Free Filthy Rich: The Billionaire's Baby (A Bad Boy Romance) by Erin Wilder

She plopped my drink on the table, rum-and-coke with more alcohol than soda, and flicked her hair over her shoulder before walking away. My eyes were locked on her delicious curves, and the sound of her heels on the hardwood floor ( Clickclackclickclack ) managed to drown out the god-awful thumping music for a moment.
    I’ve always had an overactive imagination, and right now it’s flooded with images of her and that built-to-fuck body: those ruby-red lips stretched around the girth of my nine inches, her jaw locked in place as she struggles with my length, her lipstick staining my cock as she bobs up and down.
    Salon-fresh butter-blond curls rest on her bare shoulders and bounces with each excited step as she click-clacks around the bar to deliver drinks. Her mouth-watering (and dick-hardening) curves are squeezed into a skin-tight strapless hot-pink dress that’s only held up by her perfectly round tits. The dress is cheap, but those shoes aren’t: Jimmy Choo’s if I’m not mistaken.
    A flock of smelly-looking hipsters horde around the wobbly old table. I watch them watch her, and I feel a pang of possessive anger whenever one of them stares at her through their clear lenses. One lowers his hand to smack her on the ass but she dodges the lame attempt and slinks off towards the bar.
    Click
    Clack
    Click
    Clack
    The sound disappears, and I’m left alone with my drink and my thoughts. I run my fingers along the lip of the glass as the images in my mind become fuzzy and unclear. My eyes shift from the table to the bar and back again as I wait for her to reappear. The last image of her vanishes and is replaced with words.
    You need to make your fucking move. You don’t have time to play around.
    No, I don’t—I really fucking don’t. I’m not normally the doe-eyed stranger in the bar waiting for a chance to ask the cute waitress for her number. I’m a doer. I’m a taker. I see what I want, and I take two handfuls (and I really want two handfuls of her right now), but I can’t seem to find the right words for this woman.
    She’s not like the others, those stick-think Barbie-types that follow me around like a bad smell follows those hipsters, she’s different. I’ve never liked those runway-ready magazine-pretty girls that the media try to shove down our throats. Those always-cold high-maintenance chicks that insist on going to a fancy French-named restaurant only to order a stick of celery and a glass of water. No, I don’t want them, I want her.
    I want her in my in my life as much as I want her in my bed. That voice returns.
    You don’t have time to play around. You don’t have time to ask her for her number. You don’t have time to woo her or to wait for the third date to fuck. You don’t need a girlfriend, you need a fucking wife.
    Never planned on getting married. Most men won’t admit it, but a lot of dudes grow up dreaming of their wedding day. Not me, not with my role model. But I don’t have a choice anymore.
    My family name is etched into the foundations of New York, and I’ll be damned if I let my mutt of a half-brother take what is rightfully mine. My grandfather, Louis, chiseled his name into the concrete, but it was my—also named Louis—that put the Kingsley name in the sky. I intend to push it higher: to the fucking stars.
    But he’ll never give me what’s mine, not with my reputation.
    Jack, my dimwitted half-brother, doesn’t know his ass from his elbow most of the time, but he’s got a wife and kids. He’s stable. He’s dependable. More importantly, he’s got a son that can take over the reins when the time comes.
    Dad’s only been talking about one thing for the last few months: legacy. He hasn’t said anything yet, but his actions tell me everything I need to know. He’s showing Jack the ropes so that he can take over Kingsley International when the time comes.
    Not. A. Fucking. Chance.
    I’m risky and impulse. I’m a liability, and I need to change if I’m to claim my