Home > Tapping the Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys #1)

Tapping the Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys #1)
Author: Max Monroe

I’m Kline Brooks.

Harvard graduate.

President and CEO of Brooks Media.

Net worth: $3.5 billion.

Devilishly handsome. How do I know this? I was prom king two years in a row.

Highly intelligent. Proof? I can solve any Rubik’s Cube, in front of your face, with magic fingers.

Certified master of female orgasms. My fingers, my tongue, my cock—I can make you scream, “I’m coming!” before you even realize I’ve removed your panties with my teeth. Not the almost orgasms that spur a pathetic moan and half-ass whimper. No. I’m talking toe-curling, back-arching, earth-shattering Os that will leave your voice hoarse, your body shaking, and pack a punch so powerful you’ll be left a sliver of intensity short of unconscious.


Am I piquing your interest?


Should I mention my cock is the kind of cock that’s actually dick-pic worthy? I’m not talking an average six-inch shaft. I’m talking big. Thick. Smooth. And hard. Especially when there’s work to be done.

Or maybe all I’ve done is turn you off. Are you thinking I’m like every classless man out there who’s literally a disgrace to my gender?

The type of spineless dicks who won’t call the next day. The guys who specialize in late-night booty calls but refuse to take a woman out on an actual date. Yeah, you know exactly who I’m talking about. Those idiots who have women thinking staying single for the rest of their lives is a better alternative than dealing with the bullshit that’s running rampant in the dating world.


Well, I’m not that kind of guy.


I say what I mean and mean what I say. I don’t kiss and tell. I call the next day. And if I’m interested in a woman, I will take her out on a date. I’ll open doors for her. I’ll pull out her chair. And I’ll never be the kind of horny bastard who texts dick pics—unless the right woman begs me for them.

Bottom line, I’m a gentleman. I prefer monogamy to serial dating and fucking my way through New York City. I’ve spent the past few years avoiding the kind of women most would label “gold diggers” and trying out a couple of girlfriends in between. I’ve looked for the kind of woman I want, but lately, I have to admit I haven’t put in as much effort. My focus has been on my company—building it to what it is and then keeping it that way, not only for me, but for all of the people who work so hard for me.

Until Georgia Cummings.

She’s fiery, beautiful, has this sassy attitude that demands attention from everyone within her orbit, and is worth way more in value of character than I am in money.

I don’t know how I missed her.

I don’t know why it took me so long to really see her.

Two years, right there in front of my face as my Director of Marketing.

Maybe it’s because I need to stop drowning myself in work so much. Maybe she didn’t want to be seen.

No matter the reason, it only took one spur-of-the-minute decision for this remarkable woman to come barreling into my world.

I wasn’t prepared for her.

And I sure as hell had no idea she’d knock me on my fucking ass.

Because the nice guy who believes in real love enough to build his entire fortune from a dating website?

That’s me.

And this story?

Well, that’s us.



My eyes! Dear God, my eyes!

There were things in life that, once seen, were damn near impossible to forget. A bleach scrub…acid straight to the retinas…three hours of perfect porn GIFs…hell, even a lobotomy wouldn’t remove those kinds of images.

Lucky for me, I had come across not one, not two, but four day-destroying pictures. Dick pics, to be more specific. And let’s just say this latest one was not pic-worthy. Not by a long shot. Or a short shot, if I took size into consideration. This was the kind of pic that would leave any woman wondering why. Why? Why would anyone want to advertise they were the owner of this?

It was the gremlin of male members—and the sole reason my night had taken a turn for the worse. What was supposed to be a nice evening in, watching TV with my best friend and roommate, Cassie, had turned into a nightmare of pubes, wrinkled balls, and a crown that was not fit for a king.

I banged my fingers across the keypad with a response.


TAPRoseNEXT (11:37PM): Is that your dick? Really? REALLY?


TapNext was the latest and greatest dating-site-turned-app for single men and women to meet, chat, and, hopefully, find their next date. Generally speaking, it was a better alternative to nights out at a bar or club. Because, for me, those nights had the same ending—politely declining the thrilling (insert heavy sarcasm) offer of hooking up with some random dude at his apartment, one hell of a hangover, and weird guys with names like Stanley or Milton sending me texts for late-night booty calls for the next month. Which I always ignored.

My business card said Director of Marketing, Brooks Media. It was a hefty title for someone just starting out in their career, but I had earned it. I worked harder than anyone else in my department, and it also may have helped that the man who held the position prior to me had been fired after being arrested for picking up a prostitute in one of the company cars. Why he had even been driving a company car in the city was still confusing to me. Seriously, even hookers cabbed it in New York.

Since Brooks Media owned TapNext, it was easy to understand why I was well versed and highly invested in the app’s success. It was a requirement when hired—all single employees had to create a TapNext profile. Staff were strongly encouraged to use the app and give honest feedback about their experiences. Profile names were kept top secret and on penitentiary-style lock-down with Human Resources. And feedback stayed anonymous.

Translation: Don’t worry, TAPRoseNEXT, your boss doesn’t know about your pervy play on words.

At first, I’d felt it was an odd way to handle business, but after two years of working at Brooks Media, I’d found that my TapNext profile was a damn good way to do research and find promotional ideas.

My phone pinged with the offender’s response.


BAD_Ruck (11:38PM): …


Did he just ellipsis me? Really?


TAPRoseNEXT (11:38PM): Creep Threat Level MOTHERFUCKING Red.


There was no immediate response, but the rest of my rant would not be contained.


TAPRoseNEXT (11:39PM): Don’t any of you know how to start conversations anymore? Jesus.


Cassie sighed beside me. “Stop slamming everything around, Wheorgiebag! I’m trying to watch American Ninja Warrior and you’re totally messing with my pumped up vibe.”

I ignored her, still focused on finding a way to erase the offending images from my brain.

She peeked over my shoulder before I could pull my phone away. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Is that my picture on your profile?”

Creamy, perfect-skinned thighs on display, she was bent over with her dark brunette head peeking through the space between her open legs. Her hooch just barely escaped making an appearance.

“Paybacks, Casshead.”

“And what did I do to deserve being your pro-bono photo ho?”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Do I have to choose just one?”

“Go ahead, give me one example. I dare ya.”

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