Caught Up: With An Alpha Billionaire (A BWWM Romance) (A Love Like No Other Book 1)
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Authors: Heather Banks
With an Alpha Billionaire
A BWWM Romance by
Heather Banks
Caught Up
© 2015 Heather Banks
All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination. Please note that this work is intended only for adults over the age of 18 and all characters represented as 18 or over.
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“Look at me,” he whispered. “Watch.”
My eyes popped open in compliance. I needed him so badly that I would do anything he asked.
He bent and snaked out his pink tongue to lathe my areola. I moaned as I saw him run his hand down my hard abs, his hand a beige-y tan against my milk-chocolate colored skin. The contrast was stunning, and made me even wetter.
His long fingers dipped lower until they teased my sex, spreading me, probing my entrance and getting me ready for his length. He slid one finger inside, then, two, and then found my clit with his thumb, making me groan and arch into his hand.
I could feel my climax building, my skin shiny and glowing with sweat, my insides quivering with desire. He moved to enter me and then –
I woke with a gasp, my body tingling, my panties wet. I could hear an electronic pinging noise, which was what must have woken me up. For a minute, I forgot where I was, and then I spied the floor-to-ceiling windows across the room.
Beyond them, Chicago was just waking up, the sky just starting to fade to a rosy purple from pitch-black, the skyscrapers and office buildings on the Loop still sleepy.
I was in my office on my leather couch, covered up with a throw I’d brought from home.
Glancing down at the floor, I saw my cell phone illuminated in the dark, the screen glowing, announcing I had new text messages.
Flopping back against the arm of the couch, I tried to take some deep breaths and calm my body.
I just had a sex dream, and a damn good one. And it made me depressed.
It reminded me that my relationship had just imploded. That’s why I was sleeping in my office: Aaron, my former live-in boyfriend, was in the process of moving out.
It wasn’t too unusual for the people I worked at Bender & Bender, one of the biggest law firms in Chicago, to sleep in our offices. We often pulled late-night work sessions when dealing with big cases, and that’s why Stephen Bender, our senior partner, insisted we all had comfortable couches.
Even though my work load was unusually light at the moment – I was between cases – I was grateful for the couch. I did not want to see Aaron under any circumstances, so I was staying at work for a few nights to give him some time to get his shit out of my apartment.
My tingling body reminded me that even though Aaron was just now moving out, our relationship had ended several months ago, and our sex life proved it. I hadn’t had an orgasm in forever, and he hadn’t tried to give me one.
Overall, he was a bastard, and I was glad to see him go.
But he was the latest in a long line of bastards. How did I keep picking these losers?
I got up from my couch and went to my en-suite bathroom. It was one of the perks of being a senior associate, having my own bathroom. It was tiny, but it did the job.
I flipped on the light and checked myself in the mirror.
My dark, mocha skin was sallow under the fluorescent lights, and I could see deep bags under my eyes. My black hair was flat on one side and sticking out on the other, and I was going to need to pull it back to face the day without looking like hell.
Or at least so I didn’t look like I’d slept in my office.
Since I always kept a makeup bag stashed in my desk and a fresh suit hanging in my coat closet, I knew I could successfully put myself back together. At least physically.
Emotionally pulling myself together was a different story.
Maybe I could hit the gym at lunch; there was nothing like a good, sweaty turn on the treadmill to keep my mind off bastards and lonely apartments.
I flipped the light off, went back out to my office and grabbed the phone off the floor next to the couch. Then I went to my desk and sat down in my chair, tapping the screen. The clock read 6:43.
I swiped the face of the phone to check the texts.
There were two from Aaron, from 2:14 a.m. Judging from the time (and the typos), he had probably been drinking, which means not only was he cleaning my apartment of his stuff, but also of my stash of wine.
Got all my stuff out. Now youll be a lone lik you wanted
Wish i could say i was sorry I cheated, but im not – she was better n bed. C u never
I sighed, swiveling in my oversized office chair to take in morning in Chicago outside my office windows. What an immature dick.
Was I that bad in bed?
I didn’t think I was. But if I couldn’t hold a man, there was probably a reason. It was as good as any.
Turning my attention back to the phone, I checked the text that had just come in. It was from my brother, Stan.
Hey sis – hope aaron is gone for good. He was a f-ing bastard
Call you later. Lunch tomorrow?
Stan was two years older, and always looking out for me. At that moment, I kind of appreciated it; it was nice to know someone had my back, even when everything else seemed to be falling apart. I would text him back later.
I tossed the phone back across the expanse of my desk, and it slid until it hit a pile of case files I’d been working to update.
Perhaps swearing off men for a while would be a good idea, if the only ones I managed to bring home were ones like Aaron. I could concentrate on work. Maybe I’d train for another marathon.
The lingering wetness between my legs nagged at me, reminding me there was more to life than running and the law.
I shrugged off the feeling, standing up and fishing my makeup case out of my bottom desk drawer. I wasn’t going to worry about that; instead, I decided to pull myself together to face the day.
The morning had been dragging along. I had managed to put Aaron out of my head, mostly, and focus on catching up on my paperwork, but I was looking forward to a trip to the gym at lunch. I was thinking that maybe a marathon wasn’t such a bad idea when there was a knock on my partly-opened door.
“Tiffany, I have an opportunity for you,” my boss, Stephen Bender, said to me as he pushed the door open and leaned casually against the frame.
In my experience, “opportunity” was just a fancy word for “problem,” but since Stephen was my boss and I’d like to keep my job, I just smiled. Stephen had a pointed nose and almost-bald head that made him look a little like a weasel. His attitude and practices did nothing to make most of the people who worked for him think otherwise.
“Okay,” I said, forcing a smile. “What is this opportunity?” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
Stephen gave me the side-eye, but continued anyway. “As you know, I am the retained legal counsel for MarkTec, Inc. and Alexander Richardson.”
At the name “Alexander Richardson,” my stomach flipped over. He was one of the best-known and successful entrepreneurs in the Chicago area, having founded his electronic and digital marketing company at the tender age of 19 and built it up to one of the country’s foremost firms.
In addition to being a brilliant businessman, he was also alleged to be an arrogant bastard; rumors flew every time anybody in our firm had a meeting or encounter with him. One paralegal swore that he once kicked her out of a deposition because her blouse was “too green.”
“Yes, I’m aware of MarkTec and Richardson,” I told Stephen, not completely succeeding at keeping the sarcasm out of my voice. Everyone at Bender & Bender was aware of Richardson, as well as pretty much everyone in America.
“Anyway,” Stephen said, letting my comment pass, “you’re probably also aware of the rather, uhm, unfortunate,” he paused, clearing his throat uncomfortably, “issue the firm is dealing with right now.”
The unfortunate issue for the “firm” was that Stephen was being smacked with a legal malpractice lawsuit claiming he overbilled one of the firm’s corporate clients. Nobody was talking about it much around the office, but Stephen’s questionable billing practices were pretty well-known among most of the senior and junior partners. If Bender hadn’t been so brilliant in the courtroom, nobody in their right mind would want to work for him.
I just nodded my head, not trusting my smart mouth to say anything worthwhile.
“As a result, I won’t be able to devote as much time as I’d like to for a client like MarkTec,” he said.
“Are they currently involved in a case?” I asked, taking in Stephen’s well-tailored suit and his $2400 Gucci shoes. What Stephen lacked in looks he made up for in expensive clothes and accessories.
Stephen settled into one of the leather chairs across from my desk. He made himself comfortable, toying with the name plate on my desk that read “Tiffany E. Mullins, Esq.”
He set the plate back down with a clank and sighed. “Yes, it’s an unfortunate thing. Everyone knows that Richardson is as honest as the day is long, but a small company is trying to sue him for breach of intellectual property. Hopefully they can be strong-armed into dropping the suit, but they seem pretty hell-bent on going after Richardson. I guess they see deep pockets and a good chance for a payoff.”
I frowned. I’d only been with the firm for about five years, and hadn’t dealt much with intellectual property. I wasn’t sure where Stephen was going with his “opportunity” he’d first presented me with.
“Who are you going to put on the case if you can’t do it?” I asked. “Do you want me to help out on the team?”
Stephen snorted and sat up straighter in my chair. “Tiffany, you are going to
be
the team.”
I tried not to sputter. If there was anything I’d learned in law school at the U. of Chicago, it was that a good lawyer always looked confident. In this instance, it was a hard rule to follow.
“But, Stephen,” I said, trying to sound reasonable. “I have only worked two intellectual property cases, and I’ve never worked with Alexander Richardson,” I pointed out.
“I know,” he replied, a note of regret in his voice. “It’s just that I have a lot of our team working on my – I mean, the firm’s – malpractice suit, and quite a few more are working on the sausage case.”
“Right, the sausage case,” I repeated. It sounded ridiculous, but “the sausage case” was an environmental class-action lawsuit against Polen Farms, a pork distributor based out of central Illinois. It was ugly, and I tried not to read too much of the details because they made me nauseous.
“You’re it, kid,” he said, pointing to me.
“Gee, your confidence in me is overwhelming,” I intoned.
“I’ll have Mary get you access to all the information on our case network drive, and I’ll send over all the hard copy files this morning.”
I was starting to panic. “Really, Stephen, I appreciate you giving me such a big case, but shouldn’t you have at least a couple of people on this?”
He stood up and waved his hand. “I’ll give you George,” he said, as if that was all I needed. George was one of the paralegals, and a good one, too – but I was going to need more than just George.
“Thank you, but—“ I tried to protest.
“You’ll do great, Tiffany. You have to,” he said, shooting me a look as he walked towards the door. “If you have questions, just holler.”
He started to walk out the door, and I was in an almost blind panic. “Stephen. Stephen!”
He popped his head back in, and I let out a breath. Maybe he’d come to his senses.
“Oh, your first meeting is at 1:30 with Richardson. Here, in the conference room.”
And then he disappeared.
My mouth dropped open and I stared after him, speechless.
This was not going to end well.
***
My plan to get to the gym at lunch was obviously put on hold, as I didn’t move from my desk for the few hours I had before my meeting with Alexander Richardson. The only non-work activities I allowed myself were to get a candy bar from the vending machine and to text Stan back. I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon frantically skimming through as many of the case files as I could, trying to get an overview of not just MarkTec, but Richardson as well.
He was even scarier than I’d feared.
He was brilliant, no doubt about it, but he had built his company not just on his smarts, but his ruthlessness as well. He hadn’t hesitated to crush – and in many cases, acquire – companies that got in his way or looked like they could be competition.
The company suing him was Advanced Promotions, headed by a woman who had once upon a time worked for MarkTec. She had been in his social network marketing division, and claimed that a software program she designed when she worked with MarkTec should be considered her property to use and sell under her new company’s name.
It was somewhat straightforward, but it was nervous about meeting with Richardson all the same. I had freshened up in my office before heading to the conference room, but as I stood at the door, I tried to calm my pounding heart. I straightened my skirt, shifted the case folder in my arms, and wiped the sweat off my palm. I opened the door.
Like most of the Bender & Bender offices, the conference room was well-appointed and lush. A deep cherry wood table dominated most of the room, with buttery leather chairs surrounding it. The walls were a warm yellow, and, much like in my office, floor-to-ceiling windows stretched the length of one wall. But it wasn’t the décor I was interested in as soon as I walked through the door.
It was Alexander Richardson.
Though the room was rich and the Chicago skyline beyond the windows was stunning, when Alexander Richardson stood up to greet me, all the other scenery paled in comparison.
He was tall and broad, his hair dark and swept off his face. With an olive complexion, Roman nose, and deep gray eyes, he looked like he walked out of a Renaissance painting. He had a hint of a five o’clock shadow that highlighted the cleft in his chin.
Despite myself, I wanted to dip my tongue into that cleft, feel the roughness of his whiskers and taste his aftershave.
Dammit, girl,
I told myself.
That dream from this morning’s got you hot and bothered. Focus!
He held out his hand as I walked to his side of the table. “Alex Richardson,” he said, by way of introduction.
“Tiffany Mullins,” I replied, putting my hand in his. His fingers closed around my palm and I felt my hand melt into his. His touch did nothing to quell the pounding of my heart.
I took in his well-tailored, dark suit and his red tie. He wore his clothes well. Stephen Bender must hate him; Alexander Richardson made expensive look good in ways he could never dream to.
I cleared my throat and took my hand back a second too late. His dark, stormy eyes were boring into mine, and I willed myself not to get lost in them. I’d never had this kind of reaction to a client before – hell, I’d never had this kind of reaction to a man before. I knew he was powerful before I met him, but I hadn’t considered that his sex appeal might be stronger than his business acumen.
“Mr. Richardson,” I started, retreating to my side of the table. Maybe some distance would calm me down. “As you know, I’ll be your lead council on this intellectual property case.” I tried to sound authoritative, but I worried I just sounded nervous.
I
was
nervous, and not just about the case now. The effect this man was having on me was anxiety-inducing.
“I know,” he replied, without emotion. He looked at me steadily, waiting for me to speak.
Placing the file folders on the table in front of me, I sat down.
He sat back down in his seat, and I noticed he had no papers, no pens, nothing at all in front of him, other than a glass of water. Most people would at least bring a pad of paper and a pen. They were like armor, something to arm yourself with to feel more at ease.
He didn’t seem to care if he was at ease or not. He knew he was in control.
“I’ve worked on several different intellectual property cases before,” I began, ready to give him the speech I’d prepared on my qualifications. I was planning on enhancing some of my experience to make him feel better about being his attorney, but it turned out I shouldn’t have bothered.
“Ms. Mullins, I don’t care what you’ve done before. I don’t care if, until yesterday, you were a public defender getting shoplifting hookers probation,” he said, crossing his arms over his (what I was sure was) well-muscled chest. “What I care about is you handling this case competently.”
“Mr. Richardson, I assure you I am more than –“ I began. He began to talk over me, as if I’d never opened my mouth.
“Stephen is aware that I am not pleased he won’t be representing me. I always demand the best,” he said, eyes piercing me, taking me in. “But since he is unavailable, I will trust his judgment.”
“I appreciate your willingness to—“
“I will have you know, though,” he said, cutting me off again, “that if you fuck this up, Stephen will have more than one malpractice case on his hands. And that would be one he wouldn’t be able to sweep under the rug.”
I was sweating now, and I could feel a droplet run from my armpit to the side of my bra. My insides quavered; I didn’t know exactly what to expect when I met this man, based on the stories I’d heard, but his cold directness was not something I had anticipated.
Straightening the file folders in front of me, I gathered my resolve. I did not become an attorney because I shied away from conflict. Now was the time to put my strongest foot forward.
“Mr. Richardson,” I replied in my most authoritative tone, “I understand that Stephen Bender is your council of choice. But I assure you, I am more than able to help you through this. There’s no need to talk about malpractice lawsuits or threaten me. You don’t even have to like or trust me. You just have to let me do my job. And that’s something I’m damn good at.”
He smiled, one side of his sculpted lips quirking up. “Okay, then, Ms. Mullins. Let’s get started.”
I nodded curtly, sitting up as straight as I could, returning his gaze.
Even if he was sex in a suit, even if he was one of the most powerful men in Chicago, I wasn’t going to let him intimidate me. I could do my job – even if Stephen practically told me I got the case by default – and I could show Alex Richardson a thing or two.
And even with his arrogance and attitude, I wouldn’t mind him showing me a thing or two, horizontally. Or even vertically. Or upside-down.
Pay attention, Tiffany
, I thought, and turned my attention back to the file in front of me, flipping it open.
“Can you explain the case to me in your own words?” I asked Richardson, who seemed to be a little more at ease now. Amazingly, it was as if he was just waiting on me to push back against his bluster. It seemed like I’d passed some test in his mind.
Fine. I would pass all the tests he wanted. He could toss them out, and I’d hit them back.
“Deirdre Lyons used to work in our social networking department. She was a programmer, and a pretty good one,” he said, leaning forward and folding his hands on the table in front of him. “She developed some metrics-aggregating software that compiled and analyzed data about a company’s social media usage and interactions that was very valuable to us.”
