Billionaire Season

Billionaire Season

Book One

The Long Hot Summer

By Kimball Lee

Copyright 2014 Kimball Lee

Smashwords Edition

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Chapter One

So, your do-gooder daddy is taking in a homeless child for the summer? How old is she, twenty-two, twenty-three, young and malleable, just the way you like them? How dull, William, and how predictable, your father has a definite soft spot for his old girlfriends and their money grubbing offspring, Marisa said, her tone as sarcastic as usual.

Are you including yourself in that group, Marisa? William asked, her hands were on his shoulders, kneading, massaging, insinuating her way into his good graces. He sat with his back to her, peering out the immense glass doors at the far end of his office. The doors led to a narrow balcony perched precariously at the back of the once famous ocean liner and beyond its brass railings was the wide and muddy Mississippi River. A utilitarian and inelegant fleet of Warfield Shipping vessels nestled against the docks below, they sailed in from the Gulf of Mexico, unloaded their cargo and were back on their way to Hong Kong or Rotterdam or Balboa. Your mother was a fling of my father’s for all of six months and you’ve certainly made yourself at home and enjoyed the hospitality of the Warfield family for the last two years.

Are you tired of me, William? she said, swiveling his desk chair so that he was facing her as she sank to her knees and swept her bright copper hair away from her beautifully calculating face. It seems to me that our parent’s brief relationship was the best thing that happened for the two of us. I mean it, who else is going to play your dirty little games, fuck your brains out and keep you satisfied the way I do?

Get up, Marisa, my office door is open, anyone could walk in, he said, removing her deft little fingers from his zipper. He hoped she would stop but he knew that she wouldn’t.

I thought that was the way you liked it, in fact I know it’s the only way you can get off. With that nasty little element of danger and exhibitionism and soon you’ll most likely head down the treacherous road of pain with pleasure just like your brother. Don’t try and deny it, William, I was there at The Cathedral two nights ago, I’m well acquainted with the mask you wear, a gold Venetian lion. The young lady you were with looked thoroughly—chastised shall we say? You know I’ve always loved your twisted brand of love making…

Fucking, Marisa, I fuck. Love and sex have nothing to do with one another. And I don’t know what you think you saw but punishment is not my game, however I regret that it is my brother’s way of life. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to see my father today and it’s a long drive out to bayou country.

You’re right, with you it’s simply a physical act, sex, fucking, nothing more. You fuck so perfectly and so impersonally. Maybe that’s the turn on, they say a hard cock has no conscience, well that’s certainly true for your gloriously long hard cock. Still, I love when you’re inside me, your magic fingers on my pussy, fucking hard and deep, anywhere, anytime. But that’s over isn’t it, we’re over? I never deluded myself that you loved me, William, you’re not capable of love. There’s not a woman on this planet who could thaw that cold, cold heart of yours. You used to be so exciting, so infuriatingly self-absorbed and without a doubt the best fuck in town. Fuck me now, William. Or have you lost your edge. Has William Parrish Warfield the fourth let all the excitement and edgy hedonism of his scandalously subversive demons slip away? She slipped onto his lap, straddling him, her skirt hiked up around her waist. He turned his face away when she bent to kiss him but he didn’t stop her from freeing his erection. He ripped her thin panties off and slid his hands to cup her ass as she settled onto his length.

You are an arrogant, soulless bastard, she moaned against his ear as she gripped his shoulders and rocked her clit against the base of his cock. You’re so cool and uninterested and yet you’re diamond-hard and ready. Fuck! she cried out as the orgasm washed over her and he covered her mouth with his hand and watched as his assistant passed by the open office door with a knowing smile and shake of her head.

Thanks for stopping by, Marisa, I think we should consider this goodbye. And really, shouldn’t you be spending more time with your mother in Reno or whatever provincial RV Park she went back to? Stay away from my father, you won’t lure him into your bed. We have an unspoken agreement, he and I don’t fuck the same women. It’s better not to have them comparing the father and the son, he lifted her off his lap and helped straighten her clothes and then he stood and led her to the door.

You didn’t even let yourself come, you held back. Why is that William, to prove that you have ultimate control in all things including denying a woman the satisfaction of bringing you to orgasm? I was wrong about your cold heart, she said, pressing her lips to his before he could stop her. You don’t have a heart at all, just an empty space where your mother once lived and maybe a small space leftover for your crazy brother.

Leave New Orleans, Marisa. This town isn’t kind to women like you, and my brother is not crazy, so don’t act like you know anything about him, he said. He saw her grimace as he wiped his lips with the back of his hand and she witnessed the raw fury blazing in his eyes.

*

I want to exact a promise from you, William, a gentleman’s agreement, so to speak. Man to man, father to son, give me your word you will not hurt this girl. His father was wearing his tennis whites and sipping a tall glass of whiskey. Cubes of ice clinked against a crystal glass that never left his hand, not even when the butler refilled it, nor did he offer William a drink.

An agreement isn’t necessary, Father, I have no interest in your latest charity project, William said, staring into his father’s eyes and shocked at the depth of pain he witnessed there.

His father, William Warfield the third, wasn’t known as a man with a soft spot for anyone, least of all his namesake son. He had never made a secret of his lukewarm love for his late wife or his shame over his younger son, Walden, both of whom had been plagued by mental instability. But he did continue to carry a torch for a girl he’d loved long ago, a girl he hadn’t seen in almost thirty years, a girl who was dead now but whose only child was coming to New Orleans for the summer.

Good… good. She’s Liza’s daughter, that’s remarkable isn’t it? Liza had an entire life, a life full of happiness with that repulsive hippie professor, a life without me… William’s father rambled on, lost again in one of his ‘Liza ruined my life but I never stopped loving her’ reveries.

I really don’t have time for this, Father, if you’ll forgive me. I expect the girl will be staying with you here at Greenlea, so enjoy her company, dream of Liza, leave me out of it, William said bluntly. He had shrugged out of his suit jacket when he arrived, now he rolled up his shirt sleeves and loosened his tie.

His father was not yet sixty years old, tall, sturdy, strikingly handsome and immeasurably wealthy, and yet his obsession with his college sweetheart had rendered him as emotionally unhinged as his younger son and his late wife. Wills, as his father was called, had more money than a sane man could spend in several lifetimes but he was a miser about the most trivial things. Like the wet Louisiana heat filtering oppressively into the monstrously large plantation house where he lived. He paid dozens of servants to keep it in immaculate order and yet he refused to install central air conditioning. Instead he relied on vintage paddle-type ceiling fans to stir what little air drifted off the Bayou Teche and in through the multitude of open French doors.

He’s lost his grip on reality, just like my mother and brother; how long before I succumb? William wondered, although he never intended to. He had a few sexual hang-ups, that was all and it wasn’t anything sadistic or particularly scandalous, so, no problem. His sanity was firmly intact, he would not be