Be My Babygirl A Billionaire Romance - Jane Henry Page 0,18
that heavy, aching thing. You deserve a reward for being such a very good girl. Spread your legs for daddy. Come on daddy’s fingers.
A little shiver runs through me, and I press my thighs together. Playtime is over—it’s time to work. I may have nine grand left, but I know how quickly that will be gone, and even with an advance on this book, I still won’t see a real paycheck till the story hits the shelves.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip. “Come on, you’ve got this.”
My fingers hover over the keys as I think of Darius’ handsome face.
And nothing happens.
Not one word appears on my computer screen.
Letting out a groan of frustration, I rise from my chair, pacing the floor. What to do? Going to the fridge, I open it, finding a carton of expired milk and two apples.
Even if there was something to eat, I’m just looking for food out of nerves. My hand goes to my belly; I’m still stuffed from breakfast.
Daddy said pick your breakfast.
Suddenly, not only am I terrified that the writer's block hasn’t magically unblocked, I have a much deeper worry.
What if I never see him again?
The contract was a one-night thing. One perfect night.
Just as sadness is about to swallow me whole, I slam the fridge door shut. “One Night!” It’s the perfect title and I rush back to my desk to type it.
One Night by Scarlet Rose
Now, for the tagline. One little sentence that will grab the reader, hook, line, and sinker. My fingers fly over the keys.
A young girl down on her luck makes an arrangement with a perfect stranger.
Sigh. And he is perfect. Biting my lip again, to keep from biting my nails, I stare at the screen. It’s a great tagline. And yet—it makes me feel lost.
How can you put into words the bittersweetness that comes with one perfect night?
An evening that will trump all other evenings in your personal history book. One you will never be able to relive. With a man who, however wonderful and attentive he may have been, you still know that you were nothing more than a paid distraction.
My heart slips in, interrupting my gloomy thoughts: He really seemed to care about you. He was so tender and generous. And the sex was phenomenal. There was a connection.
My brain fights her with… Um… he’s a billionaire? Who can, like, have any woman he wants? And he’s had you. So you’re done.
Brain wins.
“Okay, so it was a one-night thing. I got ten grand. My rent is paid, my ass got laid, and now I can write my story.” Shaking it off, I stretch my fingers, ready to attack. Planting my ass in my chair, I start to type.
Morning quickly turns to afternoon.
I’ve got four chapters, and my stomach is growling. Remembering that I’m flush with cash, I decide to take a break, and head out to my favorite Indian place for takeout. A delicious reward for hard work.
Just as I’m locking my door, my cell rings. A little pitter patter interrupts the rhythm of my heart. It couldn’t be him, could it?
Hope fills my chest as I pull my phone from my purse, checking the screen. It’s Sarah, my publisher. Disappointment floods me, but I’m able to release a deep breath; at least I have good news for her.
“Sarah! Listen, I’m so glad you called. I finally got through that terrible writer's block and I started a book. It’s wonderful, about a billionaire and a hot tub and—”
She cuts me off. “Katie. Billionaires are out. So over. The extraordinary has become ordinary. That’s why I’ve called. We’ve got this great pitch for you. Something new, totally taboo, yet going mainstream, as we speak.”
“Yes?” My keys hang from my hand as I wait to see if I should go straight back into the apartment to type, or head out for food.
“Okay, hold onto your panties because they might melt right off your body. Are you ready?”
What is she going to say? Cosplay? I cringe, thinking of Miranda’s words on stage, telling her girls to remain professional no matter what. “Yes. Please, just tell me.”
I can hear her exhale of breath, the excitement in her tone. “Daddy dom.”
“Um, excuse me?” My face goes white hot.
“I know, I know! It sounds twisted but hear me out. It’s not like the man is your father—he’s just this hot, ultra-protective dude that wants to spoil you and—”
“Spank you?” I murmur, more to myself than to Sarah.