Dirty Filthy Rich Men by Laurelin Paige
Dirty Filthy Rich Men
Laurelin Paige
Paige Press
Contents
Foreword
Part 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Epilogue
Part 2
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Let’s Stay in Touch!
Hot Cop
Also by Laurelin Paige
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2017 by Laurelin Paige
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editing: Sierra Simone
Cover: Laurelin Paige and Jenn Watson
Publicity: Jenn Watson
ISBN: 978-1-942835-16-5
Dear Reader,
If you have already been introduced to this world by reading my novella, Dirty Filthy Rich Boys, please skip to Part Two of this book: Men.
If you haven’t read Dirty Filthy Rich Boys, or you’d enjoy a refresher, turn the page and begin the book with Part One: Boys.
Also be sure to sign up for my newsletter where you’ll receive a FREE book every month from bestselling authors, only available to my subscribers, as well as up-to-date information on my latest releases.
Part One
Boys
If you’ve already read the novella, Dirty Filthy Rich Boys, skip to Part Two of this book.
One
No one on earth could kiss like Weston King.
When his face lowered toward mine, my breath caught in the back of my throat. When his mouth met mine, electricity sparked. When his tongue slipped between my lips, I found heaven. My toes literally curled, just like the trite expression suggested. My heart pounded against my ribcage. Goose bumps stood up along my skin. Butterflies flitted in circles in my belly. Every cell, every fiber of my being felt his invasion. His kiss turned a body of flesh and blood and bone into something bigger. Something combustible. Something charged. Something aflame.
At least that’s what I imagined his kisses were like.
My only evidence was based on observation, and, of that, I had plenty.
The girl he’d chosen to hook up with tonight definitely looked about to burst into flames with the way she was wriggling and writhing against him. Nichette? Was that her name? Or Nikita? It had been hard to hear her over the din of the party when she’d introduced herself to him an hour ago, and he’d only said it once or twice since then. It was something unusual and a bit pretentious and it blurred together with all the other unusual pretentious names of his previous hook-ups.
A guy I recognized from my economics class stumbled past, laughing with his buddies, and I pressed tighter to the wall, clutching my red Solo cup so it wouldn’t spill. Though I didn’t really care for whatever craft beer was on keg this week, it was one of my favorite things about the parties at The Keep. The main attraction was always craft beers and liquor. Most of the other rich Harvard students liked to draw crowds to their soirees with prescription drugs and recipes so experimental the FDA hadn’t even had time to disapprove them yet.
The boys at The Keep kept things simple, and—except for a fair amount of underage drinking—legal. “For those who might not want a blot on their past,” I’d heard Brett Larrabee, the self-designated house manager, state on more than one occasion, usually when he was trying to convince a guy to suck his dick with his “one day I’m going to be a senator” pick-up routine. I had to give him credit—it usually worked.
My other favorite thing about the parties at The Keep was Weston King. It was actually the only reason I ever went to any of the shindigs. I was absolutely intrigued with him for no good reason other than that he was hot, charming and wealthy. He was my addiction. My obsession. My crush.
Gotta love hormones.
I’d noticed Weston on the first day of Intro to Business Ethics. I’d taken a seat in the front of the classroom (because I was that kind of girl), and he’d walked in late (because he was that kind of guy), smirking at something on his cell phone. The grin was still on his face as he tucked his phone in his back pocket, the glimmer still in his blue eyes. Ice blue eyes. The class was in a lecture hall, so it took him several seconds to cross the room, and I couldn’t stop staring. I watched him the entire way. Watched him brush his hand through the dark blond hair that swooped over his forehead. Watched him give a wink to the teacher’s assistant who was glaring at him for being tardy. This guy was confident. Cocky. Exactly like all the preppy rich kids who made it into Harvard because of significant monetary donations and a family name. He was the kid I wanted to hate, and I’d arrived in Cambridge with my scholarship and my father’s lifetime savings wiped out planning to do exactly that.
But then his gaze crossed mine, and I don’t even think he actually saw me, but I saw him and what I saw was fascinating. It was ease and charm and privilege and it made me buzz. Made me breathe. Made me blush with thoughts too dirty for an ethics class. It definitely made me forget every intention I had of hating his kind.
Instead, I wanted to know more.
It wasn’t hard to find out about him. His father was Nash King, co-owner of King-Kincaid Financial, one of the world’s largest investment firms, and without even having to ask, people talked about him. I soon discovered he was a freshman, like me, and that he lived with a bunch of guys in a four-story brownstone ten minutes off campus that had been passed among a few wealthy families for so long, no one remembered why they called it The Keep. The house was famous for the parties they threw every weekend. And though it was now late October and Weston had never once spoken to me or looked at me directly or even indicated that he knew I was alive, I’d come to every one.
Every time, I spent the evening in a corner watching him pressed up against some girl. Always a different corner. Always a different girl. I’d tried to identify if he had a type, but I hadn’t found a pattern. This one was a redhead. Last week was a blonde. The week before, the girl had almost exactly the same shade of brown hair as I did, but she was curvy. This redhead was as rail thin as I was, but she’d obviously purchased a set of breasts. Another time he’d been with a girl even flatter than I was. No pattern. No type. It led me to believe that all I’d have to do was get the courage to talk to him and then maybe…
But then what?
I wasn’t delusional. I knew I had nothing special to offer. There was no trap that would set off the minute Weston’s cock was inside me. He’d fuck me and be done. And then my obsession with him would be even more pathetic because I wouldn’t just be a girl with a crush—I’d be a psycho who couldn’t move on.
Still, I dreamt that I’d be different. That one day, he’d notice me and there’d be that spark and it would be the forever kind of spark and when he found out I’d been saving myself
For a business major, I’d always had a wild imagination. I was well aware.
“Hey, sexy!” One of the guys who lived in the house—I truly had no idea how many did—pulled a girl in a thigh-length sweater and printed leggings in for a hug, blocking my view. “Long time since I’ve seen you. Want to join in the next round?”
I circled around the pool table that the boys kept in place of a dining room table, squinting around people until I caught sight of Weston and his catch of the night. When I spotted them again, it was just in time. They were near the staircase and he was leaning in to whisper something into the redhead’s ear. She responded with a giggle and then a nod.
This was it. The Exit. The moment the two of them would slip away to take things to The Next Level. The part that I spent the rest of the week imagining in fine detail—only, in my imagination, I was the girl, and very often, I accompanied the daydreaming with my hand beneath my panties.
Seriously, maybe I just needed to get laid.
I took another swallow of my not-so-delightful craft beer and cringed. Usually when Weston took off with his hook-up for the night, I finished up my drink and headed home. He would take her upstairs to his room now. At least, I guessed that’s where his room was. The upper level was off-limits, the door to the stairway kept locked, and even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have ever intruded on their private space.
But this time when Weston and his catch went upstairs, he didn’t shut the door tightly behind him. From across the room, my eyes focused in on the latch bolt sticking out from the doorframe, and something came over me. Something unexplainable. Because one minute I was standing against the wall like always and the next I was creeping in the shadows up the dark staircase to the top floor of The Keep.
The stairs were quiet and empty, and at the landing, I paused. The lights were off everywhere on the top floor, and it took a moment for my eyes to focus. There seemed to be a bathroom straight in front of me. To my right was a hallway, to my left was a bedroom with a door slightly ajar. Giggles drifted from the bedroom, and I tiptoed in that direction, cursing at myself every step of the way. What the fuck was I even doing? Was I planning to spy while Weston banged some other girl? Did I want him to suddenly notice me at the door and invite me in instead? Did I want him to invite me to join?
Yeah, this was messed up.
I nearly turned around.
I should have turned around.
But then Nicorette inhaled sharply and I had to know. Had to see.
I crept closer, peeked inside and nearly jumped when I saw the couple directly in front of me in a lip-locked frenzy. Then I realized that I was actually looking at a reflection in a wall-sized mirror. They were on the other side of the bed and the moon was shining in through the window illuminating the display.
And, oh my god, was it hot.
The redhead had already lost her shirt and her bra, and Weston was bent over her, suckling on one breast, kissing her pointed nipple while squeezing her other breast.
Nikita threw her head back and moaned. Unconsciously, I plumped my own breast over my sweater, and nearly gasped when I found my nipple sensitive and erect. I had to bite my lip to keep from making any noise. Had to cross my ankles to ease the throbbing between my legs.
I watched as Weston peeled off his shirt, the angle giving me a view of his beautiful, muscular back. He was on the rowing team. Of course. So preppy. So rich boy. But those muscles… God bless the rowing team.
And now he was undoing his jeans. And she was drawing out his cock. I could feel my eyes widen, trying to get a better look at his dick. I dared to lean in a little farther. Still, all I could make out was a dark shadow in the grip of the redhead’s little palm as she stroked him up and down.
“Yeah, Nicky, just like that.” The low rumble in Weston’s voice made my knees buckle. I could just hear him over the thump-thump of the bass drifting up from downstairs.
“It’s Nichelle,” she corrected. Right! That’s what it was.
“Yeah, Nichelle.” He pulled her head back up so he could devour her mouth. He kissed her for a few minutes, greedily, before pulling away and heading out of the reflection—toward me.
I cowered in the corner where the hinge met the frame, certain I was about to be discovered. But all Weston did was shut the door.
I leaned my back against the closed door and let out a deep breath.
Because what the actual fuck?
I could have gotten caught. I could have gotten kicked out of The Keep forever. I could have lost any respect Weston might have ever had for me before even earning it.
And why the hell was I so into this guy anyway? I didn’t even know him! I needed to get my head in the right place. Needed to remember why my father put in all those years with the furniture store and why my mother’s life insurance money was saved and put away. It was so I could go to the school of my dreams. Not so that I could spend all my time daydreaming over a pretty-faced playboy.
But what a pretty face he had.
God, I was in trouble.
“He’s never going to go for you,” a voice came out of the dark in front of me. “Not while you’re a virgin.”
I squinted, and when I looked closer, I saw there was another bedroom at the end of the hall with the door wide open, and though I couldn’t quite make out the figure, I could see there was someone sitting in an armchair, smoking a cigarette. Or a cigar maybe.
I took a step forward. Surely he wasn’t talking to me, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else around. “Excuse me?”
“Weston never goes for virgins. It’s one of his rules.”
Heat rushed up my neck and flooded my cheeks. “Uh…”
“You’re offended.”
“Yes. I’m offended.” And embarrassed. How long had this guy been watching me? It was pretty safe to assume that he’d seen me spying on Weston. Which was just…mortifying. Thank goodness it was too dark for him to see my face.
“Care to explain?”
I took another step forward. Then several more. Steps I should have taken down the stairs while I was still an anonymous girl in the dark.
But there was something about being watched privately by someone else that made me feel a kinship that I hadn’t felt before. All that time I’d spent watching Weston, it was as though I’d been carrying a secret. And the first person to discover it had found it out by secretly watching me.
Or maybe that was just an excuse and I was just lonely. Or drunk. Or stupid.
“Well.” I paused at the doorway of his room. “A of all, you can’t possibly know what your roommate is and isn’t into. And B of all, the status of my virginity is not something you can just presume.”
He took a puff of his cigar—not a cigarette, it turned out—and the smoke filled the room with a sweet woody scent that reminded me of fireplaces and old libraries. “I beg to disagree. To both.”
I huffed audibly. Because what else could I say to something as cocky as that?
Actually, plenty.
I threw my shoulders back, ready to go off when he went on first. “Look. I’ve known Weston since he was in diapers. I know him better than his mother does, I know him better than that girl who’s in there currently sucking his dick, and I certainly know him better than you do.”
He did know Weston well, I realized. I knew this guy, too. He was the T.A. for my ethics class. I hadn’t recognized him at first, but now I did. He was Donovan Kincaid, son of Weston’s father’s business partner. I hadn’t known he lived here. I’d never seen him at any of The Keep’s parties before.
My hands started sweating and my pulse picked up a notch.
Donovan was several years older than us and was currently getting his MBA. He was a legend around campus because he was brilliant and ruthless. His business ideas were not only smart but also cutting edge. He was the sort of ma
Right now? He scared the shit out of me.
“As for your virginity,” he went on, “you wear it like a badge.”
“I do not.” I really kind of did. Right now, I was at a college party wearing a shapeless sweater and jeans. My hair was pulled into a loose ponytail. My shoes were Doc Martens that my roommate said had gone out of style a decade ago. It wasn’t that I tried to be dumpy looking. I just liked to be comfortable. And as the older sister without a mother around, I’d never really had anyone teach me how to be a girl.
“There really is no reason to be offended,” Donovan said, taking a sip from a glass. Whiskey, I was guessing. Something told me it wasn’t his first glass of the night. “I’m not criticizing. In fact, I’m offering to help.”
It took me a second to understand just what he meant. “Oh, please.”
“I’m not kidding. Shall we discuss the pros and cons?”
I cocked my head and studied him, as if I could study him in the dark. Was he seriously offering to sleep with me? He obviously had no idea who I was.
“I, uh, don’t think so.” I tugged on the end of my ponytail, a nervous habit of mine. “I’m sure it’s because there’s no light in here or because there’s so many of us in there, but I’m in your Intro to Business Ethics class. I’m your student.”
He stretched to his side and yanked a chain, turning on a lamp next to him. I blinked several times in the newly lit bedroom. He wore a simple black sweater and jeans. His feet were bare. His unruly hair had more red in it in the dim light, his green eyes had more flecks of brown. It made him look more rugged than usual. More intense. His jawline added to the effect. It was lined with scruff, as if he hadn’t shaved since class yesterday morning, and, though I’d never had such an impulse before, I found myself wanting to run my hand across the fuzz. Wanted to know exactly what it felt like under my skin. Was it soft? Did it scratch? Who was the last woman to run her hand across his jaw? Did he love her?