Extremely hot billionair.., p.1
Extremely Hot Billionaires Box Set, page 1
Extremely Hot Billionaires Romance Series
Box Set
Nella Tyler
Copyright © 2018 by Nella Tyler
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Contents
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Billionaire’s Baby
Billionaire’s Cinderella
Billionaire’s House
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Billionaire’s Baby
1
Mitch – Friday
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The bar was so fricking loud it was impossible to hear himself think. That was fine with Mitch Rogers. There was a time and place for thinking, and Friday night out with his friends wasn't it.
"Sammy, you have got to nail that chick, she's freaking hot!"
Zeke "Sandman" Sanderson, drunk off his ass, was not being particularly quiet about his opinions. Not that he ever was.
A little piece of Mitch winced a little at the volume of Zeke's voice. The chick in question was a red-headed waitress, probably a good ten years younger than Zeke or Mitch, which put her at twenty-five. A little too young to get dragged into their orbit.
Trying to shift their attention would make them fixate on the girl and for now, she hadn't noticed. She was serving frou-frou drinks to a table of women who looked to be on the plus side of thirty and therefore safe from Sandman and the rest of the table of Mitch's Merry Men.
It was possible his friends were starting to wear on him. Just a little. Not that he hadn't taken them up on the bet made in this same bar two weeks ago.
He didn't really give credence to the idea he'd changed significantly in the last two weeks. Besides, Zeke got on his nerves pretty often.
So could the others. They never stopped moving. Never stopped talking. Never stopped checking out the women or drinking beer or—
Okay, maybe everything was fine. He'd just described himself.
He looked across the table at them. Miles "Monster" Davis. Randy "Raider" Procolis. Bob "I'm not going by any stupid nickname, knock it the hell off, damn it" Martin. Zeke "Superman" Pearce, who no one asked to prove his claim to super powers. Patrick "St. Pat" James. No real reason for that one. It just attached itself—St. Pat—to Mitch's best friend and stuck.
And there was Mitch. Truth was, he didn't want to hear his own thoughts, because if he did, he might find he was getting too old for this shit and there wasn't anything else waiting for him. There was work, which ran five days a week and anyone who thought he was the billionaire figurehead of Fight Night didn't know Mitch Rogers.
Which was probably true anymore. Maybe they didn't know him. They were all loud and well dressed, they drove fast cars and listened to fast music. They had the best toys money could buy, because face it, they were young, male, and rich.
But the only one among them with a long-term relationship was Miles Monster Davis and Mitch thought he wasn't the only one who envied him.
A little bit. The rest of the time he was too busy playing darts or billiards, rock climbing, or taking his private jet to pretty much wherever he wanted to go.
And getting lucky. He got lucky so often it had lost its meaning. Which was what led to the bet.
He looked around the table at his friends. The conversation was cycling through baseball, which was mid-season, and football, which should be starting preseason any minute now, NASCAR which was always a topic of conversation, 5K races they were definitely going to sign up and run, which none of them actually would.
The other conversations, weaving back and forth, were about business. There wasn't a man at the table who wasn't making at least high six figures in a company he owned. But Mitch was the only billionaire at the table.
Conversations dwindled when the red-headed waitress came up to them again. No one messed with her when she was within earshot. Two weeks earlier a man had grabbed her ass as she moved through the bar and she'd dropped her tray instantly, spun and grabbed his hand, yanked it over her shoulder, stuck her hip into his groin, and threw him over her body and onto the floor. She'd retrieved the one beer from her order that hadn't spilled and poured it over her victim's head.
Jenna wasn't a woman to mess with.
Into the lull of the conversation that lingered as they watched her walk away, skirt tight over an ass none of them would ever see—and definitely wouldn't grope—Mitch said, "So … I did it."
They turned back with varying degrees of confusion. Monster looked expectant. Zeke looked ready to laugh because whatever it was Mitch had done, he wouldn't believe it until convinced.
Patrick, though. Patrick got it right away. "Damn, man! How'd you pull that off?"
"My charm," Mitch said, smug and smiling. He leaned back in his seat, kicked his long legs out in front of him, and crossed them at the ankle. Hands behind his head, he surveyed his crew, watching as one after the other they got it.
"Won the bet!" Zeke was the first who stuck his hand up to Mitch, waiting for the high five.
"Thought she was a virgin, man," Miles said.
"Yeah, how the hell'd you pry her knees apart?" Zeke followed up.
"There's no reason to put it that way, is there?" Patrick asked.
Zeke gave him an incredulous stare, stuck his hand up to signal another round without ever quite making eye contact with Jenna, and said, "No reason not to, either. Shut up, man, you were part of the bet."
That sparked off the conversation again, which raced on without him for somewhere around two minutes. While they talked, Mitch continued reflecting on that night, on Dana's face when he asked if she wanted to go hang out after the game. They were both alumni of the same Myrtle Beach, South Carolina high school. They'd both gone away to college, though seven years apart. She was twenty-eight to his thirty-five, but his little brother had gone to school with her, even been friends for a while.
She'd been straight-laced her entire life. The pastor's daughter. She actually wore dresses with little collars on them and strings of pearls. Her mother had died when she was in high school and she was an only child, so her father, the pastor, had a huge influence in her life.
She was good. She was, actually, a goody-goody, he thought, and he always had thought that. So when the loud and intemperate and somewhat drunken bet came up two weeks ago—which of them around the table had such star power or whatever their charisma was—that they could get any girl into bed—any girl—Mitch had taken that bet.
Even after the bet named Dana as the target. And he won.
Even Pat was paying attention. "Dude, how?" Zeke asked. "Everyone knows she's a virgin and her old man's the pastor."
"I told you," he said, stretching his lean, muscular five-eleven body. He liked feeling the attention on him. "It's my charm."
Zeke threw a pizza crust at him. "You're not that charming."
"Just because I never tumbled you—"
A chorus of protests that made Mitch grin. "Okay, okay. Eighty percent charm. Maybe twenty percent wine to seal the deal." Though if memory served, there'd been more than one bottle between them and maybe that equation was a little more like fifty-fifty.
And maybe the charm was equally unfair to the wine. Because honestly, Dana was supposed to be a contest. Or conquest. He was supposed to get her to sleep with him in one date but rules didn't say how, as long as it was consensual when it happened.
That was the part that made him swallow a little harder and pull back a little from the rowdy speculation going on. Just how much was consensual when someone who had no experience was face to face with someone who had tons of experience and was looking interested? Looking interested in her?
Without being arrogant, he could still admit he had a pretty impressive track record. Women thought he was good looking with his black hair, gift from a Native American ancestor on his father's side, probably Cherokee, possibly Waccamaw. The Rogers clan went back hundreds of years in South Carolina. Black hair, high cheekbones, a mouth that a lot of women found kissable, with full lips and a ready grin. His eyes were almost black in some lights, leading the easily led to believe there were deep thoughts going on behind them.
Not so much if this evening was anything to go by. The conversation was definitely devolving.
"Spill it," Zeke said, leaning over the table.
"A gentleman—"
"Doesn't apply to anyone at this table," Miles said, and that was true.
"Okay." He'd gotten himself into this. He might as well go ahead with it. It wasn't like Dana was ever going to find out. She didn't come to places like Waterfront which was the idiotic name of the bar which was actually miles from the beach. She didn't drink much, so the wine had gone straight to her head and made her giggly.
That had actually been nice. He'd known Dana since she was friends with Danny. They'd been in some middle school play together, twelve-year-olds in braces trying to be Romeo and Juliet because some teacher didn't get the story wasn't romance and wasn't really appropriate for pre-teens.
After that Dana was a fixture around their house until Mitch, nineteen going on twenty, finished his two years at Baylor and headed off to MIT. He'd been a scholarship full-ride, despite his screwing up in high school, and the f
Back then there was a question about whether he'd live long enough to survive college. Because he’d spent the majority of his time drinking, doping, fighting, riding his motorcycle, and hooking up with any girl beautiful enough to catch his eye and stupid enough to say yes. Which led back to a lot of the fighting because he didn't give a shit if there was a guy attached or not. Hey, if the other guy couldn't hang on to her, how was that Mitch's problem?
He found he didn't want to talk trash about Dana. He didn't even want to have done what he had done with Dana. But, whatever. She'd never know. She knew his rep. He never said he'd call and she'd have to be an idiot to think he would. They didn't run in the same circles except for church, and no matter what their personalities, no one at this table—except maybe Zeke—was going to take a chance on bringing Dana's father, Chris Nims, down on his head.
So fuck it, he'd decided to do this. He'd talk about it.
"I don't buy it was wine and charm," Patrick said.
"More like wine and more wine," Miles contributed.
Bob said, "Let the man talk." He raised crazy dark brows. Bob worked in a law firm, drove a Porsche, ran ultramarathons. He was generally tense, funny but always surprised when anyone laughed at his jokes. He was of medium height, had an awesome shape and dark hair with eyebrows that had minds of their own. They could be brothers if not for those eyebrows, which were currently raised as he waited.
Fine. "We both went to the game. I knew she was going because her dad always goes. He volunteer coaches and this was the last of the season before school's out. After the game, I ran into her—"
Literally. He'd positioned himself in her path, seeing her coming, her head turned to call back something to Leighton Connor, her best friend ever since high school. The day was perfect, cloudless and the spring humidity not too much yet. The temperature was edging into the eighties and Dana wasn't wearing one of her little collared church dresses. She had on a pair of jeans that hugged every curve, showing off toned legs and a round bottom. She'd cut her blond hair into a short mass of curls and she was grinning as she turned her face forward, probably heading to the restrooms if the empty lemonade bottle in her hand was any indication.
Then, boom! She smacked full on into his chest, bouncing off him with a surprised little grunt. Her hands went up and the bottle dropped, bonking on the graveled dirt under the bleachers rather than breaking.
"I'm so sorry!"
He'd already reached out and put both hands on her shoulders, appreciating the soft skin. She wore a sleeveless pink top, the front of it button down and edged with little ruffles. It left her shoulders bare, hot from the sun and silky smooth, nicely rounded from lifting weights. She had little caps on her shoulders from working out. His touch lingered a second longer than holding onto the person who walked into you required.
That was the meeting. It was almost too easy. Just, "Hey, whoa there, girl, you okay?" and holding her. Making eye contact. Letting his tongue slip out over his bottom lip. Holding that eye contact while he did so. Letting go of her with one hand to sweep the other hand through that black hair of his. Watching her eyes dilate as she watched him and her nerves start to show. She'd always been jumpy around him. Not around Danny, because Danny was her friend.
Mitch had always been the older brother. mysterious. Crush-worthy.
Here's where it all paid off.
He didn't give details. The details were none of anyone else's business. He told them enough to slake Zeke's lusty curiosity and prove he'd been with her. That when she was freed from her usual ugly church clothes and even the silly pink top, she had a smoking hot body, all tight, high boobs, and taut abs, thin waist, and nicely full hips.
He didn't tell them that when she was out of those clothes she was no prude. She wanted to try everything and she damn near did in one session. He didn't tell them that she came so hard the first time that it was kind of amazing. He didn't tell them that she cried and that it seemed to be with joy.
The whole thing, despite the wine, had actually been pretty sweet. If he had been a different kind of guy and she was a different kind of girl—but they weren't. It was what it was and it was now over. She'd be safe and he'd be safer, because her father wasn't a fire and brimstone preacher but Mitch thought he probably was a fire and brimstone father.
"So pay up," he finished, kicking back in his chair again. Undisputed champion cock of the walk.
"It's gonna make church uncomfortable," Patrick said, slapping his thousand dollars down on top of the others. Five thousand dollars in a nice little pile. Too bad he couldn't somehow slip it to Dana—only in the next second understanding just what that might say about her. He could tithe it. He could donate it. Save the sea turtles. Something like that. A drop in the bucket compared to what Fight Night donated on a monthly basis. Oh, well.
"Drinks on me," he said, scooping up the money and tapping it into an even stack. Big tip—big—for Jenna for waiting on them tirelessly. Then a gift to what, the local food bank? The local library? The local society for the defloration of virgins?
Shit.
"Dude, here’s to you. Debaser of virgins!" Zeke held up his glass and the others held up theirs, a collection of Jager shots, Patron Gold shots, and his own Cuervo.
"You guys are assholes," Mitch said. "I gotta get better friends."
"No doubt," Patrick murmured, and they downed their drinks.
Next round was on him, too.
2
Dana – Sunday
Chris Nims was passionate about his life's calling. Tall, rangy, handsome in a weatherworn kind of way, he was fifty-five years old, a widower and father of one. He believed passionately in his church and his congregation and preached not unlike a man shouting his followers into belief but like a man desperate for the people he loved to see the light and follow it.
She'd never tell him, but sometimes Dana Nims found her mind wandering during her father's sermons. He went on for such a very long time, after all, and since he tried out bits and pieces on her throughout the week, she'd already heard most of it by the time Sunday rolled around. Then too, she went to both the morning service and the evening service, and the message didn't change throughout the day.
At twenty-eight, she didn't live at home anymore, but she was there daily, taking care of things. Sundays she'd often bake him a loaf of bread and make at least three or four nights’ worth of meals he could just heat in the oven or nuke in the microwave. She worried he didn't eat enough. She'd been taking care of him for ten years and he was thin like an alley cat.
With that thought she tried to wrench her mind back to the sermon but today it was no use. Her heart was pounding faster than it should be, trying to pound its way out of her chest, and she kept restlessly looking around her, trying to spot Mitch Rogers. At the same time she really, really didn't want to run into him, she felt the need to spot him before he came up to her.
If he did.
If he was going to.
What had she been thinking? He went to her church. Or better yet, he went to her father's church and in that instance it really was her father's church. She was going to go on seeing him every Sunday if she wasn't lucky.
And face it, if she'd been lucky, she never would have run into him like a small, blond bulldozer at that stupid baseball game. Nobody cared if she supported the high school by going to games and donating money (not to mention always buying whatever chocolate bars the teen athletes were selling door to door.).
But damn—darn—she grew up around Mitch Rogers, local bad boy made … not good, really. He still hung out with his friends, rode his motorcycle, and he made his money promoting cage fighting up and down the coast. He was fast living, fast talking and—
