Bad Boy in a Suit: The Billionaire's Touch, #1

By Evelyn Glass

Bad Boy in a Suit is the first book in The Billionaire's Touch series. Parts 2-9 are also available everywhere now!

Book 1: Bad Boy in a Suit
Book 2: Bad Boy in the Dark
Book 3: Bad Boy in Control
Book 4: Tied Up by the Bad Boy
Book 5: Pinned Down by the Bad Boy
Book 6: Set Free by the Bad Boy
Book 7: Bound to the Bad Boy
Book 8: Bent for the Bad Boy
Book 9: Given to the Bad Boy

Alexander Blankenship is everything that is wrong about Wall Street, and Zoey Gardener just landed an interview with him.

Twenty-four year old Zoey Gardener just hit the biggest break of her life. On the verge of starting yet another job hunt as a journalist, she somehow manages to find herself conducting an exclusive interview with Alexander Blankenship—better known as the wildest playboy of Wall Street and a perfect example of everything wrong with the 1%.

And though he’s every bit the person the world paints him out to be, there’s something about Alexander that draws Zoey in. Something that commands it.

Zoey is about to be pulled into Alexander’s world—a world where deals are unspoken and understanding is implicit, where the lines between meeting room and bedroom are blurred, where dark sensual pleasures find an avenue of release, and where profit comes above all else… 

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBook Publishing World
• Release date: Dec 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386919360

Book preview

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BAD BOY IN A SUIT: The Billionaire’s Touch (Book 1)

By Evelyn Glass

A CLUB TO SATE YOUR DARKEST PLEASURES WAS THE LAST PLACE YOU’D EXPECT TO FIND A GIRL LIKE ME WITH A MAN LIKE HIM.

It was supposed to be an adventure. Anonymous. No chance that I’d ever see the other person again, especially not in a big city like New York.

Or so I thought before Alexander Blankenship—the filthiest playboy on Wall Street—became my feature story.

He was the same man who made me submit to his touch at the club, who made me beg, who left my legs watery and weak by the end of the night.

I’M SUPPOSED TO FIND out everything I can about him. What his favorite color is. How he likes his coffee in the morning.

Who he’s been f****** and where.

But the moment I step into his office.

The moment those doors click shut.

I know I’m in trouble.

His dark eyes cut right through my clothes and tell me that he wants to play.

Right here.

Right now.

CHAPTER ONE

Zoey took a long moment to focus on her breathing as she stood across the street from the club. The invitation Helen had gotten her was in hand, and she wanted to walk inside, she wanted it more than anything, but it felt—it felt, somehow, like giving up. She’d been in the city for three years now. When she’d moved here, she’d been convinced, completely sure, that within a handful of years she’d be married to someone who did the crossword with her in bed, and on the short list for a Pulitzer.

Turned out that in New York City, hotshot writers were a dime a dozen, and finding someone worth talking to was a crap shoot, never mind finding someone whose puzzle solving skills went beyond Words With Friends. She was sick of spending all of her quality time with her vibrator, and Helen swore that this place, Chez Vous, catered to only the most careful. When Zoey had checked it out online, she’d seen a list of latex rules and consent agreements, all of which she’d have to sign off on before she even went in the door. According to Helen, it was members-only; she’d finagled an invitation for Zoey, but she’d been quite clear that it had taken some effort.

Time to move, girl. It was either walk across the street and have what Helen swore up and down would be the night of her life, or go home, tail between her legs, and listen to people do 100 to 1 countdowns while she tortured herself with a dildo.

Her wedge heels clunked across the street as she lifted her chin and found the débutante smile that Mama had drilled into her by the time she was eleven. God, if Mama knew where she was tonight—her snort of laughter ruined the whole image, but it relaxed her.

There was a guy at the door, more than a bouncer, but less than a doorman. He took the invitation that Helen had passed her, then checked Helen’s name against a list. First time? he asked.

Yes, Zoey replied, doing her best to look calm, bored, and too good for it all in classic New York fashion. Much better than giving in to the squealing girl inside her head.

The guy nodded. Straight inside, there’s a small office. You’ll need to speak to Marie. He gave her a less than subtle up and down look, then smiled. Nice. Not trying too hard. That’ll help you out.

With what?

You’ll see.

He kept the invitation, and she went in.

The hallway was tastefully appointed, and looked more like the entrance to an art gallery than a kink club. The walls were a light gray, the floor a darkly stained hardwood. There was a small desk, and a woman with an expensive haircut and wine-red lipstick sat behind it. Ms. Gardener?

Wow. Yes, Zoey said, stepping across the floor. The other woman held out her hand, and Zoey shook it. You must be Marie.

Marie inclined her head, and gestured at the chair on the opposite side of the desk. Zoey sat. Mama’s voice echoed through her head—make like you have a quarter between your knees—and she banished it. This was not the time for etiquette lessons. Though she did remember to keep her knees together. In a brocade miniskirt, it wasn’t really optional. I do apologize for this bit. Everyone comes in exciting to move forward into the experience, and we have to stop them at the door to fill out forms. She gave a polite laugh that made it very clear that this was a speech. Zoey returned the laugh; back home, it would have been part of the conversation. I understand that you’re a member of the press?

Well. Helen had certainly been generous. Yes.

Marie passed the first piece of paper to her. This is a fairly standard non-disclosure agreement. To sum it up, write anything about anything you see or hear beyond that door— she gestured at a tall, imposing, carved wooden affair, and our doors are barred to you, permanently. There is no appeal process.

Zoey signed.

Marie continued on with a few more forms. Failing to respect rules around consent would also result in an immediate ban, as would failure to use latex protection, regardless of any requests made by another person. Zoey handed over her cell phone, and got back a key that she could use to retrieve it from a bank of lockers that looked almost like post office boxes. We strongly suggest that you spent your first night talking to people, learning the ropes, getting familiar with how things work here. We understand that everyone’s eager, but it’s possible to rush into something that your regret later, if you don’t take the time to make sure you’re comfortable.

Zoey nodded at this sage advice, but she’d been lightly damp since Helen had dropped by this morning with the invitation. She wasn’t going to just fuck anyone, but if she had the option of something more than just a drink, she knew the odds were that she’d take it.

Marie opened the ornate wood door, and Zoey stepped through into a room that felt a bit like a green room in a theater. There was plush velvety seating, low lights, and make up mirrors along one wall. She checked her reflection. Everything looked like it always did—too-pale skin spattered with freckles, bright red hair up in a high ponytail. In the dim light, the smoky makeup she’d done around her green eyes made them seem wide and bright, and she’d chosen a light pink shade of subdued lipstick that enhanced the effect. The brocade skirt was chocolate brown, with swirls of plum purple and deep teal, and on top, she wore a white blouse bound with an black corset. The corset, she noted, was also doing its job of making her look like she had a lot more on top than she honestly did.

What had the bouncer meant, that she wasn’t trying so hard as other people? Maybe everyone else showed up wearing cat suits and assless chaps? She looked down at the length of her legs; she wasn’t at all accustomed to seeing so much of them at a time. If she walked into that room, and she was overdressed, she was walking right back out again, no matter what Helen said.

Instead, she pushed the door open, and found a room that reminded her more of, well, a speak easy setting in an old movie. It wasn’t so much the specific fashion that any one person was wearing, more that there was a certain dirty, gilded glamour to everything. Everyone looked perfect, pinned and primed, with the same soft shiny as marcelled waves. There wasn’t an assless chap anywhere to be seen. Also not in attendance: pole dancers, horrible porn soundtrack music, or handlebar mustaches.

Something inside