The Very Last Billionaire Romance You’ll Ever Need

By Chantaboute Hallshire

Humility Pryde is one lucky girl. She’s not dating just any old gorgeous billionaire. She’s having a torrid romance with Brad Massive—the world’s most gorgeous, most powerful, most sexy, ultra-ultra-ultra-billionaire!

Other billionaires are mere pale shades of grey compared to suave, debonair, anatomically-blessed Brad. And, in his ravishing company, Humility is romanced with all the wonders money can buy. It’s the fantasy every girl dreams of.

But there’s a catch. How does one keep a billionaire playboy from eventually losing interest? What can Humility give the man who already has everything? Well, how about catering to his most wicked sexual appetites?

Funny, breezy, and full of steamy romance that only a gorgeous billionaire can provide, this book has it all. It is, indeed, the very last billionaire romance you’ll ever need!

Intended for a mature audience with a playful sense of humor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scarlet Maiden
• Release date: Jun 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370706990

Chantaboute Hallshire

Chantaboute Hallshire spent her childhood in her native Australia but then moved about Europe when she reached her later teens. Eventually, she settled down in California where, when she’s not sunning on a beach, she has taken up writing. She adores romance stories but finds herself drawn toward the humorous elements, intentional or otherwise, within them. Hence, our Princess of Parody firmly implants tongue in cheek when she composes her whimsical tales.

Book preview

The Very Last Billionaire Romance You’ll Ever Need

by

Chantaboute Hallshire

Copyright © 2016 Chantaboute Hallshire. All rights reserved.

Published by Scarlet Maiden, a trademark.

Distributed by Smashwords.

This is a copyrighted work. The scanning, uploading, copying, and/or distribution of this story without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property and a violation of copyright law. No part of this story may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the express written permission of the publisher. This prohibition does not extend to a reviewer who may quote brief passages as part of a review.

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Dedication

Once upon a time, a millionaire stood a chance of getting laid. No more. We’ve come so far from those naïve days when we deluded ourselves into believing a guy with mere millions could properly romance a woman. How silly it all seems now!—to expect any female would willing give herself to someone who couldn’t afford to purchase not merely a European castle but also an entire European city to go with it. No, dear ladies, if the romance stories of our age have taught us nothing else, they’ve taught us it takes a billionaire—and a devastatingly handsome one under 30 years of age. Anything less is simply settling, and no woman should ever have to do that. For every woman deserves at least her own billionaire, doesn’t she? Yes, in the name of Sisterhood, every female on this planet has the right to stand firm in her demand that a young, gorgeous billionaire seduce her with lavish gifts valued at somewhere in the neighborhood of the Gross National Product of Peru. It’s your birthright, dear Sister. And so this story is lovingly dedicated to all who live in wait for that magical and eminently realistic moment when the billionaire of our dreams rides up on his white horse to carry us away to our true destiny.

Chantaboute

Contents

1. Brad

2. Brad

3. Brad

4. Brad

5. Brad

6. Brad

7. Brad

8. Brad

9. Brad

10. Brad Brad Brad Brad Brad Brad Brad Brad Brad Brad

1. Brad

If it were anyone other than Jamie, I wouldn’t believe it. But here she is, my college roomie and BFF, offering me the chance to make a quick buck and see the inside of San Francisco’s newest and most impressive office building, the Massive Tower—corporate headquarters of Massive Erections, an architectural/construction firm owned by elusive 28-year-old billionaire playboy Brad Massive.

All you have to do, she explains, is put on the costume, do a little song and dance, and give the birthday boy a kiss.

Jamie makes some extra money working for a singing telegram agency. People pay to have a girl or boy in some silly costume sing a greeting to a friend celebrating a birthday or some other occasion.

Easiest fifty bucks you’ll ever make. I’d do it myself if I didn’t have this horrendous hangover.

I warned you, I say. "The frat boys of Fukka Lotta Poon have a reputation for throwing some pretty wild parties."

Well, they sure lived up to that reputation, says Jamie as she readjusts the ice bag on her forehead. What day is this?

Monday.

And the party was…?

Wednesday.

So I’ve been hung over for five days?

No, the first two days you were unconscious.

Whew! She lays back on her bed in our tiny dorm room. That’s a relief! I thought I had amnesia. Turns out I was just comatose. I musta had a good time.

What’s the last thing you remember? I ask.

I seem to recall my panties floating in the punch bowl, she grins.

You drank punch instead of beer?

No I used it to pee into.

Oh, you! I fling at her a T-shirt that contains the words I’m with skanky on it.

So, will ya do it? She looks at me with imploring eyes. If someone doesn’t cover for me, the agency will fire me.

How can I refuse her?

Oh, all right, I give in. Just this once.

You’re the best roomie ever! she gushes. And I’m not saying that just because I’m a lesbian who finds you incredibly attractive despite the fact that we’ve maintained a respectful platonic relationship throughout the entire academic year.

And you’re the best friend a girl could ever want, I say, despite the fact that I’m strictly heterosexual and, therefore, don’t have full appreciation for your five-foot-eight, lithe, shapely body and 44 double-D jugs.

Well, she smiles warmly, you’re no slouch, my dear, with your five-foot-five, voluptuous bod, cascading blond hair, and round 38C tits. It’s a shame you’re straight. I’d do you in an instant.

What a sweet thing to say. But I still think the birthday boy’s going to be settling for less than his friends had intended to give him.

Just shake that fine ass, says Jamie, and he’ll have a happy birthday.

She gives me the name and address, although it’s hardly necessary to tell me where the Massive Tower is located. It’s right in the middle of everything, shooting upward in a long, cylindrical shaft that’s capped by a rounded conical tip. It almost seems reminiscent of something, although, for the life of me, I can’t think what. The thing that’s inescapable is that it’s exactly the kind of impressive structure you’d expect for Massive Erections, a company that lives up to its name. It’s well known that, whenever you come upon an imposing sight in San Francisco, it’s a Massive Erection.

On my way to the business, I need to make one stop. It’s the agency’s wardrobe shop. I’m there to pick up my costume. I’m delivering this singing telegram dressed as a big fish, my face peeking out from the open mouth. The birthday boy’s name is Lester Mackerel, and I guess this is his friends’ idea of a funny joke. My only hope is that no one I know sees me this morning as I hop aboard a cable car, wedging my fins in amongst the tourists and dragging my tail behind me. A few minutes later, downtown San Francisco is treated to the sight of a lady fish swimming upstream in the current of sidewalk pedestrians as she makes her way to the entrance of Massive Erections.

It takes me more than a few minutes to convince the front security guards that I’m a singing telegram girl and not some kind of corporate spy. However, perseverance and a plucky personality pay off, and I’m eventually escorted by one of the guards to the 28th floor. All eyes are on the elevator doors as they open and a big fish waddles into a roomy, impeccably clean office full of neat desks and even neater employees.

I look for help from the nearest person to me, a woman in a dark blue lady’s business suit. Lester Mackerel?

Third desk to the left, she says, her mouth agape.

I scurry, my tail swishing behind me, toward the middle-aged, balding man seated at the third desk with his back toward me. A crowd begins to gather, some of them with knowing grins on their faces. The man at the desk finally notices something’s going on. He looks around with a blank stare and spots me. I go into my routine.

Ha---------ppy birthday to you…!

I get no more than one line into the song before my right foot catches the inside of my costume and I feel myself tumbling over. Unable to retain my balance in the bulky fish suit, I topple right into the seated Lester Mackerel, my face landing directly on his crotch. My arms encased within the costume fins, I can’t extricate myself gracefully, and, instead, I flop about like a fish out of water, my face still pressed into the birthday boy’s groin. The poor man at the desk gasps while his coworkers laugh, cheer, and applaud. It’s turned out to be an even better show than they had hoped.

As for me, I’m mortified. I came to help out a friend, to do a simple job. And how is it going? Well, all I can say is I’ve got my head on a guy’s dick and I’m blowing it.

Looks like quite a catch! It’s a deep, mellifluous, jovial voice filling my ears as a strong but gentle pair of hands grasps me by my shoulders. Lifting me as though I weighed nothing at all, the hands have me back on my feet. The hands remain in place while I steady myself. Within the costume, I can see only straight ahead out of the fish’s mouth, and, at the moment, the man who did the lifting is behind me. I can’t see him, but, based on the way others are behaving, I sense he’s a man who commands great respect.

Looks like you’ve got the catch of the day, jokes one of the men standing nearby.

Indeed I have! That voice. So self assured, cocky even, and yet so calming.

I turn myself all the way around so I can view my savior, and there, through the fish’s mouth, I catch my first glimpse of him. He’s tall. Six-foot-four, I’d say. And broad shouldered. An athletic, muscular build that could only come from spending several hours each day working out. He’s impeccably dressed and in such a finely tailored European gray silk suit that James Bond would look like a hobo standing next to him. His starched white shirt holds not even a hint of a wrinkle anywhere, as though it were pressed while he was wearing it, and his