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The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister
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Theo Cruz, a New York man known for his family’s billion-dollar empire, Cruz Enterprises, has been indicted this afternoon in the Court of Public Opinion on charges of Bro-Code Conspiracy.
Chief counsel for the prosecution, Caplin Hawkins, spoke candidly about the accusation.
“Once thought of as a best friend to many—including myself—Theo Cruz has officially turned his back on human decency. He’s conniving and dishonest, and a habitual offender of Bro-Code Law 676. He’ll rue the day he forgot that you never—under any circumstances—get involved with your best friend’s little sister.”
Fact: I haven’t actually been arrested or indicted.
Two strangers in a foreign country, we said hello.
But her unruly golden curls and beautiful body hid an important detail—She’s my mouthiest billionaire best friend’s forbidden little sister.
Fact: I knew not of my crimes.
Question: What do you do when you fall for your best friend’s little sister?
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The late afternoon, early August sun reflects like glitter off the impressive glass panes of the skyline of New York City as the helicopter lifts off the pad on the roof of Cruz Headquarters and makes a hard turn to head across the Hudson River to New Jersey.
The scene would be the kind of luxury that movies are made of—the kind of thing gold-digging women dream of and powerful men exploit. It’d be a goddamn magnanimous showing of my wealth and status and paint a picture of me that would surely make it into tales of my legacy—if not for one thing.
I’m not wearing pants.
Yeah. Weird. A button-down shirt, my suit jacket, calf-high black socks, charcoal gray boxer briefs, and a set of tanned legs complete my ensemble.
I should probably explain, but I have to tell you up front, I wish the story were better.
I wish I could tell you that I ran into a woman in some deliciously seductive location and promptly got lost in making her every sexual fantasy come true.
That we’re at the tail end of seventy-two of the wildest hours of my life, and she decided the perfect way to say goodbye was with a mid-flight blow job. That the lush flesh of her lips is around the base of my dick, with the rest of its length down her throat.
But the real story, as it were, is that I spilled my entire cup of scalding hot coffee on the crotch of my pants as I boarded this whirlybird, and, as I’m due to fly out of Teterboro within the hour, headed for Italy—and my suitcase was already messengered over to the airport to meet me at the plane—it was either go pantsless…or suffer from third-degree burns.
I dial my assistant Carey on my phone, and my pilot, Pete, noticing my signal, patches the call through to my headset so I’ll be able to hear over the sound of the whooping blades.
Carey answers on the second ring. “Mr. Cruz?”
I laugh at his confusion.
“Yes, Carey, it’s me. Who else would be calling from my phone?”
“Sorry, Bossman. You’re supposed to be on a helicopter, and you only left two minutes ago. I’m surprised to be hearing from you off schedule.”
I roll my eyes at his mocking.
I’m one of those rare types who thrives off a schedule inundated with work and borderline obsessive precision. Some might use the term workaholic, but I prefer to think of myself as someone who’s motivated.
“Yeah, well, I had an unexpected incident.”
“Ooh, do tell.” His voice drops an octave, and I can imagine him leaning an elbow onto his desk and cranking the reception up on his ears to better hear the gossip.
“Sorry to disappoint, Care. Though I’ve placed this call at an unexpected time, my predisposition—or lack thereof—for gabbing like a couple of pals hasn’t changed.”
“Ugh. Bossman—always the pooper, never the party.”
“Listen, Carey, just have someone waiting for the chopper with a pair of pants.”
“Ooh, I take it back. Maybe you are a party.”
“It’s a boring story, trust me.”
“No. I choose not to believe you. I’m going to picture you losing your pants while riding a magic carpet in the Arabian desert.”
I scoff as the helicopter swoops over a thick section of rich green trees interspersed with busy two-lane roads. “You’re picturing Aladdin? Without pants?”
“Don’t judge my fantasies, Mr. Cruz.”
Carey, my assistant of the last five years, is tall, handsome, and unfortunately for his many teasing efforts—some of which may actually border on sexual harassment—not my type. I like long legs, curvy hips, and a warm, wet pussy. And as much as he might be willing to try, he’ll never be able to give me that.
But he’s also the only person who can manage my schedule with the care and precision on which I thrive. He’s organized and forward-thinking, and besides all that, he’s a truly interesting person. I don’t know what I’ll do without him if he, one day, decides to move on with his life.
He’s also, obviously, a pain in my ass.
“Whatever, Carey. Just have the—”
“The pants will be waiting,” he interrupts, just barely covering the evidence of his giggle with efficiency.
“While I have you, I just got confirmation of your schedule for Positano.”
I’ll be spending the next ten days in Positano, Italy—one of the most beautiful places in the world, but this isn’t the kind of trip that warrants leisure or fun.
This is purely business.
Which pretty much sums up my life—visiting some of the most sought-after destinations across the globe, all in the name of work.
God, I can’t even remember the last time I took a vacation—saw somewhere just for the pleasure of seeing it, enjoying it…relaxing. No doubt, it was years ago, before I graduated college. Before I started Cruz Nightlife. Before I became responsible for a billion-dollar empire.
But I hardly have reason to complain. I have a great life with great—somewhat overbearing—friends and, because of my wealth, access to anything and everything I want, right at the tip of my fingers.