Not Husband Material (Billionaire's Contract Duet 1)

“No, but you’re all celebrating,” I said as we made our way out of the bar and started walking down the docks. “Besides,” I added, “you might be late for work tomorrow.”

She giggled, and there was a pause as though she was trying to come up with something clever to say back, but that just turned into more laughter as her hand ran up the back of my shirt, feeling my rippling muscles. She’d had more than enough to drink, and by the way I was swaying on my way out, I could tell that I had too. That didn’t matter. My mind was swimming with the thoughts of this woman’s legs around my hips, my thick cock thrusting up into her against the wall of my suite before I put her on her knees on my bed and had her crying out for more until we were both slick with her honey and panting on the bed.

“My place is on the docks, though,” I said in a husky whisper, “so we can take all the time we need.”

“You’re very kind, Mister…” she trailed off, waiting for my name.

“Tonight,” I said, “you can just call me ‘sir’.”

2

Jillian

God, it was so damn hot.

I fanned myself with the manila folder in my hands, sighing heavily as I looked out the tinted window of the black Mercedes Benz, silently wishing the chauffeur would turn the air conditioning on just a notch higher.

I glanced through the partition and noted that it could, in fact, go up one more level if I asked. I bit my lip. Sure, I was used to getting what I wanted. I had money, means, and moxy. I wasn’t afraid to stand up and stand out, and when something needed to be done, I was always the first one rushing to do it. But sometimes I still hated feeling like I was asking too much of people. Especially since my driver, who was a Florida local, didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the incredible heat. He was happily humming to himself, a tune I vaguely recognized. Probably a Jimmy Buffett song.

The folks around here were all about that chilled-out, Hawaiian-shirt aesthetic. For someone from around here, the temperature today probably did feel pretty pleasant. Eighty degrees is downright chilly if you’re used to one-hundred-and-ten in the summer months.

So I decided to keep my annoyance to myself, but I did make a mental note to wear something a little less fallish tomorrow. This wasn’t New York or Martha’s Vineyard. This was not the Hamptons. This was F

ort Lauderdale and yes, even in November, it was still hotter than any place had a right to be.

Of course, it was sometimes difficult to keep tabs on what the weather and climate would be like on any given day. I traveled so frequently—well, more like constantly—that as soon as I started to feel comfortable and at home in one time zone, I was on back on the tarmac, jetting off to the next ritzy locale.

Last week, I had spent a few days off the coast of Washington state, chatting up some wealthy Seattleites who were retiring and planning to head down the California coast. Their plan was to pass their booming, wildly successful tech company to their children and retire in San Francisco, take up yachting as their new hobby and lifestyle. Because that’s what it was: a lifestyle. At least, that was what I told all my clients.

Buying a yacht is a uniquely life-changing event, I would tell them, because a yacht isn’t just some toy you can toss in a garage and let collect dust. A yacht is not a Ferrari. A yacht is not a tennis court. The loaded retiree I spoke to in Washington had scoffed at first, responding that he had been on a friend’s yacht before and while it was enjoyable, it certainly wasn’t the life-altering experience I was trying to sell him on.

I loved when a client tried to challenge me on my sales pitch. It made my heart race, made the adrenaline start pumping. It was the thrill of the chase, the dramatic but subtle to-and-fro, back-and-forth of the sale. It was my job to paint a beautiful, irresistible portrait for my clients, promise them heaven and actually deliver. So I explained to him in elaborate, eloquent detail, how it was a different experience when it was your yacht. When you were the one at the helm, deciding how far to sail and how long to drift. When you chose which champagnes to stock, what manner of bartender to hire, what music to play. Buying a yacht was a game of infinite choices and customizability. For a bored, spoiled retiree who was very accustomed to getting exactly what he wanted when he wanted and where, it was a gold mine. A honey trap. All I had to do was prove to him how many expensive, detailed choices he would get to make over the course of the purchasing process, and he was hooked.

I had to admit, I was pretty damn good at my job.

“Oh, right up here is fine, thank you,” I told the driver, leaning forward slightly.

“To the curb, ma’am?” he asked.

I nodded and smiled at his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Yes, perfect.”

“Very good, ma’am. And when would you prefer to be picked up?”

I thought about it a moment. How long would this sale take? I had been sent here on a very important and unusually personal mission: to stake out and purchase a yacht for a client I knew better than anyone else in the world. My older brother, Jeff. It was strange, being on location not to sell a yacht, but to buy one. It wasn’t unheard of for me to play customer, of course. As a broker, it was my job to inspect and buy products and designs for our growing portfolio. But this time, I needed to find the perfect ship. Family was everything to me, and my brother was no exception.

“I’m not sure yet,” I confessed to the driver. “I will be in touch when I have a better idea of how the day will go.”

“Very good, ma’am.”

The black Benz rolled to a stop at the curb outside a ritzy-looking coffee shop on the boardwalk and the chauffeur hopped up to come around and open the door for me. I took his hand as he helped me out and I nearly gasped at the oppressive heat bearing down on me. I had to fight the urge to swear at the sun. Too hot. Way too hot.

“Have a wonderful day, ma’am,” said the chauffeur. I gave him a hasty smile and nodded.

“You, too,” I said.

He got back behind the wheel and drove off, leaving me melting on the sidewalk with my manila folder and my designer work bag. I pulled my aviators out of my bag and slid them on, looking around at my options. I needed a quiet, cool place to sit and look over my notes. And some iced coffee wouldn’t hurt, either.

I was a shameless caffeine addict. I’d already had a mug and a half of terrible hotel room coffee before the driver even arrived to pick me up this morning. But with my job, my chemical dependency could hardly be held against me. With the way I hopped back and forth between wildly varying time zones, it made perfect sense that I didn’t sleep much. I was in a constant state of adjustment, either jetlagged or wired or both at any given time. And it was vital to my success that my clients would see me as confident and competent. That meant I needed to be on my A-game all the time, no matter how exhausted or loopy I really felt.