Virgin wanted bwwm billi.., p.1

Virgin Wanted (BWWM Billionaire Romance), page 1


Virgin Wanted (BWWM Billionaire Romance)

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Virgin Wanted (BWWM Billionaire Romance)

  Copyright © 2015 Sierra Cole – All Rights Reserved

  Cover Images © 2015 Lubavnel & Curaphotography –

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1518650929

  ISBN-13: 978-1518650925

  For R.L.,

  my very own Marcus;

  thank you for everything.


  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen



  “Oh my god!” Monisha gasps in surprise, covering her mouth with her hand.

  “What is it?” I ask, wondering what kind of job advert in the newspaper could possibly have got someone like her so shocked. I mean, almost nothing shocks this girl.

  “Okay, listen to this one,” she says, as a strangely playful grin spreads across her face. “Virgin wanted for one week. No experience necessary. Excellent pay and benefit package, to be discussed upon application ... I mean, come on! Seriously?!”

  “That’s so gross,” I laugh, shaking my head and trying to turn away a little in my seat to hide the blush that comes to my face whenever anyone mentions virgins in conversation.

  I look around the totally deserted lobby of the large office buildings where Monisha and I both work as receptionists – well, for one more month, anyway.

  You see, the firm we’re employed by is closing down in twenty-eight days time, when this building is getting turned into luxury apartments, and soon we’ll both be out of a job. There are no more clients to assist, and almost no phone calls to take, which is why we’ve both just been sitting here all morning, openly reading the job section of the local newspaper. And I bet even if our boss did catch us, he wouldn’t be able to say anything. In fact, he’s probably up there in his office right now, wondering how he’s gonna make payments on his car and house next month, too.

  “Hey, you mind if I go outside for a smoke break?” Monisha asks just then.

  “Sure, go for it,” I smile back, even though this is her forth smoke break of the morning, and it’s not even 11 a.m. “I mean, it’s not exactly like we’re busy,” I add with a shrug.

  As she pushes herself to her feet and heads outside for a cigarette, her high heels clicking loudly on the polished floor and echoing around the large deserted lobby, I turn back to my sketchbook.

  With no real work to do anymore, I figure at least I can work on some new dress designs. After all, if I’m lucky I’ll have some job interviews to go to soon, and at the moment I have nothing particularly suitable in my wardrobe, and no money to buy anything to wear, either. Not for the first time, I thank the Lord that at least I saved up for that second-hand sewing machine while I was able to.

  I stare hard at my latest design, trying to focus my attention. But for some reason I just can’t concentrate on the simple grey shift dress I’ve been sketching anymore, because I can hear the words of the advert again, repeating over and over in my head like an echo: Virgin wanted ...

  I nervously scan the empty lobby again, making double – no triple – sure that I’m alone, and then I gingerly slide the newspaper over from Monisha’s side of the reception desk and quickly flip through it until I’ve found the advert again.

  It’s in the very back, in the ‘Personal Services’ section, nestled in amongst the more obviously sleazy advertisements – ‘Girls Wanted for Adult Modeling Work’ and ‘Escort Services’ and so forth ...

  Virgin Wanted

  For one week. No experience necessary. Excellent pay and benefit package, to be discussed upon application. For more information, email: [email protected] I look forward to hearing from you.

  Then I flip to a blank page at the very back of my sketchbook and quickly copy down the email address, feeling my heart hammering hard against my ribs.

  What the hell am I even doing? I think as I scrawl down the address.

  Only a moment later, I hear the loud click of Monisha’s heels on the lobby floor once again and I look up, startled, quickly flipping the newspaper closed and then turning back in my sketchbook to the dress design.

  Monisha sighs and slips back into her chair, picking up the paper and scanning through it for what must be the tenth time this morning, as if she’s hoping that magically an advert for a job she’s suitable for will suddenly appear on one of the pages.

  “Virgin wanted,” she mutters under her breath, shaking her head. “As if it wasn’t hard enough to get a damn job these days. Now they want you to be a virgin too? Well ... Good luck with that!”

  I don’t know how to reply. I’m just too embarrassed and worried that whatever I say will somehow give away the fact that I copied the advert down – so instead I just choose to ignore her and hope that she changes the subject soon.

  But it seems like there’s little chance of that.

  “I said, virgin, right?” she persists. “Well, I guess that’s us on welfare for the rest of our lives if that’s what it takes to get a job!”

  I still don’t know what to say. So I just mumble, “I guess,” and start to reshuffle the large stack of papers I already filed once this morning.

  I know I’m acting a little off, but the thing is, I just don’t know how to act normal right now.

  “Hey, what’s got into you?” Monisha laughs. “I thought we agreed on the day they gave us notice – if we’re soon gonna be unemployed, we might as well have some fun for our remaining time here, right?”

  And she’s totally right of course. However weird I’m feeling right now, I don’t want to bring her down, too. She’s been really good at keeping our spirits up since things started to go downhill around this place. It’s the least I can do.

  So I pull the newspaper away from her and flick it open, right back to that Personals section.

  “Right,” I say. “What’s it gonna be then? Girls Wanted for Foot Modeling or Girls Wanted for Specialist Adult Movie Shoot – must be willing to cover themselves in jello and chocolate?”

  “Decisions, decisions!” laughs Monisha.

  But even as I’m joking, I can’t help my gaze drifting once again to that strange and curious advert in the middle of the page ...

  Virgin wanted ...


  That evening I step into my apartment and kick off my shoes, glad to give my feet a rest from those cheap-ass, fake leather pumps. I look around me and sigh. Even though I’ve done the very best I can with this tiny shoebox of an apartment, it’s still pretty crappy looking. I guess there’s only so far a girl can go with Goodwill and imagination ...

  I flop down onto the beat up couch and turn on the small, second-hand TV. But as I’m flipping through the channels, it’s all I can think about again.

  Virgin Wanted ...

  I turn off the set once more and then pick my purse up off the floor by the couch and slip out my sketchbook. I flip to the back page and then sit there, staring for a while at that mysterious email address - [email protected] – feeling my heart quickening again, the longer I stare at it.

  I’d always considered my virginity as something to be embarrassed about – a secret kept close to my chest.

  I don’t even know why I’m still a virgin. I’m mean, I’m only twenty-one years old, so it’s not like I’m not an old maid or anything just yet. I g
uess I’m still just waiting for the right guy to come along.

  But that’s just stupid daydream stuff, right?

  Right now, I’m totally broke. And if I don’t find another job quick smart, then I can kiss goodbye to this tiny crappy shoebox of an apartment, too. And for some reason, seeing that ad kind of feels like ... I don’t know.


  A sign?

  Because my virginity is practically the one thing I have left, the only thing that sets me apart from every other girl in this city. And here is some advert actually asking for a virgin ... Well, these days it feels like there aren’t too many of us left.

  I sigh again with frustration.

  I mean, is this something so completely crazy that I shouldn’t even be contemplating it? Is answering this advert the first step towards my body being found in some ditch somewhere, wrapped in tarpaulin? Or is this actually just something totally normal – the kind of thing that a modern girl these days wouldn’t think twice about replying to?

  Damn. I wish there was someone I could talk to right now; someone who’s opinion I could ask.

  You see, I don’t really have a best friend. I moved away from my home state two years ago for a fresh start here in Philly. But all I managed to get was this dismal apartment and a badly paid job as a receptionist which is about to come to an end.

  I keep telling myself to go out more, meet new people, make some real friends. But I just feel too shy. I mean, Monisha is great and all. She’s really fun to work with and she’s totally kept me sane at the office. But we’re just not that close. We’re only work colleagues – not BFFs.

  And as for family? Let’s just say that’s kind of complicated.

  Which brings me back to my current dilemma.

  I sigh in frustration, wishing I knew the answer.

  What’s a girl to do?

  But I guess, as usual, I’m on my own in figuring this one out ...


  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr Whitelaw?”

  I look up from my computer, realizing that Julia, my ditzy secretary, is still standing there, looking back hopefully at me with those big blue eyes of hers like she’s hoping I’ll just spin around in my chair, unzip my fly, and nod down at my cock, saying, “Well, there is one more thing you could take care of ...”

  But instead, I simply shake my head and say, “That will be all, Julia,” feeling a wave of relief when she finally turns and heads out of the office, leaving me alone at my desk.

  Even thought I know she’d fuck me in a heartbeat she’s just not quite my type. She’s scatterbrained – always messing up my appointments, or forgetting to write them into my schedule at all. Some days, I don’t know why I don’t just fire her. But then again, perhaps the reason I keep her on is because, well, I don’t find her too distracting.

  And the kind of girls I do go for?

  Let’s just say that they need to be more than just ‘pretty’. They need to be something special, too.

  I wait for the frosted glass door to swish closed behind her, completely sealing me off from the rest of the large bustling open plan office, and then I turn once more to my computer screen, feeling a small charge of excitement shoot through me at the thought that someone suitable might finally have answered my ad ...

  I log into the totally private and secure email system and as it’s booting up, I take a leisurely sip of the gourmet coffee that I demand Julia brings me to start each morning, here at Whitelaw Enterprises.

  The inbox loads – displaying the news that I have seventeen new applicants to the advertisement, and for a moment my heart does indeed leap with excitement.

  But as I begin to open the email messages and actually read what these people have written, my hopes begin to sink again just as fast, just like always.

  I should have learnt by now not to get my hopes up.

  It’s just the usual mix: liars and crazies, all so obviously trying to sniff out a way to make an easy buck.

  But as I’m reaching the second-to-last email I pause for a moment, reading and then rereading the simple, straightforward message on the giant screen of my iMac:

  From: [email protected]


  I read your advert. I’m not sure what you’re after exactly but I think I fit the bill. How do I apply?



  I feel a quick flash of optimism, but at the same time try my hardest to ignore it. How many times have I been disappointed by now? Way too many to count ...

  No, I need to remain calm. This girl’s probably just like all the rest – lying through her teeth. And anyway, I haven’t even seen her yet ...

  I quickly click open a new tab on my computer screen, then log into the covert profile-searching software that I had to pay an absolute fortune to gain access to. I mean, this isn’t just some regular search engine. This stuff isn’t available to just anyone – this is top secret, Government-level stuff, and probably violating all kinds of privacy laws in the process.

  Once I’ve got the software up and running, I enter as much information as I have on this girl – which is just her name, her email address – and then I hit the ‘search’ button, taking another sip of my coffee and sitting back for a moment in my chair as I wait for the software to do its stuff.

  Within seconds, a high-resolution photograph has flashed up on my screen, along with a number of other personal details: where she works, how old she is, her employment history, her medical and criminal history, too (all squeaky clean), and her current address as well as all known previous addresses ...

  But I can hardly draw my eye away from the photograph to pay attention to all this extra information.

  It’s just a simple picture – probably taken by a friend on a sunny day out in a park. But it’s just perfect. She’s just perfect. Big brown eyes. Smooth chocolate skin. Glossy hair. Full sensuous lips. A cute button nose. And what looks like a killer body, too, from what I can see of it.

  I lean in further towards the screen, feeling that all too familiar rush of blood – heading straight for my cock, which is already swelling and pressing painfully against the unforgivingly tight tailored suit of my pant leg.


  I think I’ve finally found her.

  I think I’ve finally found my something special ...


  From: [email protected]

  Hello Alisha,

  Good to hear from you. I’d like to arrange an appointment. I want you to meet me at Friday at 5pm, at my office in New York. Please email me your cellphone number and I’ll have my assistant set it all up.

  Marcus Whitelaw


  From: [email protected]

  I’m sorry. I must have made an error.

  You see, I saw this advert in the local paper here in Point Breeze, Philadelphia, where I live, and I definitely can’t afford a plane ticket to New York just to make a single interview. So for that reason, I’m afraid I will have to respectfully decline. Sorry to have wasted your time, Mr Whitelaw.

  Yours sincerely,

  Alisha Adams


  From: [email protected]

  Don’t worry, Alisha. Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough in my last email. My assistant will be in touch to arrange everything for you – including all flights, cars, and any accommodation you may require, all of which will be paid for by my company. You wont’ have to spend a cent. And I promise that if this works out, it will be very worth your while.

  I look forward to meeting you on Friday. Don’t disappoint me.



  I hope I haven’t made a huge mistake.

  Oh well, even if this meeting doesn’t work out and he turns out to be some sleazy horrible creep, I reassure myself, then at least I’ve gotten a free holiday out of it, right?

  You see, this is the first time I’ve ever been to New York, and even just form the brief flashes of it I’v
e seen so far, it’s everything I imagined it would be and more. It’s like being inside a film set: yellow cabs, honking horns, loud Bronx accents, and every type of person under the sun, all hustling and bustling about, as I watch it all from the wound-down window of my very own private car.

  I know, right?

  I still couldn’t quite believe it when I stepped off the flight, just a couple of hours ago, and there standing in the Arrival’s lounge was an immaculately dressed six foot white guy with a big cardboard sign, with my name written on it! It was like something out of a corny romantic comedy film, and that’s still how it feels right now, as I sit back and relax, as much as I’m able, on the plush leather seats, as the sleek, jet-black car glides effortlessly through the mid-afternoon traffic of downtown Manhattan.

  As we drive, I check the hem of my skirt for any loose stitching. It’s not exactly like I had very long to throw this outfit together, and I’m hoping the edgy, modern design I settled on in the end will distract from any rushed sewing. After all, it’s not like I could afford to just go out and buy something new to wear, so a revamp of one of my tatty old work skirts will just have to do.

  “Okay, Miss Adams,” the driver says in a soft, refined accent – treating me the same way as if I was some kind of freaking celebrity. “Here we are. If you head into the lobby and tell the receptionist you’re here for the appointment with Mr Whitelaw, she’ll make sure to do the rest ...”

  “Thanks, um ... and what’s your name?” I reply, sheepishly.

  “Trent,” the driver smiles back at me, perhaps a little taken aback – like I’m the first person to ever actually talk to him like a regular human being before.

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