Mr. Slate: A Mr. Billionaire Short Story Read online

  Contents

  Mr. Slate

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  The Billionaire’s Contract

  Acknowledgments

  Mr. Billionaire

  About the Author

  © 2019 Tessa Blake

  Happy Ever After, April 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, institutions, mafia enforcers, millionaire playboys, politicians, or painfully earnest hippie chicks is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, in any form, by any means electronic or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system currently in use or yet to be devised.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal use and may not be re-sold or given away to others. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase a copy for that person. If you did not purchase this book, or it was not purchased for your use, then you have an unauthorized copy. Please go to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting my hard work and copyright.

  Mr. Slate

  The sexy prequel to The Billionaire's Contract!

  Slate

  I’m not generally about one-night stands, but that changes—fast—when I meet Sunny. The minute I lay eyes on her, I have to have her.

  But then she turns up in my office the next day … and she’s not who I thought she was at all.

  She hates everything I stand for, and I can’t change who I am. Will that one night together really be the only time we have? Or can I change her mind about me?

  Sunny

  I didn’t come to New York for a boyfriend. I came for a purpose: to change the world. And Slate Garrett is not part of that. He can’t be—because he’s the exact thing I came here to fight.

  Too bad I don’t know that when I meet him at a club one night and let him have his way with me on a deserted rooftop. Now we’re on opposite sides of a battle I refuse to lose.

  And I’m not going to lose my heart, either.

  Feeling a little blue? Flirt Club is tickled pink to bring you a full spectrum of fourteen hot, steamy new romances. These billionaires might cause some to be green with envy but their hearts are solid gold. Are you ready to love in technicolor?

  For the Book Tarts,

  who caught a couple of throwaway lines in The Billionaire’s Contract, and asked for more.

  Sunny

  It’s coming up on midnight, and I’m feeling no pain. I’m not drunk, precisely … just exactly the right amount of tipsy to let Isaac curl his arm in and tuck me against him, and then whip me out again in a dizzying pirouette. He sweeps me into an exaggerate dip, and my head almost brushes the floor.

  Isaac can dance. I could make the joke that it’s because he’s gay, or black — he’s both — but I honestly don’t think that’s it. His boyfriend Marcus is also gay, obviously, and Marcus has two left feet.

  Which is why Isaac is spinning me around the dance floor like a rag doll.

  I laugh, breathless, and say, “I need to sit down for a minute.”

  He flashes even, white teeth and turns, holding my hand as he leads me off the dance floor.

  Anywhere other than New York City in the summer of 1980, we would definitely be getting the look from some of the people. But no one here cares — or even notices — and that gives me hope that the world is changing.

  Isaac calls me an idealist, but then Isaac’s taken some hard knocks, even in San Francisco. Right before the three of us left California last summer, he got beat up pretty bad, and it wasn’t the first time, either.

  But we’re here now, and nobody has taken a boot to him or Marcus since we got here. So that’s something. In our neighborhood, they can walk around holding hands and it’s no big deal. That’s something, too.

  We get back to our table, where Marcus is sitting with Rainbow — not her real name, of course, but we don’t know what her real name is. And I guess the name you choose is your real name in most ways, anyhow.

  Me, I came by the weird hippie nature name honestly — straight from my parents, who are Canadian by birth and live in Vermont now. My parents were hippies before “hippie“ meant what is does now; even way back then, they cared about civil rights and foreign policy and the increasing presence in Vietnam, with a constant soundtrack of protest songs. And they named me after the sunshine that they insisted needed to be shined on every injustice in the world.

  And I’ve been trying to shine a light on that exact thing for my whole life.

  Which is what brings me to New York.

  I pick up my glass from the table and swallow the last bit of my drink.

  “You guys looked great out there,” Rainbow says. “You gonna take me for a spin, Isaac?”

  “All these women cozying up to my man,” Marcus says, an exaggerated pout on his face.

  Isaac sits in the chair next to him and pats him on the shoulder. “Poor guy. But look on the bright side: maybe I’ll take you home.”

  They grin at each other and I think how great they look — two handsome men in their mid-20s, one black, one white. Pointed collars, slick faux-leather jackets, and wide-legged pants. Pretty much the uniform of half the men here tonight, actually.

  “Who wants another drink?” I ask. “I’m gonna get some water.” Time to lay off the booze; I’ve got a big day tomorrow and no desire to start it with a hangover.

  Marcus hands me some cash for him and Isaac. Rainbow shakes her head and lifts her glass; she’s still got half a drink.

  I head off to the bar, which is packed several people deep at this point. Annoying, but it’s a big club and pretty much full to capacity. There have to be 800 people here — a lot of them refugees from Studio 54, which shut down earlier this year. Everyone’s dolled up; a lot of the men are dressed like Isaac and Marcus, but there are plenty in jeans and jackets, and a few guys that look like a motorcycle gang. The women are a riot of color and fabric: sheer dresses, gypsy skirts, one-shoulder sheath dresses. Satin, leather, sequins, epaulets, you name it.

  A guy who’s dressed like he’s watched Saturday Night Live a few times too many smiles at me and jerks his chin at the bar. “Buy you a drink?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “No thanks,” I tell him.

  “You sure?”

  I shake my head again and he shrugs, turns to a girl on the other side of him. “Buy you a drink?” I hear him ask.

  And that right there is kind of why I said no. Nothing against him personally — though the sequins are a bit much, so he would probably be a no regardless — but the thing is, the guys in the club scene, they don’t care.

  I spent five years in San Francisco, living and working around Haight-Ashbury when it was recovering from the post-hippie decline; I’m no virgin and I’m certainly not a prude. I was picky, but I had a few boyfriends during that time. Casual, but that was all I wanted — and all they wanted too. But even if things were casual, those guys saw me. They talked about things that mattered. It was a whole different culture, and I can’t quite get used to the way people are here. I’m pickier than ever, and I haven’t been with anyone since I got to New York.

  Isaac says I’m too picky, but then Isaac isn’t on the market, is he? If he were, he might agree with me. And it occurs to me in that moment that I’m actually kind of … lonely. I love livi
ng with Isaac and Marcus, and the work we’re doing is really important, but maybe it would be nice if—

  A woman in a pink satin bodysuit bumps me, spills her drink on my arm. She shrieks out an apology, and I smile wanly. Suddenly, I feel pretty done with this place. Maybe I’ll go tell my friends that I’m gonna just head home.

  I turn to head back to my table, and there’s a guy right behind me — well, in front of me now. He’s tall, but then so am I. Black slacks, and a dark blue shirt under a short, plain leather jacket. His dark hair is a bit long at the collar but nothing outrageous. On the border of conservative-looking.

  Maybe not a yuppie exactly, but not necessarily not, either.

  He doesn’t belong, I think, and in that moment feel almost a kinship. I don’t feel like I belong right now, either.

  I start to move around him, and he stops me with a hand on my arm.

  “Want to dance?” he asks.

  “I was thinking of heading home,” I say, not sure why I don’t just brush him off with my usual No, thanks. I don’t owe him an explanation.

  “Maybe rethink that,” he says. “I’ve been watching how you move, and I’d love to dance with you.”

  I feel a flush work its way up my chest to my face. “I … I had a good partner, that’s all.” Which is true. I’m a passable dancer at best; Isaac just makes anyone look good.

  “Your boyfriend?” the man asks.

  No judgment there, no disapproval, which makes me like him just a bit.

  I smile. “No, just a friend,” I say. “One of my roommates. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  And just like that, I realize that I’m going to dance with him. That I want to dance with him. Why else tell him that I’m single? Why else would I be noticing how good he smells, or how blue his eyes are?

  What is that about? I wonder. And I want to find out.

  “You know what?” I say. “I do want to dance.”

  And he smiles. His eyes warm, and dimples curve appealingly on either side of his mouth.

  He slides his hand down along my arm, and takes my hand in his. Tugging gently, he backs up a little, then turns and leads me to the dance floor.

  He looks pretty damn good from back here, too, I think.

  Oh, man, I think. This guy could be trouble.

  Maybe I could use a little trouble.

  Slate

  As we reach the dance floor, the music shifts to something slow, and I couldn’t be happier about it. I turn and pull the girl close, resting my hands on the small of her back.

  Her hand, as I led her to the dance floor, was cool and small in mine — delicate, almost, even though she’s almost as tall as I am. Her face is fine-boned and aristocratic-looking. There’s something doll-like but regal about her, like a china figurine of a ballerina, or a princess. Her collarbone stands out above a strapless black ruffled top, and her pulse flutters at her throat like a bird’s wing. Her blond hair is cut short, and fluffs appealingly around a heart-shaped face. Pale freckles are sprinkled across the bridge of her nose.

  She wraps her slender arms around my neck and fits the length of her body along mine, putting her head on my shoulder. Her breath is light against my neck, and I go instantly rock-hard in my pants. If she notices, she gives no sign — and how could she not notice, as close as we are?

  She smells like flowers. As we sway to the music, that scent wraps around me, and I feel a mounting tension that’s not precisely unusual for me, but has never been this intense.

  I don’t come to this club often — it’s full of ex-hippies and disco queens, neither of which interest me in the slightest — but I’m glad I did tonight.

  I lean back a bit and she looks at me, her brown eyes questioning.

  It’s too loud to talk, really, so I put my mouth close to her ear, letting my lips just barely brush the edge of her earlobe as I ask, “What’s your name?”

  She shivers a little, and says something I can’t quite hear. “Come again?” I say, and I almost miss what she says a second time, thinking about her coming. Christ, what is wrong with me right now?

  She lays her hand along the side of my jaw and turns my head slightly, turning my own trick back on me as I feel her warm breath, her lips against my ear. “Sunny Pelletier,” she says. She pronounces it the French way — Pel-ti-ay — which makes it sound exotic. “What’s yours?”

  “Slate,” I say, not offering any more than that. I never lead with my last name; it just causes problems. And anyway, this girl’s interested even without the last name. Why spoil it?

  I let my mouth linger there at her ear. The first time could be written off as an accident. The flick of my tongue against her earlobe cannot.

  Her fingers tighten on my shoulder, and she tilts her head to the side, wordlessly offering up that shell-like ear and the creamy white skin of her neck. I lay my mouth over the pulse that beats there, and my hands at the small of her back pull her tight against me. “This is nuts,” I say against her skin.

  She nods.

  “Are you drunk?”

  She shakes her head. “Not drunk enough to worry about,” she says, and then she presses her pelvis against mine for a moment.

  I hiss in a breath. “Be careful,” I say.

  “You be careful,” she retorts.

  “Careful with what?”

  There’s a long pause. Finally, she says, “Me.”

  “I’m never careless with a beautiful woman,” I tell her. I run one finger along the line of her jaw. “Shall I show you?”

  She nods, her eyes huge in her face. She’s wearing a flirty little yellow skirt that ends just above the knee, and I want very badly to run my hands over the slim white legs below the hem — to slide my hands up under it and discover what’s under that skirt — but that can wait a little while.

  A very little while.

  I lean in and claim her mouth — but gently, carefully. Her lips are soft, her tongue playful against mine. She sighs through our kiss and moves restlessly against me, her arms wrapping more securely around my neck. I let my hands slide down, down, run my palms over the backs of her thighs, let my fingers brush the subtle curve of her ass.

  The slow song ends, and something fast begins, the bass throbbing. Our dancing — if it can even be called that at this point — doesn’t change. We sway, slowly, lost in each other.

  “I didn’t come here for this,” she says between kisses.

  “Neither did I.” It’s the truth. “I came here to have a drink with a friend, and I was about to leave. Then I saw you. I saw you, and I had to talk to you.”

  “I was ready to leave, too,” she says.

  “I know. You told me.” I can’t stop my hands; they cup her ass again, and my fingers flirt with the lacy edge of her panties.

  She pulls back, looks me square in the eye. “Well, we’re still here,” she says. “Let’s make the most of it.”

  “What do you—”

  But she’s already moving away from me, casting a glance over her shoulder and beckoning that I should follow. I do, moving between the gyrating bodies on the dance floor.

  Sunny leads me off the dance floor, down a short hallway. At the end, there’s a heavy door, and beyond that a set of industrial-looking stairs. “Come on,” she says, and starts to climb.

  I follow her up and up, mesmerized by the way her skirt keeps playing peekaboo with me. Her underwear are black and lacy. I’m so hard it hurts.

  Not even five sets of stairs can dampen my lust. When she pushes through a fire door at the top of the stairs, and we step out onto a low roof, the humid summer air doesn’t do anything to cool me off, either.

  She turns as the door slams shut behind me. “Don’t worry,” she says. “It doesn’t lock.”

  I hadn’t even considered it, that’s how poorly my brain is functioning right now. All the blood has gone … elsewhere.

  I look around. The building itself is many stories taller than this, but this roofed section, about 30 feet by 30 feet, is m
eant to give maintenance access to the HVAC and other service elements. It’s deserted and small, and I can’t think of any reason why anybody would find us here.

  Unless they were coming out here for the same purpose — in which case, too bad. We were here first.

  I pull her into the shadow of the taller part of the building and push her against the wall between a compressor and some kind of utility locker. Her eyes sparkle up at me in the dim glow from the windows above our heads.

  “I don’t do this,” she says.

  Her arms are at her sides, her palms flat on the brick behind her. Her chest rises and falls, her small breasts press against the fabric of her shirt. I can see that her nipples are hard, and I bring my hands up to cup each breast. She makes a little gasping sound and closes her eyes.

  “Me, neither,” I say. Which, again, is true. The women I generally sleep with need to be bought a little bit first — you don’t let Slate Garrett into your bedroom unless he’s willing to spend some of that Garrett money on you, after all. So there’s some wining and dining that has to happen first. Maybe even a gift, if she really wants to play hard to get.

  Hard to get is boring. Either want it, or don’t. Own it or don’t. Games aren’t attractive, and as I look at the woman in front of me — lips parted, eyes closed, her lashes dark against her pale skin — I’m blown away by how refreshing it is to see someone just reach out and take what she wants. No games, no fake shyness. No holding out for roses or champagne.