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Wicked Lil’ Brat: A Secret Baby Romance
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The best way to enjoy my lil’ brat is to make her beg…
No woman can tame Mason Kane. Trust me, plenty have tried.
They get caught up with my bedroom eyes, ripped body, and massive…bank account.
But then I go too far.
Now I’m stuck in a loveless sham of a marriage to a soulless ice queen so I can save my company from the mistakes of my past.
But it gets worse.
There’s a little brat running around the house.
Teasing me. Tempting me. Making me have forbidden thoughts.
So what if she’s 16 years younger than me?
So what if we all sit around a table and share a wholesome family dinner every night?
Because it’s only after dinner – when everyone is asleep – that this bad boy of Wall Street is going to go up against his biggest challenge.
A wicked lil’ brat.
**Come join Alexis Angel in this full-length standalone romance. No cliffhanger. HEA? You know it, babe.**
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That’s the sound that Stacy’s pussy makes as my hard fucking cock drills her over the sofa she was sitting on.
Her grey skirt is bunched together and hiked around her waist. I already tore the panties off of her before you even got here.
“Oh my God, Mason,” Stacy shrieks as I pull her hair back and slap her ass like a fucking pirate. She’s on her fucking knees and her hands are holding onto the sofa cushions for dear life. Her blouse is unbuttoned and her bra is unclasped so her tits are hanging free.
I don’t really know much about this girl. What I do know is that her name is Stacy Sawyer. She’s an anchor for MarketWatch Journal, the pre-eminent financial news organization in the world. And up until maybe twenty minutes ago, she was finishing up yet another standard and pretty boring interview.
Oh, right. Where are my own fucking manners. Let me introduce myself, as long as you don’t mind me talking to you with my cock up some slut. I mean, I already know your name. No, don’t roll your eyes at me. I know who’s reading me and who’s not. And no, I’m not going to say your name out loud just to prove to you that I fucking know it.
In fact, you know what? I’m going to call you Gorgeous from now on. You got that, Gorgeous?
Anyways, so who the fuck am I to take such liberties with you?
I’m Mason Kane, billionaire CEO and founder of the investment bank Kane Price.
That CEO that you see pictured on the cover of TIME Magazine saying that he’s going to change Wall Street.
The CEO they made the movie about. Where they called me the King of New York. Funny how that name fucking stuck. Everyone seems to know it.
You probably saw the movie, but you’re probably rolling your eyes at the over-the-top lifestyle that I live in. Everything I have around me is larger than life. My personal fortune stands just shy of $30 billion dollars. Sure, a good solid 85% of it is tied to the performance of the stock in the company I started—the investment bank and private equity shop known as Kane Price.
That’s right. I started Kane Price with nothing. Built it up to a massive, globe-girdling corporation that today employs over 300,000 people all around the world with offices and operations in over 180 countries.
The Mason Kane that you see on the cover of People Magazine. Yeah, they love taking pictures of me, trying to figure out which fucking slut I’m currently banging, or if I’m doing more than one at the same time. I mean, they’ve covered me with everyone, from that one chick that won the fucking Oscar for Best Picture, to the first female Senator from Hawaii, to those billionaire twins, to even a pop singer. I mean the fuck list goes on and on.
Sure, the press inevitably find out about the women. Hell, the women are the ones that go to the fucking media. . After they get told by my assistant that I’d received their messages and would call them back when I was free, and they never hear from me. They go running to the newspaper and the press goes on to report to the nation how I made yet another one of America’s Sweethearts cry because she missed my cock.
Yeah, just to make sure you have the right Mason Kane, I’m the one with the gigantic 12-inch cock. The one that Playboy called the foot-long gift from God to all women of the planet. Swinging between my legs, its the first thing people glance at when they know who I am, and are meeting me for the first time.
Seriously, I shit you not. People I’ve never met before—male and female—will shake my hand as per protocol and their eyes will try to pass briefly over my crotch. But they’ll notice the bulge, and how it continues, and they’ll forget all the rules about staring and their eyes will go wide.
The women at least will start trying automatically to get me out of my fucking clothes. Some of them succeed; I mean they say a fuck a day keeps the doctor away, right? Not that I really need a doctor, to be quite perfectly honest. I’m like the pinnacle of human evolution.
I stand fucking 6′ 3″ tall. I’ve got broad fucking shoulders and a cut fucking body with defined pecs and a set of 8-pack abs that ripple with enough power to make any man feel inadequate. My eyes are cobalt blue and they penetrate deep into your soul when I look at you.
But you’re not noticing all of this if we’re in a room together.
Just like Stacy, you’d be salivating as I took off my shirt and showed you my ripped body. Your eyes would look over my defined pecs and 8-pack abs. Seriously, you probably haven’t seen that many guys with an 8-pack of abs. Those guys that they have on the covers of other books don’t have 8-packs. You gotta train hard to get it. And that’s what I do. My body is a temple for fucking.