Submitting to the Billionaire(45)

They charge him with racketeering, securities fraud, money laundering  and tax evasion, stretching back some twenty years. We try to play  hardball with all our contacts, but they are powerless to help him.  Viktor is sent to jail for twenty years.

It is a pivotal moment for me.

For the first time, I take stock of my life. Effectively, I am the boss  by default. Even Viktor wanted me to continue to run his empire, but I  know the Russian authorities are clamping down on primitive organized  crime, and you don't need a crystal ball to tell my future. Either a  rival's bullet, a bomb in my car, or a lengthy jail sentence awaited me.

None of these options appeal so it is time to say goodbye to Russia.

I have more money than I ever imagined, and I know I have the ability to make much more. I just need a new home.

I decide on England. That would be the next chapter of my life.





About the Author





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This file includes a special bonus book.



Taken By The Baller

is a steamy short by my relative and friend, Laura Jack, who is about to  launch herself as a full-time author under the name of River Laurent.

Here's to her success and I hope you enjoy her book.





Copyright





Editors Teresa Banschbach

Cover Designer: Book Cover By Design



Taken By The Baller

Published by Some Books

Copyright © 2017 by River Laurent



The right of River Laurent to be identified as the Author of the Work  has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, designs and  patent act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that  which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on  the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 9781910575-47-5





Appreciations





My deepest gratitude and thanks to

Georgia Le Carre for her invaluable support

my editor, Teresa Banschbach,

and my proofreader, Brittany Urbaniak.

:





Chapter One





Drake





I roll my shoulders back and groan. Hell, there's nothing better in the  world than a long, hot shower after crushing it in a game like that. I  towel off briskly, wrap it around my hips, and pad into the deserted  locker room.

The rest of the team is probably already huddled around drinks and wings  celebrating our victory. I'll catch up with them in a minute, but I  like to take an extra fifteen minutes to unwind after a game. My  adrenaline pumps for ages after I leave the field, and heading out on  the town with testosterone swirling around my system will only end in  …   well, a whole bunch of chicks to clear out from my apartment in the  morning.

If there's one thing they never tell when you sign up in high school,  it's that getting lots of women will turn from something you only  fantasize about as you jack off, to something you need to actively  discourage fairly often. It's insane, the amount of attention we get.

Not that I'm complaining, of course.

I smile at my reflection in the mirror and hear a small, feminine cough  from behind me. My grin grows wider. See what I mean? Glancing around,  my eyebrows shoot up when my gaze falls on one fine piece of ass.         

     



 

Fuck me, this woman is hot.

Maybe a couple of years younger than me. Gorgeous waist length blonde  hair, but pulled back into an ugly ponytail. Makes me want to curl a  fist into that glossy, thick hair while I slam my cock into her. My cock  hardens at the dirty thought.

She's wearing a black pencil skirt and a blazer that my headmistress  would have been happy with, but she looks nothing like any mistress I've  had, either in or out of the classroom. The curves of her hips are  perfect. I can already see myself grabbing them tight as I pound into  her. Her eyes are enormous and bright blue, but she seems to be having  some trouble maintaining eye contact with me. Her eyes slide down to my  tented towel and then away fast.

I lean against the locker and let out a low whistle.

She bites her lip and it makes me want to stuff my cock into her mouth.

"Can I help you, sweet pea?" I drawl, deliberately letting my eyes drift lazily across her body.

"Uh," she begins, and I snap out of my reverie at once.

Her voice is high-pitched, almost panicked, like she's been caught with  her greedy little hands in the cookie jar. We've had fans sneak back in  here before, and they are almost always fainting with excitement.  Something else is going on here, something I can't put my finger on,  yet. I wonder if one of the guys sent her here as a present for me. I  did put in the winning score. Thanks, guys, excellent choice.

"How did you get in here?" I ask softly.

She gulps, brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ears, and finally  makes eye contact. Whoa! My heart leaps up into my throat as those  baby-blue eyes sizzle into mine. They are wide and bright and rimmed  with long lashes. An image of her on her knees in front of me sucking my  cock while looking up at me with those baby doll eyes jumps, unbidden,  into my head. I kick it out. I need to back down, way down and focus on  the interesting dynamics in front of me. This woman is not a gift from  my teammates, she's not a dizzy fan, and quite obviously has no right to  be here either.

I straighten to my full six feet four inches of lean muscle.

"I'm  …  uh  …  I told them I was a journalist. The guys outside, I mean,"  she explains nervously, tripping over her words in her haste. "I'm not,  obviously. I lied. I just need to ask you something very important."

"Wait, you told them you were a journalist, and they just let you  through? Without any ID?" This was sounding more and more like a setup,  but one I found deliciously entertaining.

She swallows hard and tries to smile.

That trembling smile does something to my insides. It's been a long time  since I wanted to fuck a chick this much. I shake my head and pretend  to be angry. "We need better fucking security around here."

"It not their fault. I have an honest face," she blurts, sounding more and more desperate.

"Or maybe you let them take turns?"

Her eyes flash, but her voice is even. "Look. I used a fake ID, okay."

"No shit." I smile at her.

She crosses her arms across her chest defensively, her ponytail bobbing  sexily as she does so. "I just need to ask you something," she repeats,  as though she has carefully practiced what she is going to say and  doesn't really know how to deal with any deviations.

"What's your name?" I ask, taking a step towards her, and closing the  gap between us. She holds her ground, though she takes a sharp,  involuntary breath.

"Reese. Reese Westwood," she replies.

"Uh-huh," I cock my head to the side. "Reese." The name rolls off my tongue. "So, you lied to get in here to see me. Why?"

"To talk to you. What else?" she responds, her voice a tiny bit sarcastic. So, the pretty doll had a bit of attitude, did she?

"Oh, I could think of a few good reasons."

She blushes bright red. Her flawless skin turns rosy. Damn! I must be  getting jaded. I don't think I've seen a girl blush like this since  …  I  can't remember the last time. Well, I guess I can give her five minutes.

"Okay then," I shrug. "What is it you need to ask me?"

She takes a deep breath, balls her hands into fists at her sides, and  lets the words tumble out of her mouth in one great big confused jumble.

"My stepmother, she's dying," she begins. "And she sent me here to get  you because  …  because  …  when she was a teenager, she got pregnant, and  the baby she had was you, but she was forced to give you up."

My head jerks back and my palms come up. "Whoa. Back up, back up, sweetheart. I don't think you got the right guy here."

She shakes her head. "I don't have the wrong guy. You're her son and she  just wants to see you again before she  …  before she goes. She wants to  die in peace in the knowledge that you guys have, at least, met, and you  don't hate her. That's  …  that's all she wants."         

     



 

"That's all?" I snorted at the ridiculousness of what she was saying.

For one thing, I know I'm not adopted. I'm twenty-fucking-seven years  old. Why would my parents be keeping that from me? My parents and I have  a very open and loving relationship, and I know they would have, at  some point down the line, mentioned picking me up from some teenage girl  when I was a baby.