Woman of the House: A Dark MMF Romance Read online

  For a moment my mind goes blank, not a single thought disturbing the here and now. Pleasure blankets me, wrapping itself around me like a long-lost lover, and I finally sigh heavily, my body relaxing at once.

  I laugh to myself, opening my eyes and looking at the New York skyline, its jagged buildings casting their shadows over the grid of streets underneath them. I gaze at the rectangular glass slits on the skyscrapers, wondering how many people are having sex right now. How many of them are masturbating? And how many of them are using my toys?

  I once read somewhere that around 250 million people have sex per day. That’s a lot of sex, if you think about it, but right now I’m thinking about the countless women that don’t have a man (or have a subpar one). They’re the reason I founded Dirty Lil’ Angels, because every women needs a friend called Pleasure.

  I go up to my feet and walk over to the edge of the balcony, resting my hands over the rails. I close my eyes and breath in the New York atmosphere, feeling as alive as I’ve ever felt.

  It feels good to be in control of my destiny, to be the one in charge of my own life. But there’s something in the air, as if the breeze carries the whispers of destiny straight into my ears.

  Your life’s going to change, the wind seems to say. And you know what? I believe it. I really do.

  2

  Sloane

  SLAP!

  That's the sound that reverberates throughout the room as my hand makes contact with the fleshy ass cheek of Cindy.

  Why did my hand make contact with her ass cheek?

  I think the better question you want to ask yourself is why Cindy, my intern, is bent over my desk. Why her panties are casually strewn on the floor, and her short little skirt unzipped and on the floor. Why my pants are around my ankles with my fucking boxer briefs.

  And why is my cock going in and out of her at a furious clip, making her gasp and moan like a fucking whore.

  Don't roll your eyes at me, darlin'. Those moans coming out of her mouth are positively whorish.

  "Oh fuck yeah, baby, fuck me just like that," Cindy groans out right at this moment. See? I told you. Is that the way younger interns talk to their managers nowadays? Is that just the new culture for kids these days?

  Then, to leave no doubt in mind, she lets out a loud, "Unghhh, your cock is stretching my pussy out so good."

  I seriously can't fucking make this up. Instead, I focus on pistoning my thick cock in and out of her.

  Don't be shy. You can take a look if you want. Yeah, that's my cock. All men have them, so you can stare. But make sure you open your eyes wide, baby, because while all men might have cocks, they don't have what I'm packing down there.

  See how it's slicked with pussy juice? Well, that's because my cock has literally ravaged Cindy's pussy with pleasure. In a few more minutes she won't be able to do much more than grunt and groan. She'll be a quivering fucking mass of flesh because of my cock. It's 12 fucking inches of lust muscle. Pussy pleasing power. Fuckpole.

  Whatever you want to call it, I got it.

  Of course, if you were in this room, you'd be staring at my cock and touching yourself. But you know what would really be getting you taking off your panties and sitting down on the couch across from my desk, spreading your legs and showing me as you stroked your pussy?

  My fucking body.

  I'm 25 years old. Blonde haired. Piercingly blue eyed. Washboard fucking 8-pack abs. Perfectly fucking sculpted body. Rugged face. Broad shoulders. I look like a fucking God amongst men.

  And, no, I'm not being arrogant. I'm being real. I mean, look around you. I'm Sloane Hardman. CEO of Hard Times, the most efficient and leanest venture capital firm on the East Coast.

  I built this company with my bare fucking hands. Every fiber of my being is infused into the walls of this firm.

  So yeah, I'm definitely proud. Of my accomplishments. My immense wealth. My body. My cock.

  Everything.

  Get you a little wet there, darlin'?

  Because everything that I just described—everything above—I use to give women the greatest pleasure they've ever experienced in their lives.

  One fuck with me, and you don't just give me your fucking number. You ask for my autograph. You end up proposing to me. Because you'll never be treated the way I'll treat you. And not just the sex. Everything.

  There simply won't be anyone else in our universe. It'll be just the two of us. No one else. And every single action will be focused on giving you the most intense pleasure you've ever experienced in your life.

  Every. Single. Time.

  That's how you'll get addicted. You won't be able to stop. You'll forget everything else. If I told you to quit your job, drop out of school, move to another city—you'd do anything just for me.

  I'm fucking serious.

  But when I stop answering your texts, you'll start to call.

  When I stop picking up your calls, you'll visit my work. Camp outside my condo. You'll spend the night in Central Park to catch me as I walk out of One57 in the morning.

  What you won't understand is that I don't do relationships. I won't do just one woman and stay there.

  The funny thing is that I'll have told you this at the beginning. That's right. I'm not a complete fucking douchebag. I'm not going to lie to you—promise you the world or anything like that.

  In fact, I'll be the one to tell you that I don't do relationships. Hell, that I don't even do breakfast the next morning.

  But you'll be so enamored with my fucking body that you won't care initially when I tell you. You'll give up anything and compromise anywhere just to get a chance to run your lips on my fine body.

  It's only afterward that you'll realize that to have me, you never listened in the first place.

  They call me a player for that. They say I'm a playboy.

  Whatever. If that makes them feel better, I really have nothing to say to that. And I'm not going to wrack my brain trying to come up with excuses, darlin'. Mainly because I'm fucking Cindy right now.

  That's right. You almost forgot about her, didn't you? I didn't. Not with my cock going in and out of her pussy as that ass is bent over on my desk. This is the last day of her internship, by the way. They always do this. Always come up to my office.

  "Is there anything else you needed, Mr. Hardman?" they ask me as my eyes travel up and down their tight body. Cindy knew the drill. She knew what my eyes were lusting after her as she came over, and without me having to say a goddamn thing, she began to unbutton her tight silk blouse and get on her knees. I'm serious. I didn't say anything the whole fucking time. She just began to unzip my pants, gab my cock, and put it in her mouth as I leaned back.

  That's seriously all it takes nowadays.

  "Fuck, baby, you're fucki--ungh!" Cindy moans. She doesn't have the tightest pussy, to be absolutely honest. And I like my women a bit curvier. But whatever. Pussy is pussy, right?

  I increase my strokes in and out of her. Her pussy is quivering and a string of unintelligible words are coming out of her mouth all of a sudden.

  She's coming. I can feel the walls of her pussy gripping my cock. It's milking me.

  She may not be tight, but she's fucking tight enough. Holy fucking shit.

  I'm about to cum.

  I have enough mental strength to pull out of her and pull my condom off. Cindy is still twitching and spasming from her orgasm, but I turn her over, and begin to rub my cock for the final strokes that'll unleash my fucking deluge.

  That's when the door to my office slams open.

  I look up in shock. Only one person would have the balls to do something like that.

  My assistant, Cheryl Maddox.

  She's looking at me with a disapproving yet resigned smile as I grunt and groan and my vision blacks out momentarily as my cock spasms and my nuts twist and I erupt all over Cindy.

  She restrains a smile as Cindy's eyes go wide and I unload rope after rope of gooey, hot, sticky, white cum on her tits and belly.


  She waits patiently even as electric arcs travel through my body and my streams of cum cover Cindy's body.

  I shiver as the last of semen dribbles out onto her. Cindy is looking at me with wide eyes filled with wonder. And lust.

  We could probably go again, but I'm a busy guy.

  Cheryl tosses me a towel and I catch it, beginning to towel myself off.

  "Cindy, darling," Cheryl says and the intern turns around, startled that someone else is in the same room. She was getting fucked so hard she didn't even realize we weren't alone. "It's time you get yourself cleaned up and exit the building, dear," she says to Cindy.

  Still in a shock, Cindy nods and begins to get up.

  I hand her my towel and zip up my pants. I don't need cum stains on my desk or floor, you know?

  "What's going on, Cheryl?" I ask, sitting down and leaning back in my chair.

  Cheryl watches as Cindy collects her clothes, holds them to her body, and scampers out of my office.

  "Another one, Sloane?" she asks me with raised eyebrows.

  I shrug. "Perks of the job, Cheryl," I tell her, and turn on my computer monitors. "Can't fault me for tasting what's being offered."

  There's a deep sigh from Cheryl. "Well, it seems like you're eating too much, Sloane, and the company is suffering," Cheryl says, putting a folder in front of me. "Do you realize that Hard Times has no new products in its investment lineup after our recent investment with Arsen Hawke?"

  I freeze. Venture Capital firms need a steady lineup of companies and products to invest in. Without a steady stream of investment, we're just sitting on piles of cash that earn very little interest. And with salaries to pay and overhead, if I don't make money through investments, I'm fucked.

  "What do you mean?" I ask in a panic. "I thought we had two or three products lined up?"

  Cheryl shakes her head. "They either pulled out or stopped calling because they thought we lost interest, Sloane," she tells me. "I just discovered this after going through next quarter's projections. You need to find some solid products to park your money in. And you need to find them fast."

  Cheryl is standing there, looking at me and shaking her head. She's not judging me, but I know she knows that this is how she's going to get me to do something. Because I fucking hate how she's staring at me.

  "I'll start looking today," I say through clenched teeth.

  "Well, you might as well start with family dinner," Cheryl says, and drops another folder onto my desk. I look up at her. She gestures with her eyes and I take the folder and open it.

  "It looks like your stepsister, Natalie, has some major growth happening in her little company, Dirty Lil' Angels," Cheryl tells me. I scan over the info sheet that Cheryl has prepared.

  A line of technologically revolutionizing sex toys. Wireless connections to Kindles. AI to anticipate when exactly to stimulate you, mimicking human partners.

  "She just got a huge order and could soon be the next breakout product, but she's not going anywhere until she gets funded and can grow," Cheryl says out loud, to me.

  I keep reading. This could be my ticket back in.

  Natalie's mother married my stepdad several years ago. The marriage never lasted. This is after that asshole Drake, my stepdad, completely forgot about my own mom after she died. Completely forgot about me too. Ran into the arms of Natalie's mom, Linda.

  I remember the first day I met Natalie and Linda. I was fucking pissed. But that anger turned to lust the moment I saw my stepsister, Natalie.

  I mean, it was the first time I was meeting them and they were already part of our family. Drake never even sat me down and told me what was going on. Just that he had gotten married again. I still remember that day that he told me. I carried that memory of abandonment with me all throughout life. I used it to leave the house when I was 18 years old. To get my own scholarship to Yale. To graduate and find my own financing to start my own company. I never took a single penny from Drake Carlton. I even got rid of the Carlton name and went back to my mother's last name as soon as I could: Hardman.

  So when Linda Vanderhill and Drake Carlton divorced, it wasn't a big shocker.

  But what had saddened me was that it would be harder to see Natalie.

  "Let me know what you decide," Cheryl says, and walks out.

  Yeah, it was hard to see Natalie.

  But with her company, Dirty Lil' Angels, about to break, this might just be my ticket back into her life. As well as the way I save my own company.

  Gotta fucking love fate.

  3

  Drake

  "Well, if it isn't the man, the myth, the legend—the shark," a voice says. I feel a meaty hand clap me across my back.

  I look over my shoulder at a familiar face—a round, bald, middle-aged man who smells of false pretenses and feigned confidence. I play the game and return his smile.

  "How are you, Tom," I say, not as a question, but as a bland statement. I honestly don't give a fuck about him. I know this guy. He's like so many on Wall Street. He's a mediocre broker, in a mediocre suit, at best.

  "Apparently not as good as you, buddy," he smiles. It's an over-the-top smile that I'd like to wipe off his face. "I've heard all about your latest acquisition. That was one hell of a move."

  "Indeed it was," I reply, expressionless, and motion to the bartender for a drink. We're two seconds in and I'm already bored with this conversation.

  "What can I get for you, sir?" the bartender asks. He has a waxed handlebar mustache and I can't help but focus on its perfectly curved tips, sharp as teeth.

  "Blood and sand," I reply, with the emphasis on the word 'blood.' They don't call me the shark for nothing.

  The bartender nods and smiles, "One of my favorites," and he moves deftly behind the bar, grabbing a top-shelf bottle of rye. There's a miniature pig with wings on the bottle's stopper. Yes, this is the good shit. WhistlePig Rye. The kind of bourbon that instead of scorching your throat, lights a warm fire. I watch as he pours two fingers of the amber liquid.

  "You've never been a man to shy away from making bold moves," Tom continues, trying to reel me back into the conversation. He's beginning to detect my disinterest.

  "No, you can say I'm anything but shy," I smirk, and he laughs a big-bellied laugh like I've just said the funniest fucking thing on the planet.

  The bartender places my drink on the bar, and I grab it in one fist.

  "Good talking to you Tom," I say, getting up from my stool and giving him a nod. This conversation was over before it began.

  "Let's do this again sometime—" he begins to say, but I'm already walking away and I lose his voice in the ambient noise of the 21 Club.

  Maybe you've never heard of me, but on Wall Street, I'm revered—feared. I'm Drake 'The Shark' Carlton. More often than not, I don't have time for small talk. If you open up the latest issue of Wall Street Journal, I'm sure you'll find my name on the front page, and the page after that, and the fucking page after that. I was recently profiled in Forbes' 40 under 40 column as one of the most influential men on Wall Street.

  Most people end up on Wall Street for the money, not because they love finance, or the work, or anything else. But I'm here because I fucking love it all. The power, and the grind. During the course of my career, I've made firms boatloads of money—I'm aggressive. I didn't shy away from thin margins or risking a lot of capital. As a kid, my father taught me two things: Fear is the enemy, and loose lips sink ships.

  You can say I've repeated those mantras like prayers.

  I fucking love Wall Street because I can feel the entire planet pulsing beneath my feet. You better believe that the planet has a heartbeat, and it's money. I can feel countries swelling with power and others losing it. It's like standing above a swollen river, billions of dollars raging beneath you. If you can navigate it, you win. If not, you drown.

  And do you want to know what money sounds like? It's the sound of phones ringing and traders shouting and emails pinging and fists poundin
g on desks. And it has a smell—sex and leather and green wads and a metallic cold and cigars smoldering in dark rooms. It also has a face—lines, some straight and some jagged, but all moving up and down on a Bloomberg screen, and sweat, lots of fucking sweat.

  And you want to know what makes my cock hard?

  All of it.

  Every. Single. Fucking. Thing.

  I look around the 21 Club—at the New York elite—men in suits and women in designer dresses, their legs drunk and slightly spread beneath their tables. The place is filled with dark woods and deep reds. It's an old institution that knows old school cocktails—there's history, but best of all, there's secrets. That's why I decided to celebrate my latest acquisitions here. I couldn't think of a better place, to be fucking honest.

  I walk back to our table and notice one of my senior managers, Eric, trying to schmooze it up with a lovely young woman. I'm guessing she's in her early 20s, legs that go on for miles, and a wide white grin that's more expansive and full of life than the Serengeti. Not bad. The man's got taste. For a moment, I look at her tits and her legs and wonder what it'd be like to fuck her.

  By the way Eric's leaning in, and brushing his hand against her thigh, I can tell he's thinking the same thing, and he's laying his charm on thick too.

  I smile and hang back, wondering if he's going to botch things, but the woman's holding a Manhattan in one hand and tilting her head back in full, open-mouthed laughs. Eric's in his early 30s, and if I had to guess, he probably hasn't been laid in years. Maybe tonight will be his lucky fucking night.

  "Like what you see?" a voice asks.

  I turn my gaze and come face-to-face with a woman like no other, wearing a tight black dress and shoulder-length blonde hair that cascades down the sides of her face like a river of fucking gold.

  The woman who Eric's flirting with doesn't even compare to the one standing in front of me. This one would fucking stop traffic on the Lincoln Tunnel, or even on the Long Island Expressway.