*Think you’re a true player? Take the challenge and try not to fall in love for 100 Days…*
100 Days – a matchmaking game for the wealthiest circle of New York City’s elite. Pay $100 million and enter yourself to find a soulmate. If you don’t fall in love with someone they send in 100 days, then you win the combined entry fee of everyone that’s come before you.
No one has won. Love has conquered them all. The pot has grown to $4 billion.
*But all that’s about to change. Because the game has a new player. Me.*
As the wealthiest hedge fund manager on Wall Street, I got the cash. As a former SEAL, I’ve got the body. And with 12 inches of lust muscle between my legs, no one goes home unhappy.
I don’t plan on losing. Until they send the creator of the game herself – Athena Hawke.
This curvy blonde is sent to bring me down and make me lose. She opens up a side of me that I never even knew existed.
Now I’m dealing with a lust and passion that could bring me and my business crashing down.
I've never lost at anything.
*But will I still want to win this game of love against Athena in 100 days?*
Her face is pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office and her breath is making fogged, heart-shaped patterns on the glass.
"Fuck me harder," she purrs.
I smile, grabbing both of her hips in my hands.
"You don't have to ask me twice doll," I growl, slamming my cock balls-deep into her pussy. This is one hell of an intern—whatever her name is. Lacey? Or is it Lisa, or maybe Lana—I can't remember, and to be honest, I don't give a fuck.
All I know is that she's hot—smoking hot—and willing, so here I am, bending her over the entirety of Manhattan.
We're putting on quite a show.
I wonder if anyone's catching a good look at her tits and face smashed against the window. Probably not, because we're 50 stories up, but the idea of it makes me even fucking harder.
"You like that?" I ask her with a smile.
It's a rhetorical question. Of course she fucking likes this. Who wouldn't? And by the way she's moaning and biting her lower lip, I know she agrees.
Don't roll your eyes at me gorgeous. I'm rich—I could bounce hundred dollars bills off this woman's ass all night long, and I have a perfectly chiseled body, the kind you'd love to use your tongue to trace every ridge with. And with the snap of my fingers, I'm up to my fucking eyeballs in women.
At any given moment.
At any given day.
They're pawing at me, and begging me with their eyes. Go ahead, I dare you to gaze into my breezy blue eyes that are the color of the Bahamas. I'm sure you'll fall just as hard and fast for me.
Oh, you don't know who I am? Sorry, where are my fucking manners? Let's start from the beginning. I'm Malcolm Bane, and I'm one of the richest men on Wall Street. You've probably seen me listed in Forbes' list of top 30 under 30. I've made more money on Wall Street than most men make in their entire lives.
And that's how I like it.
Capitalism makes my cock hard … and so does this intern.
Instead of responding, this woman suddenly reaches back, grabs my silk tie in her small, manicured hand, and pulls me close to her mouth until my ear brushes against her crimson lips.
"You have no idea," she whispers, "how much I like this."
There. See? I fucking told you.
The way her warm breath runs across my ear and down my neck makes my pulse kick in my chest.
I bring my hand down on her ass, giving it a quick slap, and piston my cock in and out of her pussy at a faster pace.
Then I decide to change things up. I lift her into my arms and walk her over to my desk, pushing aside paperwork, along with my desk phone with one quick push of my forearm. It all tumbles to the floor.
I lie her down on the dark mahogany, grabbing her legs and draping them over my shoulders. I grab her thighs and pull her ass to the edge of the desk. Angling my cock back inside of her pussy, I give her a deep thrust. I watch as she grabs the edge of the desk with both hands and let's out a stifled scream. Her toes curl with the force of an oncoming orgasm.
Her hands are grasping at anything to hold on to as I begin fucking piledriving into her. I’ve lost all fucking reason - all rational thought. I just need to fucking cum at this point.
As I fuck her, I watch her tits bounce in rhythm with my thrusting, and I reach down, grabbing one in each fist.
As hot as this intern is—as good as this fuck session is—it never seems enough.
She’s trying to hold on. Her hands are all over the place. They’re grasping onto my keyboard, her cum-sticky fingers punching keys on my terminal and the 10 screens I have registering buy and sell orders based on her body jerks. But I don’t fucking care. I’m too in the moment of this fuck. My cock is starting to tingle. The underside of it is starting to crackle with electricity.
If I'm honest, I can fuck hundreds of hot women, but at the end of the day, sex isn't capable of fulfilling anything more than a physical need. There's nothing emotional about it—and that's fine by me. I'm all about the physical.
And the more that I think about it, I realize I'm a slave to my cock. I guess it's true what they say—that men can only think with one head at a time, and right now, that head is flushed a deep purple, and leaking precum.
"Fucking Christ," I say, throwing my shoulders back. "You feel so fucking good."
"Cum for me, Malcolm," she purrs, reaching down and caressing my balls with her fingers. "I want you to cum inside of me … yes, oh fuck, yes."
I close my eyes and groan as a hot bolt of desire shoots down my body.
I feel my balls tense … and then I see it. I'm getting text messages, one after another, on my cell phone.
My terminal is going wild.
A few faces pop on one of my video call screens at my desk (I have 10 screens in my workstation)
They look fucking urgent, and when I glance down at the sight of my desk, I see wild orders placed from my terminal. A trader is trying to speak to me through the video call, but my ears are ringing with lust and I can’t hear. He sounds frantic though. He's at the trading desk, and he's telling me about a huge fucking trade happening right now. Coming from my desk. If I don't pull it back, I'm going to lose millions.
But I can't fucking stop.
Fuck, here I cum.
I'm chasing an orgasm stronger than a rocket at lift off, and I'm about to fucking explode.
"That's it—oh fuck yes!" the intern screams, and just as she does, I shoot rope after rope of hot cum deep inside of her pussy. I pull my throbbing cock out and she grabs it, milking me until I think I don't have anything left.
She yanks the condom off my cock and her eyes widen at the Magnum of cum right in front of her. My cock is still dribbling cum but she takes my condom and empties it’s contents over her tits, letting it slide down her body in rivulets.
“Something to remember me by,” she says with an evil grin.
She locks eyes with me, and brings her fingers to her lips, licking off remnants of my salty cum.
She's smiling, but as my pulse slowly returns to normal, the realization hits me—she's not the only one who just got screwed.
I look over to the terminal.
In the throes of our fuck, we must have messed with the trading system that’s wired into my desk. I can place trades from my desk that most people can’t - I mean come on, I’m the fucking CEO.
And it looks like I placed a series of extremely bad bets.
That’s what happens when you’re randomly hitting the keyboard with your hands because you’re in the middle of fucking.
And those trades have gone south.
I've just lost one of the largest amounts of money in a single day that’s ever been recorded.
People are rushing into my office.
They don’t even care that we’re naked.
The intern looks around, puzzled as her boss runs into the office. He’s frantic.
People are fucked.
If I don't fix this fucking soon, my entire empire—this firm, the palatial Manhattan apartments, all of the wealth I've worked so hard to build—it's all going to crumble quicker than a wave washing out a sandcastle.
I'll be nothing.
I'll leave nothing.
I'll be a washed up joke.
And there's no fucking way I'm going to let that happen.
Wanna come help me fix this, babe?
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