"s happening tonight, and frankly, I don"t fucking care.
I feel heavy, like I"ve been walking for hours. The music is giving me a headache and I know that girl was my best chance at getting laid tonight. No sense staying in this fucking awful club a second longer.
I wander out into the Philadelphia streets, still damp from the rain earlier, and flag a cab. This young kid with bleached blond tips picks me up and I give him the address for the studio.
It"s not a far drive. I spend the time staring out the window at the people flashing past. Philly isn"t exactly New York, but it doesn"t sleep, either. There"s always something happening, always some party going down. I love this city, but sometimes it"s too much.
Especially right now. Things are going great for Somesuch, the label I founded ten years ago with my best friend Markus right out of college. We"ve made hit record after hit record and plenty of critical darlings on top of those. I have more fame and money than I know what to fucking do with.
Except I"m fucking bored. I"m fucking depressed. I want to get my dick sucked, but I know that won"t do shit.
I sigh. This was my dream. I always thought turning Somesuch into the sort of label that could scout out great talent and put amazing music out into the world would fulfill me. I hoped it would be enough, and for a while, it was.
At least until these last few years.
Now, none of it makes me happy.
Not the women, not the drugs, not the drinking. I drift through the days, waiting for the next thing that might distract me.
The cab pulls over and I give him a fifty. I climb out and walk up a short stoop, stopping in front of an old red door with a little high-tech keypad on the side. I type in a number and the door unlocks.
I step inside, shutting the door behind me. The old floorboards creak under my feet as I walk down the familiar hallway.
I run my fingers along the textured wallpaper. I can remember building this place with Markus all those years ago, spending all our money, going into debt. It took a few years before we broke even and a few more years before we started making a profit.