Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 57064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
“Tomorrow, there’s another auction. You were invited, were you not?”
“Yes Sir,” I whisper as I feel him harden inside me again
“Then you will,” he said, pulling my hips in. I start to ride him, losing myself in the feeling of Gabriel’s presence and his cock inside me. I’m still so incredibly sensitized. Every rock of his hips is a heaven I didn’t know existed before he touched me.
“You’re going to get on that stage tomorrow like a good little whore for me.”
GABRIEL
The Past, August
My office showcases floor to ceiling windows, a Nineteenth-Century oak desk that has aged better than the finest wines, warm leather chairs, and a private conference table that declares to all that I am the force to be reckoned with. I don’t come to you, you come to me.
Rrrring, rrrring.
Sighing, I turn away from my view, seven hundred and fifty feet above the streets of Manhattan.
“Yes?” I growl as I pick up, knowing it’s my assistant, Stephens. He’s good at what he does, but I’m irritated from being . . . interrupted. This hour is blocked off for a reason, and this disturbance had better be something fucking important.
“Sir, Mr. Ronald Johnson is here to see you. He says he has an off-books appointment?”
The tension grows in my shoulders as my jaw ticks. Ronald doesn’t have an appointment with me, off books or on the books. He’s trying to pull a move and salvage what little is going to be left of his pride by the time I’m done with him.
Clearing my throat, I decide it’s best to not burn bridges any more than I have to. It is business, after all, and in this world, money changes hands so quickly, it’s difficult to keep up. I’ll grant him a meeting if it’ll ease the tension between us. Only after I take care to hide my task at hand do I answer Stephens. “Send him in.”
After all, he lost millions, and I’m the vulture who’s swooped in because he has to make deals to debt upon debt that’s finally caught up to him.
Ron Johnson is the head of the Johnson Financial Group, and while the company is still in the family name, there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s here to try and keep the company in family control as well.
Greed might be good, but his greed got the better of him.
The knock at the door is stern, and with a brisk “come in”, he enters, sharp gray suit, clean shave and newly shined shoes and all.
“Ronald, welcome,” I reply, coming around my desk and directing him over to the seating area. With a gentle nod, he greets me and thanks me for seeing him.
I only nod in return, turning my attention to the bar table on the left side of the room.
I offer him a drink. “Whiskey? I’ve got a new bottle of Port Ellen in that I’ve been waiting to try.”
“Sounds lovely,” Ron says, taking a seat. He looks out the window, shaking his head.
“Your company is overextended,” I start, cutting to the chase. Some businessmen like to dance around, say nothing but niceties until the rope is fully wrapped around someone’s neck before pulling the strings tight.
I’m not that type. I’m more of a stab-in-the-front kind of guy.
Ron knows this. “What can I say?” he says, accepting the crystal tumbler from me when I offer it.
Ron takes a shaky sip, and I feel a bit for him. After the dot-com crash that ironically brought a certain wonderful presence to my life, Ron leaned on his family’s real estate holdings to tide the group through. He leveraged and mortgaged over ten thousand square feet of office space that turned out to be a money pit.
“I just need a little to get by this year. I’ve sold off everything, and the company’s back in the black, but cash flow is limited.”
I inhale deeply and lean back. “How much?”
“Two hundred million,” Ron says. “I know it’s a lot, but I also know you’re able to make it happen.”
I pretend to think about it, even though I already knew my answer before he arrived. “Two hundred million . . . agreed,” I reply. “In exchange for two million shares of voting rights stock in Johnson Financial.”
“Two million?” Ron asks, gasping lightly. “That’s enough to control the board. Even I—”
“Oh, I’d put a rider in the contract. You can buy the shares back,” I assure him. “I’m not trying to take over your company. You can keep Johnson Financial for another generation if you want. Or you can find someone else . . .”
Ron swallows and nods. “Fine.”
“And,” I add, leaning forward, “I want your estate in Scotland. Those shares aren’t going to be worth two hundred million when next quarter’s financials come out. We both know it. So I want a sweetener, something for me personally. Consider it the interest to the loan.”