Profit & Lace: A Dark MMF Romance Read online

  This 12-inch pussy-pleasing fuck stick is a lot to take in.

  Go ahead. Take a good, long look.

  Don't be shy.

  Impressed? I thought so. I'm the entire package—8-pack abs, blue eyes hotter than a bolt of lightning, and a chiseled physique—and not just the regular oh my god he’s so ripped kind of chiseled. No. I make most of the fucking guys on romance novels on your e-reader look fucking obese I’m so fucking cut. Naughty Angel Publishing wanted me on their covers but I said hell no.

  Let’s not forget my money. More fucking wealth than most people know what to do with.

  You’re either intrigued or you’re rolling your eyes. Thinking you heard this all before. You seen this all before.

  I got just one thing to say.

  I’m just getting started, darlin'.

  While Mandy's on her knees, I reach down and work my fingers through her hair some more. The smell of her shampoo fills the space between us like a bouquet of roses. Once I have a fistful of her hair in my hand, I yank her head back.

  "You want this, don't you kitten?"

  "More than you know, Mr. Stackford," she purrs.

  "Tell me how much you want my cock."

  I want to hear those words spill off her lips, but instead of answering, she gives me a wicked smile and opens her mouth wide.

  Fuck. That's the only answer I need.

  I watch as she parts those moist, red lips of hers, and as soon as she does, I grab my cock and bounce the tip against her tongue. She grabs it and guides it into her mouth, taking me in until I feel my cock press against the back of her throat.

  "Oh fuck, that's it," I moan. "Your mouth feels so fucking good."

  She works my cock, increasing her pace, and then reaches for my balls, tugging on them in between her delicate fingers. My cock looks massive against her small hand, and that just makes me harder.

  Her tits are spilling out of her low-cut shirt and I slide my hands over those two perfect scoops, pinching her nipples in between my fingers. She's moaning and working my cock faster now, but I pull it out of her mouth with a wet popping sound.

  "Bend over," I say, pointing to my desk.

  She complies, and I lift up her skirt.

  The phone on my desk is ringing, but I ignore it. Whoever it is that needs me right now can wait. I have more important things to attend to right now.

  Being the founder of Stackford Capital, a high-risk brokerage firm on Wall Street, has its perks—namely that I can do whatever the fuck I want, when I want … and I do it well.

  I've made this firm, and the people in it, so much money we could wallpaper your house in hundred dollar bills without blinking an eye, if you wanted us to.

  “I want you inside of me," Mandy moans, looking back at me. I grin and press my hand against her wet pussy, and then yank down her thong.

  She's gripping the edge of my desk in both hands. I can almost feel her anticipation building.

  I push a finger inside of her pussy, sliding it all the way in, hitting her G-spot.

  She's moaning and rocking her ass back and forth, inviting me in.

  I grin, and with a forceful thrust, I push my cock inside of Mandy.

  "Deeper," she moans, lifting one leg on top of the desk, giving me unrestricted access.

  "Be careful what you wish for," I smile, and thrust into her so deep her toes curl.

  "Yes, oh yes," she purrs.

  "Fuck," I moan, as I feel my muscles begin to tense under the hot wave of desire coursing through my entire body. Any minute now, I'm going to explode.

  "On your knees," I instruct, pulling my cock out.

  She gives me another wicked grin and complies. I angle my cock toward her mouth and she takes me in, parting those plump red lips of hers, and moving up and down my shaft.

  As soon as I throw my head back, I fucking explode. My cock is twitching and pumping white-hot arcs of cum into her mouth, on her lips, and on her face as she continues to milk me with an insatiable hunger. She's looking up at me and holding my gaze, her mascara slightly smudged with sweat and cum.

  I return her gaze with a smile.

  But that smile doesn't last long because before I can even put my cock back in my fucking pants, the door to my office flies open.

  The force of it knocks a picture off the wall.

  When I look at the door, I see her—Wanda Seymour—a devil dressed in Louboutin heels so sharp that the carpet buckles under each step she takes. When she lifts her heels, I notice that those iconic red soles match the blood red shade of her lips. It's an uncanny comparison.

  "Well, look what we have here," she smirks. She's holding her phone in one manicured hand, snapping photos of the scene. I look down and realize that my fucking cock is still in Mandy's mouth.

  Fuck. This can't be good. What's she doing here?

  "It's—it's not what it looks like," Mandy pleads.

  "Oh really?" Wanda says, her eyes glowing like coals.

  "He coerced me, I swear," Mandy says, trying to wipe up the lingering cum off of her cheeks.

  "Could this scene be interpreted any other way? Because it looks pretty obvious to me," Wanda laughs.

  "I what?" I ask, lifting my pants up and looking back at Mandy. Now I'm really fucking confused.

  Mandy doesn't answer me, and instead, quickly straightens herself up and leaves my office.

  Wanda smiles and settles herself into one of my leather chairs. She has one leg crossed over the other, which mirrors her arms folded across her chest.

  The way she crosses her arms pushes her tits up even more than her low-cut blouse already does, and I can't help but notice how perfect each one would fit inside of my mouth right about now.

  I shake that thought from my head. I can't be thinking about wanting to fuck Wanda right now. Besides, she's the devil incarnate.

  "What do you want?" I ask.

  "Let's cut to the chase," she smiles.

  I reach for a bottle of bourbon that I keep tucked in my desk. I figure whatever she's about to say can't be good, and the only way I'm going to be able to hear her out is if I chase it with a stiff drink.

  I pour a couple of ounces of the amber liquid into a glass.

  "Go on," I say.

  "I have a long list of things you can do for me."

  "And what makes you think I'm going to do that?" I ask.

  She smiles and pulls her phone from her purse. "Let's see," she says, scrolling through her photos, "I think this picture is particularly compelling, don't you? Do you think the media would agree?"

  She flashes her phone toward me. On the screen I see myself, a startled look on my face, pants down, cock standing in the center of the frame like a fucking totem pole, and Mandy on her knees, wide-mouthed.

  "You wouldn't," I say.

  "I would, Derek," she grins, "And I will, if you don't do as I say."

  "You're a self-sufficient woman," I reply. "What's so important that you need my help?"

  "This is about Eliza."

  Fuck. Hearing that name makes me freeze. It's been years, and now here Wanda is, bringing the past right in front of my face. I shake my head.

  "I don't know what you've got planned, but I don't want anything to do with it," I say.

  Wanda just laughs, and scrolls through the contacts in her phone.

  "That's fine," she shrugs. "I'll go ahead and start dialing every major reporter in this city. They'll love this lead."

  Hearing her say this makes my stomach drop. I know she's telling the truth. She wouldn't hesitate for a moment to crush me.

  I look up at the ceiling again.

  "Wait," I say. "Don't do that. Tell me what you need." Just hearing the desperation in my voice makes Wanda smile.

  She looks up from her phone and grins. "I'm glad you're coming to your senses. Now, where were we? Ah yes, that's right, we were talking about Eliza. Let's start from the top."

  Fuck.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  I look
to the ceiling above my desk.

  Agreeing to work with Wanda is like wrestling with a scorpion. Sooner or later, you're going to get stung. It's an inevitable fact.

  I just hope that this time … it isn't fatal.

  Chapter Two

  Eliza

  The Mile High Club. It’s not exactly an exclusive club, but I figure I can call myself a VIP member. You know what I’m talking about right? This isn’t a credit card membership with reward points; I’m talking about getting hot and dirty while forty thousand feet up in the air.

  Right now I’m crossing the Atlantic, making my way back to New York City, and I’ve decided to renew my membership. It’s not like I do it every time I enter a plane, but whenever a hot man catches my eye … well, you know, I don’t really like wasting opportunities such as these.

  “Oh, baby, that’s so good,” the man I’m riding groans, his head thrown back against the seat as I straddle him, bucking my hips fiercely while his cock slides in and out of me. He isn’t exactly big, but at least he’s proficient enough with the inches he has, which is saying something, really. Most men have no idea how to pleasure a woman and that is, for me, one of the biggest tragedies of the 21st century. I shudder whenever I read one of those magazine articles about women who've never had an orgasm. I mean, seriously? Who lives like that?

  Riding Paul hard—I only know his name because of the golden nametag on his shirt—I bury my fingernails in his back and rake them across his shoulder blades. Even though he’s still wearing his white shirt, I’m betting I just left a few red marks for him to remember me once I’m gone.

  “Oh, fuck, you’re so good, baby,” he continues, groaning and repeating his words from before. Yeah, most men also have no idea how to talk dirty to a woman.

  “Of course I’m good,” I moan, looking him in the eyes and offering him a devilish grin. Reaching for the pilot cap on his head, I steal it from him and then prop it up on my own head, tilting it sideways. “I’m the captain of your cock now,” I add, a devilish chuckle on my lips as I sway my hips back and forth. My dress is all bunched around my waist and, even though the top is still on, that doesn’t stop him from squeezing my tits hard, his hungry fingers moving across my round swells as if he’s playing a banjo.

  “The captain of my cock,” he repeats after me, his voice so low it’s almost a whisper. He looks at the pilot cap on my head and grins; then, remembering something, his eyes widen as a serious expression takes over his face. “Fuck,” he mutters, stopping every single movement. “Sorry, baby, let me just … uhm …” Leaning forward, his face almost pressed between my tits, he reaches behind me and taps a few red buttons on the giant dashboard behind me.

  “Don’t tell me you can’t focus with me in here?” I purr, still bucking my hips at him, although, yeah, I’m doing it slower now. I don’t want him to get so distracted he plunges us both (and the rest of the crew) straight to our deaths.

  Yeah, in case you haven’t noticed, my friend here is the pilot of the jet currently forty thousand feet up in the air. What can I say? There’s something about men in uniform.

  The moment I saw him come in, pilot cap tucked under his arm, gallant smile on his face and a short scruffy beard … well, I immediately knew how I’d be spending some of my time on this flight. A few hours into our flight and I got up, knocked on the pilot’s cabin, and invited myself for a tour of the cockpit (now that’s an apt name, don’t you think?). The other pilot excused himself and, from there, it was only a matter of time until I pulled Paul’s pants down to his knees and sat on top of him, hiking my dress up to my waist.

  Now, you’re probably thinking that I’m being completely irresponsible by fucking with a pilot while he should be focused on maneuvering a metallic box with wings through the sky. Well, I won’t argue with you there. But it’s not like I’m endangering hundreds of people right now; this is a private jet plane and, aside from me, the two pilots and another crew member, it’s completely empty.

  All that probably raises another question, right? Like, who the hell am I to be aboard a private jet? Some blockbuster actress, or maybe someone part of the fancy European royalty? Nope, none of that. The name’s Eliza Seymour and I’m just a girl trying to find her place in the world. Okay, sure, I have a few (or, well, more than a few) billions to my name, but not everything is as easy as it seems.

  You’ve probably already heard about the Seymour family and its irresponsible heir (that’d be me). It seems that the tabloids have developed a crush on me, and my antics. In part, that’s my fault and I know it. I should be lying low, not hopping from city to city in Europe while attending the craziest parties. But, oh well, what’s a girl to do?

  This all started more than ten years ago, when my mother passed. I was just eight years old when that happened and I still remember how it made me feel, the sudden realization that human life was as fickle as a cloud in the sky. At the time, the combined net worth of my parents put the Seymour family atop the Forbes list, and you can imagine how the tabloids reacted when my mother died. They went completely berserk, running stories for weeks on end, fabricating all kinds of bullshit. They even went as far as saying that my mother had a drug problem, and that she died from an overdose. My mother never even touched a joint in her life, for God’s sake! My father tried to shelter me from that madness the best that he could, but in the end, he couldn’t stop the world from revealing its ugliness before the eyes of an eight-year-old girl.

  Perhaps wanting me to have a mother figure in my life, my father then ended up marrying a woman named Wanda (now the proud Wanda Seymour). We never really got along, although I tried to play nice in order to make my father happy. Of course, I don’t think that after my mother died that happy would be an adjective you could apply to my father. He just dragged his feet through life, the loss that he suffered weighing on him like a stone hanging from his neck. In the end, I think that sadness was what killed him.

  You read that right: a few years after my mother passed away, my father died as well. I was only sixteen then, which meant I fell under the shadow of my stepmother, Wanda. The thing is, when my father died, I stopped trying to pretend I got along with her. Not that she seemed to care; with all the money my father left her, she was a busy bee most days.

  Of course, she was never happy about the fact that my father locked most of the Seymour family fortune in a trust fund meant only for me. Still, she kept busy enough by trying to climb the ranks of high-society. When I turned 18, my mother married an up-and-coming finance titan, Derek Stackford. I only saw him a few times but, to me, he looked more like a model than a finance genius.

  Then, when that marriage fell apart, my mother wasted no time and married a young hedge fund manager. A true heavy hitter: Carter Blake. Of course, that didn’t last long either. In the span of just two years, my mother managed to marry and divorce two rich (and handsome, let’s not be coy about that) men, and her fortune grew in accordance to that. Yeah, divorces are expensive things for rich men.

  Although both Derek and Carter were nice enough to me, it’s not like I really got to know them. When I turned eighteen I went away for college, following my father’s footsteps and enrolling at the Wharton Business School. After graduating, I decided to take a break from all the madness in my life: I packed my bags, booked a private flight, and found my way to Europe. To be honest with you, I didn’t know what I was expecting when I moved to Europe … And since I had no expectations, I quickly got sucked into a world of partying and sex. I spent one year in Ibiza, then I moved to London and, finally, to Paris.

  The world was my oyster.

  Now that I’ve turned 25, I finally decided to come back to the place I called home for most of my life: New York City. Want to know why I decided to do it now? Easy: my trust fund has just kicked in, in its entirety, and now I’m responsible for the whole Seymour estate. We’re talking $250 billion, so you can understand how much money we’re talking about here. There’s a caveat to that, of course: if
it looks like I’m doing a bad job, the courts can appoint Wanda as a trustee. And, knowing her as I do, I wouldn’t be too surprised if I found out she’s rooting for me to crash and burn spectacularly.

  But you know what? At 25 I’m more than ready to assume my role as a Seymour. I haven’t been applying myself for the last few years, but now it’s time to change all that. It’s time for me to make a comeback.

  “Baby, I, I think I—oh, fuck,” the pilot under me groans, the lines around his eyes deepening as pleasures washes all over my face. Jesus, I was so distracted with telling you my life story that I almost forgot what I was doing.

  “Do it,” I whisper, placing both my hands on his chest and swaying my hips hard enough to break his cock in half. Closing my eyes, I surrender to the moment and let my unconscious mind dictate the movements of my body. I hold my breath as I feel pleasure bubbling up inside of me, spiraling up my spine and finally blossoming inside my head in an explosion of bright colors.

  “Oh,” I moan, gritting my teeth as my muscles tense up and my pussy tightens up around his cock. In that exact moment, I feel his cock twitch and spasm, and he takes both hands to my ass and squeezes both my cheeks harshly as he thrusts up with as much strength as he can.

  We remain frozen in place, ecstasy washing over our bodies, and it takes a few seconds for me to realize that I’m holding my breath. Breathing in deeply, I throw my head back and smile, opening up my eyes.

  “That was so … amazing,” he whispers, looking into my eyes with an enamored expression. Maybe he’s wondering if I’m going to talk him into having dinner with me, or some bullshit like that, but if so, he’s out of luck.

  I’m not that kind of girl.

  Raising my hips, I pop his cock out of me, and then swing one leg over his body, going up to my feet and straightening the front of my dress with one hand.

  “It was good,” I tell him with a smile. I might not be the romantic kind, but it doesn’t hurt to be polite from time to time.

  You see, I’m not a big believer in love. The way I see it, love is something made up by a marketing department so that more chocolates can be sold. Sure, once in a lifetime something that would deserve to be called ‘love’ appears; I believe I once saw something you could call ‘love’ when both my parents were alive. The way they looked into each other’s eyes, and the way they held hands… You know, it was magical. Unfortunately, that’s something as rare as winning the lottery, and I sure as hell am not stupid enough to fall for something like that. I’m not a gambler.