The Bullion Brothers: Billionaire triplet brothers interracial menage Read online

  Contents

  Title

  BONUS!

  “You’ll be able to make her come”

  Meeting and parting

  Bastard

  Saturday in the park

  An indecent proposal

  Triplets

  © Copyright 2015

  COCKY

  Memories

  First time I saw him

  His Dad, My Mom

  The Beach

  The Shower

  Hiding in His Room

  New Jersey Blues

  Escape

  An Arrogant Billionaire

  A Ride

  His Story

  On the Deck

  More from Alix

  The Bullion

  Brothers

  Tania Beaton

  When you finish this story,

  KEEP READING ON

  There’s an

  EXTRA BONUS

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  “This one makes fantastic squeaky, giggly noises when she comes. You've got to hear her. You'll be able to make her come six or seven times no trouble. Don't bother with the blowjob, though, she hasn't got a clue.”

  I stared at his phone’s screen. I knew that the message wasn't about me. Because, well, I don't. And, I have. I think.

  The Bullion brothers were notorious. Models, starlets, pornstars and prom queens literally threw themselves at all three of the triplets. Any time one of the tall, chiseled hunks walked into a bar, a club or a restaurant, lithe women in clingy dresses wrapped themselves around the mens’ bodies, slid their hips hard along the boys’ muscular thighs and panted hot breath into their ears.

  Being gentlemen, the brother in question would take the girl to a closet or a bathroom or, if she was of a particularly filthy disposition, he might open her up and poleax her right there in full public view.

  The brothers passed beautiful, glamorous girls around like popcorn, and they almost never went with the same girl twice.

  If the stories could be believed, they often took one or more girls together, all at the same time. All three gorgeous billionaire brothers would take a girl, or two, peel and spread them wide in writhing menages.

  Disgusting. Disgraceful. Of course, the trash one reads, you never know, do you?

  Turns out, if anything, the stories were understated.

  If I hadn’t gone with Petroc to the art gallery opening that night, I would never have met Crane.

  Seven months I wasted with that jerk Petroc. Seven months listening to his rambling twaddle about his blog and about art and basically all about his ego. When we first met, I was his black goddess, I was perfect. He adored every curve and every slope of my luscious body.

  ‘Maya, you could wear a sack and I’d still fall in love with you.’ He said. Back then. All of my habits were charming and everything that I had to say was something to treasure, something that he really wanted to hear.

  Fast forward seven months, and the ideas that I gave him really have helped him to get some credibility for his stupid art blog. My lowly EvilDayJob at Dewar Hackett PR involves some social media work, so I know a few of the tricks. Soon enough, he’s getting invited to SoHo gallery openings and the artists want him to visit their studios.

  Now he’s beginning to feel important and he starts thinking that I ought to cover up a bit more, maybe hold back when I’m talking to artists’ agents and dealers, and, do I really need another piece of cake?

  At the start, our love life was wonderful, thrilling, unexpected and fresh. Petroc lusted after every part of me, every new situation, and every new possibility. We practically lived our lives in each others’ bedrooms. Lately, what had been lusty, slamming, hot, shouting, drenching wet sex, was now a dry, empty dustbowl. Tumbleweed would have livened it up. Then, last night in the bar, he gave me the ‘we need some space’ speech. FUCKERRRR!

  The cracks had been starting to show for a couple of weeks, and at Mi Krac’s opening at the Gush gallery, I saw the writing on the wall. It was my networking that got him the invitation, me tweeting about the fact that his blog piece was quoted in Art & Artists magazine.

  Me telling Krac’s agent that Petroc is ‘the go-to blog page for the pulse of the TriBeCa art beat,’ or something equally ridiculous. Actually, the more I put that kind of puff around for him, the more he grew into it, and now he really is the go-to blogger for the pulse of the up and coming TriBeCa art beat. For whatever that’s worth.

  I never had an easy time with boys or men, and I’ve been wary since school. At high school you were either called ‘frigid’ or you were called a ‘whore.’ The girls who got a by were the super-popular Miss Perfect cheerleaders, most of whom really did act like whores.

  I heard that some of them actually went on to become whores. When guys came up to me, they were usually looking for an easy hookup. One boy, Aaron, he was so cute and I did literally dream about him. He was the biggest in his year and he had shaggy brown hair and sweet, sincere blue eyes.

  Well, they looked sincere. Turns out you can’t always tell. He told me all the sweet shit you want to hear and we made out in the back of his daddy’s car. The next morning I overheard him telling his buddies how fat I was and mimicking my voice saying, ‘Oh, Aaron, you’re so big,’ Which I never said.

  In the equipment stakes, he was on the smaller side of medium in fact, I just was too devastated to step up and say that to all of his friends, like I know that I should have done.

  So Petroc got in under my defences. He shot me a lot of charming lines and – dammit, if he didn’t mean any of that, if it was all just bullshit, why did he pursue me the way that he did? OK, it’s in the past, but the memory of it can still sting.

  The minimal, 3rd floor Gush gallery bustled respectably with lively people who had edgy hair and makeup, dressed mostly in black. The art crowd was out for Mi Krac’s private view, enjoying champagne and canapés and their brittle laughs, and making me feel dowdy and drab.

  Little red stickers appeared by a few pieces to indicate that sales had been made and Colm, the gallery owner, was running about, directing Juliette, his willowy blonde assistant, towards the clusters of potential buyers. At gallery events, most of Petroc’s energy went on cultivating agents and journalists, but this time he spent an unusual amount of his evening with the artist.

  I was out among the throng and flying the flag for Petroc’s blog and twitter feed. That involved pretending that I knew what the art was about, which in Krac’s case wasn’t hard. Not compared to pretending that I cared.

  Mi is an adorable person, and gorgeous, and she’s making a heroic transition from a shy, geeky boy to a sassy and admirable woman, but her deconstrictivist nihilism – meaning she broke stuff into very tiny pieces then stuck the pieces on cardboard – it went a long way under my whelm.

  I was looking at a piece that consisted of sparse, shimmering dust entitled, Manic Monday, when a dark, rumbling voice behind me said, “I don’t know much about art, but that’s what I call crap.”

  The force of the voice felt directed to me. I spun around so fast, the front of my breasts pressed through my bra and silky top into the crisp white linen on the huge chest of a devilishly handsome man. Tall, with golden brown hair and beard. The beginnings of a wicked grin tugged at the edge of his wide, full lips. His gleaming brown eyes shone into mine and made my stomach drop. The look in his eye was somehow familiar but I couldn’t place him.

  Unexpectedly he took my hand. I felt tiny in his grasp. Th
e touch of his fingers sent a shock all the way down to my knees and my hips tilted involuntarily towards him. He said, “Do you call this garbage ‘Art’?”

  His challenge was direct and forceful, as though I were there to defend Mi’s work. Perhaps the whole ReVengineer movement. I didn’t know why I felt myself so much on the spot, under his harsh gaze.

  I shook inside as I told him, “I think that Mi is a fresh and energetic talent.” That’s not quite the perfect art-biz playbook response, but it’s a fair approximation. The PR trick is to say something that is peppered with cutting-edge buzz terms and sounds like it could be appreciative, but without giving away any actual opinion of your own.

  The time that I have been helping out on Petroc’s blog has taught me that nobody in the art business actually knows anything at all, and the only opinion that really matters at an opening is the one that’s expressed in the little red stickers.

  He wasn’t prepared to be thrown off by my evasive answer.

  “You think that grinding commonplace objects to dust is modern post-Dadaism with a touch of Warhol? A little Cornelia Parker, maybe?”

  “With a strong seam of garbage running through it.” I said.

  His mouth twitched towards a smile once again. “You could say that it’s a heap of trash.”

  “I’m not sure that isn’t what I said.”

  “Either way, I’m not really interested in art.”

  “So, why are you here at all?”

  “Oh, my interest is purely in the property. We’re thinking about buying the block.”

  “You’re not interested in art but you want to buy a block of art galleries?”

  “We’d pull most of it down. It’s the footprint we want. We’re looking to build retail, commercial space and a high-end hotel. Zoning might insist that we keep the façade but we’d totally gut it.”

  As he looked around the gallery, I saw the way that his eyes assessed the people there. It looked as though he were assigning values to them, pricing them. Singly and in groups. It struck me that they wren’t very high prices. Not by his standards at least.

  He sighed wearily. “Who needs all this, anyway?”

  He looked at me a moment. “A golden, fairy-tale beauty. You certainly are a rare find.”

  Pretty talk. I’ve heard it before. It’s usually one kind of malarkey or another. Some guys can’t help themselves, they spot a willing victim for some charm and they just pile it on. Forceful flirting, played in a low register.

  I don’t remember hearing it delivered by quite such gorgeous lips before, or in a voice as deep and silky as his. There was a deep, lazy drawl in his voice and it made my insides vibrate. It’s a voice that you could just curl up in, and the look in his eye was level and hungrily sincere.

  Still the arrogance in his manner was breathtaking. It made me want to slap his pretty chops. My thighs tingled and my knees were unreliable.

  And that was the moment when I spotted Petroc, coming out of a door halfway up a stairway. Mi was following him out and Petroc’s face was flushed. Mi, she seemed to be yanking up her fly. Wait… Her fly?

  To my infuriating companion, I said, “Please, would you excuse me for a moment,” part of me thought it was the perfect excuse, that I could escape this arrogant prick.

  Another part of me didn’t want to let him go. Not just yet. That wasn’t the part that I’m most proud of.

  I told him, “I’ll be right back,” and I hurried to follow Petroc. He vanished into the crowd on the next floor up, and it was a while before I caught up with him.

  Had I seen something that was just odd, but entirely innocent? Was Mi not quite as far along in her transformation as she had implied? If so, had Petroc omitted to mention his bisexuality to me? WTF? When I finally reached him through the sparkly throng, Petroc was slugging a glass of champagne like he was parched and it was water. He gulped it and he nearly spluttered when he saw me.

  “Hey, Petroc, what was that?”

  “What was what, the champagne?” He swayed a little and his expression was challenging and defensive at the same time.

  “No, not the champagne, Petroc. What were you doing with Mi?”

  “What are you talking about? Look, can we discuss this later?” He moved to brush past me. I blocked him and I said,

  “Is there something to discuss?”

  “No. That’s not what I meant.”

  “What did you mean, Petroc?”

  “I meant that, whatever it is, can we please talk about it later. I’m here professionally, you know? I’m trying to get some business done here, OK?”

  I said, “Me too, Petroc. So as your social media coordinator, perhaps you should bring me up to speed on the business that you were conducting in the room on the stairs with Mi, so that I can update your Facebook friends and the Twitterverse about it.”

  “Look, it’s nothing, OK?” He was getting flushed, and that meant angry.

  “OK, it’s nothing.” I said, “Look, there’s Mi now.” I waved to him. Her. To ‘Mi,’ but she acted as though she hadn’t seen me and ducked away. I looked back to Petroc and he was barging off in the opposite direction, towards the exit.

  I went down the steps after him, but he shouted back, “I’ll call you tomorrow,” and he was through the door to the street.

  I reached the door and saw Petroc with his collar up, hurrying along the store windows into the rainy New York night. I was debating whether to go after him and on the point of deciding against it. As I was about to turn back into the gallery, a rattle like rolling garbage cans came from down an alley, just ahead of where Petroc was.

  He jumped back, his face drained and pale. Then he flattened himself against the window. Two big shapes came slowly out of the alley. I couldn’t make out their features, but they were huge men.

  They hunkered in front of him. He was frozen and obviously terrified. A Bentley convertible pulled up sharply to the curb and a big man’s voice called out, “Derrick! Hawser!” The two men hesitated, still leaning towards Petroc, then they both jumped into the back of the car and it swept away into the darkness and the rain.

  I stood rooted to the spot. I didn’t even notice Petroc slink away, but I know he did because when I looked back, he wasn’t there. I had recognised the man’s voice. My mysterious companion was at the wheel of the Bentley.

  So Petroc was gone, and he was gone. A perfect early end to a perfect evening.

  On my slow, resigned walk home a lot of things bothered me. Derrick and Hawser were two of them. They weren’t unique names, but they aren’t ones that you come across every day. The tremors in my little world were all juddering beneath me and they all melted into one sea of turmoil.

  The one thing I knew that I really wanted out of the evening drove away in a Bentley, and I couldn’t see any chance that I’d run into him again.

  Petroc chose a corner table in the little bar last night to deliver his little, ‘I think we need some space,’ talk. He mumbled the rambling speech into his beer mug, since eye contact was an exertion that his feeble strength couldn’t manage. After I got the headlines, I didn’t wait around to listen to all the sidebar excuses and justifications.

  He picked our cozy little corner bar. The bar where I’d taken him on our third date. When I’d started to feel close enough, to trust him enough to take him into my world.

  When we first met, Petroc spent his whole life online, blogging, tweeting, chatting and whatever else. His complexion was pale and blotchy, and his contact with actual human beings was scarce. His social skills were, let’s say, overdue for a polish.

  We got together and I helped him to turn his invisible blog about the SoHo and TriBeCa arts scene into something that more established arts journalists would want to plunder for trends and gossip.

  He thought that they were stealing from him. I told him to check his visitor counts. Also, he started to get invitations to private views and to gallery and show openings from then on, and he began to grow a little reputa
tion on the scene. So people were taking notice of him. That was when he began to think that I should be dressing maybe a bit less ‘showy,’ a bit more, ‘in keeping.’