Home > Be My Babygirl A Billionaire Romance

Be My Babygirl A Billionaire Romance
Author: Jane Henry






I sit in my darkened office, the screens in front of me lit up like a mission control center.

Hell, that’s exactly what it is.

Tonight’s mission: find a tall, lithe brunette with large eyes and pouty lips to wine and dine, seduce her into a one-night stand, and never let her know my name. I smile to myself in the darkness, then shake my head. Jesus, I feel like Batman.

I take a long pull from my beer. Downstairs, in front of others, I drink nothing but the finest whiskey, thank-you-very-much. Scotch and bourbon—select reserve. But up here in the privacy of my penthouse, I like to pop a cold one. Some say beer’s unrefined for a guy like me, but it’s my comfort food, reminiscent of simpler days and simpler times.

I finish the beer, sigh with contentment, and place the cold bottle down. I lean back and prop my feet up on the desk, lace my fingers behind my head, and stare at screen after screen after screen. But the more I look, the more discontent I become.

I stab at my phone, and it sparks to life. My contentment quickly sours when my calendar pops up and two big fucking entries this month flash before me like obnoxious neon road signs. I don’t need the reminders.

I shut my phone off and toss it on my desk. I watch as it slides before it skitters to a halt at the very edge. I get to my feet and stretch, energy vibrating through me. I pace, my eyes on the screens, but I’ve seen these faces so many times it feels like watching reruns.

Poker table.

Buffet line one.

Craps table.

Live performance.

Drag show.

I sigh and scrub a hand across my brow. I need something new, something different. A little excitement. Something that once again sparks the joy I once had, now buried beneath years of hard work and success.


And then my eye catches sight of a glimmering, glittery display so opulent, it’s attention-grabbing even for Vegas. I squint at the screen. What the hell is that? I step closer to the screen. It isn’t until I see Miranda Montague in her regal heels walk by that I feel my brows go up in surprise. I reach for the phone on my desk and push a number. My secretary answers on the first ring.

“Yes, Mr. Morrow?”

“Ruth, I thought the Escort Service wasn’t coming until the end of the month?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Morrow. They had initially planned on the end of the month, but we had a cancellation, and the Sugar Daddies were eager to take the opportunity.”

I flinch when she says their given name.

“I see.”

“Is that a problem, sir?”

Not a problem at all, unless you’re hungry for a pretty girl to fuck, long and hard and on your own fucking terms, and you know every damn woman in that lineup’s a knockout. But Sugar Daddies to them means something altogether different.

But I’m the boss, and I didn’t get here by sleeping with the help.

“Not at all. Thank you. Have a good night.”

I disconnect the call, walk around my desk, and lean against the very edge of it. I fold my arms over my chest and narrow my eyes on the screen, this time my only focus, the long table laden with food, and a handful of women dressed in cocktail dresses and platform heels. The others haven’t arrived yet. These are the pros, the ones running the show preparing for the others.

They look classy enough to grace the cover of Esquire, and for good reason. Sugar Daddies is the single most profitable escort service in all of Vegas. We prefer euphemisms for what they do, of course, because technically prostitution is only legal in some places in Nevada, and Vegas isn’t one of them. On record, they’re only Sugar Daddies.

I glance at my watch. Thirty minutes until the girls arrive. Just enough time for me to get dressed, head downstairs, and watch them enter in person.

I won’t choose one, of course. Absolutely not. I’m much too civilized for that.

I pour a shot of the best scotch I own from the sideboard in my office as if to remind myself I’m better than that, I’ve risen above. That I don’t need to pay a woman to share my bed, and I fucking don’t.

I have a job to do.

Just a job.



Chapter 1




As I stare at my open laptop, I press my hands into my lap to keep from biting my nails. I just painted them a few hours ago and there’s not even a chip on them yet. Most likely from lack of use.

Somehow, I hoped fancy red nail polish would make the keys in front of me magically work again, but nope. I’m still staring at my laptop like it’s a rattlesnake ready to strike, only now I’ve paired yesterday’s yoga pants and messy bun with a manicure.

I’m just as stuck as I was when I started, still with a zero-word count on my screen. No suspenseful plot or cheeky heroine pricks at my imagination. I lower my head to my desk and press my forehead to the cold wood. I don’t even have a title. I lift my head, ready to literally bang it on the desk, when I realize what I’m doing. My teeth sink into my bottom lip as I lift my head and focus on the blank page before me. What have I not yet written about?

I can do this. I mean, I graduated summa cum laude already. Love Under the Stars, my debut series, did great. I can do this again. A few months ago, my publisher, Sarah told me, “No more cowboys, they’re too real.” I’ve been floundering at my keyboard ever since.

Ten days out from my deadline and if I don’t make it, I will lose my advance for my book, and my rent will be left unpaid, my apartment gone, and I’ll be sleeping in the back of my tiny car.

I have to get the juices flowing. I’ve got to write this story. Interlocking my fingers, I stretch them before me, like a boxer readying to go into the ring. “Come on, Katie. You got this. You just need a little romantic inspiration. Let’s start by finding a panty melting hero.”

Gone are the days when characters would flood my mind, demanding their stories be written. I’d often juggle two, even three storylines at a time, having so much inspiration I had difficulty keeping everyone organized.

And the sex scenes—my God, the sex scenes. I swear they were so hot; they were the reason my old laptop’s hardware burned up, letting out a whirring noise followed by a strange smoky smell as it died.

The last book I wrote was on that computer.

Maybe writing has an element of luck to it, a cause for superstition. Like a baseball player losing the game because he’s missing his lucky glove. Am I losing in the writing world because I no longer have my trusty dusty laptop?

Opening my browser, I type in hot Hollywood men, inwardly groaning at how pathetic it is that I’ve been reduced to finding inspiration by cruising through thumbnails of movie star hotties.

As I flip through images, I mutter to myself. “Too tall, too cocky, weirdly shaped eyebrows, too young. Plus, all these guys look like their skin’s been filled with Botox. Not a wrinkle or smile line in sight.” I’ve been reduced to objectifying men. Sigh.

Maybe I’ll look up celebrities closer to home. Get that rugged, billionaire desert vibe. Is that a thing? I type in Top fifty eligible bachelors, Nevada. To my surprise there’s an article covering the single male power players of my state.

I freeze.


Deep brown eyes stare fixedly at the camera with not a glimmer of a smile. his features arranged into a slightly no-nonsense look, his gaze firm as it holds the camera. His dark brown hair’s tinged with silver, and a short beard covers a tight, chiseled jaw. He wears a perfectly tailored suit, but even beneath the fabric I can tell he’s... big. Massive. Built.

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