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One Weekend with the Billionaire

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“When done properly, this position can be most satisfying for a woman because it allows deep penetration." I open my mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a staggered breath and a small sigh. He chuckles, a low, rough rumble and then leans down and kisses the middle of my back. I feel the tip of him again at my entryway. He pushes in slightly, and my body comes to life again. My muscles react to his presence, contracting and loosening, as if my body is trying to s*ck him deep inside. He's my husband's boss, so this is supposed to be wrong. So why does it feel so right? *** Braxton Merriweather always gets what he wants. Now, he wants her--Julia Thompson, the wife of one of his workers. From the moment he first laid eyes on her, he knew he had to possess her in every way. When Jeff Thompson takes him up on the bargain he proposes, Braxton is shocked. He's even more surprised when Mrs. Thompson agrees. But now that he's had a taste of her, he wants more. How can he possess a woman who's already married to someone else? Julia feels trapped by her marriage to her high school sweetheart. In the two years since they've been married, he's changed, and not for the better. When billionaire Braxton Merriweather shows interest in her, she's flattered. And intrigued. Is it possible that one of the richest men in the world could really want her? And if so... what does she do about her husband? One Weekend with the Billionaire is a s*xy story for mature readers.


I turn off the hot water and place the last of the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher, giving the kitchen one last glance to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Jeff has already left for work, but if I’ve missed a dish, I’ll have to wash it by hand. He doesn’t like it when I miss something.

Satisfied that all of the dishes are in the dishwasher, I put the soap in the compartment and push the start button. It’s not a big machine, but then, only two of us live in our tiny apartment for now. Jeff has made no secret that he hopes to have children soon. I’m not sure I’m ready. I’m not sure we are ready.

Once the dishwasher is purring, I start to wipe down the counters and the stove. They are already clean. I constantly wipe down the surfaces in the kitchen because I have nothing better to do. Jeff has also made it clear that he doesn’t want his wife to have a job, even though he knows we could use the money. He has been at the financial advising firm for almost two years now. Meriweather and Associates is a great place to work, but I’m not sure that Jeff is as good at his job as he lets on. He has never gotten a raise, and a few times, he has come home late, drunk, angry that those “assholes” at work just don’t understand him. I think on those days he’s gotten in trouble for messing up his accounts.

I can’t think about that, though. Most of the time, our life is comfortable. We live a pretty meager life in the largest city in the country, but no one knows that our existence is so pitiful. Jeff spends most of his salary on appearances, and we have a lot of credit card debt as well. His boss, Braxton Merriweather, is a billionaire. He throws lavish parties and invites people from his company to join him. Jeff never misses a chance because he wants to be a part of that world, even though we really are not. We come from a small town in the midwestern part of the country, thousands of miles from here. Worlds from here.

During the day, once the apartment is spotlessly clean, I go out to the market and get the ingredients to fix Jeff a nice meal. Today, I’ll get something extra special, even though my allowance for the month is almost gone. It is a special day, after all. Today is our two year anniversary.

I wonder if Jeff remembers. He didn’t say anything this morning. We woke up when his alarm went off, had sex like we do every morning, and then he got ready for work, heading out the door before 8:00 so that he can make all of the connecting trains he has to in order to get to the office by nine. I will do the shopping, keep the apartment clean, secretly work on my art that Jeff does not know I’m still working on, and have dinner ready when he gets home, which will probably be around 7:00. He likes to leave work late so that Mr. Merriweather thinks that he is working hard, even though I am guessing everyone knows he isn’t actually working late when he stays late. He is usually watching X rated videos on his phone. Jeff watches those on the train as well. He watches them all the time and then asks me to try to do the things in the videos, even though I don’t like it. Sometimes… I don’t like Jeff.

He’s different now than he was when we started dating. But then, that was almost nine years ago, when we were only sophomores in high school. We both had dreams of coming to the big city. I wanted to be an artist, and he wanted to be a huge financial planner and own his own company. We both graduated from college, his degree in finance, mine in art, got married, and moved to the big city to pursue our dreams.

Except… as soon as this ring went on my finger, Jeff changed, and now, the only dreams I get to chase are his.

I try to push those thoughts aside as I get ready to go out to the market. It’s a warm spring day, but I wear my jacket. Jeff says it’s important to make sure that every part of me is covered when I go out in public. He says I have a nice figure, and he doesn’t want to have to knock someone’s teeth out because of wandering eyes--especially mine. Jeff has never hurt me before, but I believe him when he threatens that he might.

I get my pocketbook and my phone and the keys to the apartment, thinking I might get steak, even though it’s expensive. It’s one of Jeff’s favorites. I haven’t gotten him a gift for our anniversary, but I did get him a card. I hope that he likes it. I doubt he has gotten me anything, but that’s okay. I won’t make a fuss.

“Good morning, Julia!” our next door neighbor, Mrs. Muller, says as I go out into the hallway. She is coming inside with a shopping bag. I assume she’s just getting back from the market. “How are you, dear?”

She is a nice older woman. I really like her. I think of her as a grandmother of sorts. Sometimes, we have coffee together. “I’m good, thank you. How are you and Mr. Muller?” Her husband is a retired postal worker, and she used to teach dance. She still has the graceful movements of a ballerina.

“Good, good,” she says with a smile. “It’s a bit warm out there today. You probably don’t need your jacket.” She looks at me suspiciously.

I smile. “I tend to get chilly,” I say dismissively. “See you later.” I head for the stairs, giving her a little wave. We live on the fifth floor. I don’t mind going down the stairs, but coming up is tiring. We have a working elevator, but Jeff doesn’t like for me to take it. He says that getting lazy could make me lose my figure, and he wouldn’t like that one bit.

I am almost to the market when my phone rings in my pocket. I pull it out, thinking it might be my sister or my mother. They text me every day to see how I am doing in the big city. They worry about me. It’s not either of them, though. It’s Jeff.

“Party tonight,” he says. “Merriweather just got a huge account, and he's celebrating.”  I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, a wave of disappointment washing over me, thinking that means we won’t be spending our anniversary together. I have gone to a few of the parties Mr. Merriweather throws, but not many. Jeff says he doesn’t want to make the other men at his office jealous by showing them how beautiful his wife is. I secretly think he is just embarrassed that I am not as polished as the wives of the other men who work in his office.

“Meet me at Merriweather Towers at seven. Wear your silver dress.”

I stare at my phone. I am invited to the party. Someone bumps into me from behind, jostling me. I apologize. I am in the way. He makes a face at me and keeps walking.

Stepping aside, I text Jeff back, “Okay.” I have no idea how to get to Merriweather Towers, the apartment buildings Mr. Merriweather owns, but I will figure it out. It sounds like this is an important party or else Jeff wouldn’t want me there. I hope this means he was involved with landing the account and that maybe he will finally be in better standing at work.

Realizing I have no reason to head to the market now, I turn back to the apartment, nervous about the party but hopeful that things are finally headed in the right direction because I’m not sure how much more of this meager existence I can take.


I am a hands-on supervisor. That’s how my father ran this company, and that’s how I’ve always ran it, too, since I took over as Chief Executive Officer five years ago. At twenty-seven, I was the youngest CEO in the history of our company, which my great-great-grandfather started over a hundred years ago, but my degrees in finance and business from major universities, as well as my tutelage under my father, had more than prepared me to take over. And I’ve done an outstanding job, increasing our revenue and taking on new clients at a quick rate.

That’s why I hate failure.

As I gaze out through my glass windows at the crowd of employees moving quickly between offices and cubicles, my eyes fall on one face. Jeff Thompson, Vice-President of Finance for our largest branch. How he came to be a VP, I am not sure. In the two years that he has worked here, he has done nothing to impress me. In fact, he fails at almost every task I assign him. I should probably fire h


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