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  BACKSEAT WITH THE BILLIONAIRE

  LILAH MAY

  Table of Contents

  MAILING LIST

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  EPILOGUE

  MAILING LIST

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events reside solely in the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters are eighteen years of age or older.

  © 2017, LILAH MAY. No portion of this work can be reproduced in any way without prior written consent from the author with the exception for a fair use excerpt for review and editorial purposes. This ARC was provided in exchange for an honest review. It is not the final copy and is subject to change.

  This title is for adults only. It contains explicit sex acts, adult themes, and material that some folks might find offensive. Please keep out of reach of children.

  BACKSEAT WITH THE BILLIONAIRE

  She just wants to use him for revenge.

  Him. A billionaire MMA fighter whose cocky smile and washboard abs make wet panties drop left and right.

  She thinks she wants him for one amazing night out and end it.

  Boy, did she think wrong.

  He's about to teach her how much more she really wants.

  LISA

  Finding out your husband's cheating is hard.

  Finding out it’s with a college girl is even harder.

  The easy part? Retribution: beating him blue with a baseball bat and kicking him to the curb.

  But it's still not enough.

  So when Bobby Carter, fresh out of college, blows back into town with all the intensity of a hurricane, I decide I’m not done.

  Bobby’s everything my ex-husband is not. Sexy, aggressive, and intense.

  Like melt me into a puddle intense.

  Who cares if I used to babysit him?

  He’s a grown man, now. And I mean, FULLY grown.

  All I wanted was a night out with him, but one taste and I’m addicted.

  BOBBY

  When Lisa Howard finally gets rid of her cheating husband, I want to take her right then and there.

  I got rid of that abusive bastard and built a billion dollar empire all for her.

  Nothing could satisfy my ravenous hunger but taking a bite of that sweet little thing.

  So when she offered herself up to me for one night, I wasn’t about to refuse.

  She was nothing like the sorority bimbos at Northfield U.

  She was a real woman.

  Sexy, mature, and an ass so fine I would give up my billions just for a taste.

  But I knew a taste wouldn’t be enough and one night too short for all the dirty things I wanted to do to her and that deliciously curvy body.

  She’ll be mine, but not just for tonight. Forever.

  This is a full-length, standalone romance. No cheating or cliffhangers, and Happily Ever After guaranteed.

  MAILING LIST

  Please sign up for my newsletter if you liked Backseat With The Billionaire and want to read more by me. I promise I won’t spam you! Instead, I’ll only send you a message when my second book is ready! Oh, and I might ask my mailing list for ARC reviews, so if this interests you, please sign up!

  You’ll also receive exclusive access to the steamy extended epilogue of Bobby and Lisa. It’s just a little FREE BONUS that I want to give you for signing up. If this piques your interest, please CLICK HERE to subscribe or go to my website:

  riversfordpublishing.com

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Hi first time Lilah May readers! (Well, of course it’s your first time because it’s my first book.)

  I just want to take a moment to thank you for purchasing my first ever romance novel. I know you’ll love Bobby and Lisa’s passionate story because I loved writing every page of it! It’s a full length novel jam packed with just as many hot, steamy scenes as emotionally moving ones.

  I’m so happy you chose to join me from the very beginning on this incredible journey as a romance author. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! I promise I won’t let you down!

  PROLOGUE

  BOBBY

  They say obsession isn’t love, that obsessions are just crazy.

  But everything about love is obsessive.

  Love is that one person out of 7 billion people, that one person you’d rather die than live without, that one person whose pain, whose happiness you feel just as strong. Sounds crazy to me. It’s crazy to want the hurt and heartache. It’s crazy to want someone constantly on your mind every second of every day.

  Everything about love is crazy, but we still want it. We still need it. We still obsess over it.

  Love is just an evanescent summer’s day, seemingly forever but ruined in an instant by a passing storm. Love is just a butterfly fluttering, floating above a field of flowers, seemingly perfect but all of it gone with the seasons.

  Obsession is the strength to take that butterfly, that flower and press it into a book so its beauty stays forever.

  Obsession keeps love alive, no matter how much suffering, no matter how much time. Obsession never fades.

  Love fades, obsession keeps.

  CHAPTER 1

  BOBBY

  Discipline. Love demands discipline.

  The alarm sounds and my eyes are already open, watching the glowing numbers flick from 4:59 to 5:00. Most mornings I don’t even let it ring. But today, I needed the reminder. The reminder what all of this was for, all the blood and sweat, all the late nights and weekends working, toiling.

  Today is the last time I had to tell myself she’ll be mine.

  In less than a minute, I’m in my sneakers and out the door, skipping the elevator and bounding down the 22 flights of stairs before running out into the murky morning.

  The slight hint of greyish blue hue imbuing the sky where the last of the stars struggle to stay lit. For some reason, the faint light above doesn’t reach far enough to embrace the ground, and the silhouettes of the buildings and the trees all seem darker than black, darker than night.

  It’s almost ominous. Mornings are foreboding. Evenings are gratifying. Mornings hold only questions while evenings have all the answers.

  Or maybe it’s just my anxiety of the coming day. I’m not used to worrying. I’m never nervous, never scared. Unless it has to do with her.

  My feet pound against the pavement in time with the blood rushing in my ears as I flat out sprint, my lungs burning, every muscle tense cords, straining with effort. I’m sure it’s a sight to see, 6-foot-5, 250 pounds of pure strength barreling his w
ay down the middle of the empty street.

  That is, if there were anyone to see it. No one’s awake in Northfield yet, because no one wakes up this early when they’re 20. Especially not on a college campus where everyone thinks it’s cool to stay up late and wake up even later. Well, everyone except for me.

  But I’ve never been one to follow the trend.

  Evenings are meant to be shared, sitting around the TV with your family or going to the local bar with your friends. Even sunsets, everyone loves to watch them together. But mornings are meant for yourself.

  Dawn is my time.

  I like it this way. Solitary and alone. With the morning frost biting my skin as it rushes by. It’s invigorating, the cold silent air clears my mind. Most people feel alive surrounded by other people, but I hate it. I can’t think with all that annoying chatter.

  The only person I can stand is her. It’s always been that way. Since the very first time I laid eyes on her, she’s the only one who made me feel sane, washing clean my rampaging mind, the serenity to my chaos. But I don’t have her.

  Yet.

  So for now, all I had is this. Solitary silence. And the pain.

  I don’t slow down even after my entire body begins to ache, my muscles scream for relief, and my massive chest heaves with each breath. This is nothing.

  Discipline.

  A rare quality in today’s world. And that’s especially true for my generation. The millennials: a lazy bunch of entitled assholes who thinks the world will hand everything to them on a silver platter.

  I can’t blame them. Everything was handed to them on a silver platter. They’ve never experienced anything close to real difficulty, never had to work hard for anything.

  And if I never met her, I might’ve ended up just like them.

  But I did meet her. And I did fall in love with her. And I’m nothing like everyone else.

  Now I’m a millionaire, and not just a measly million, a hundred-millionaire. My body is a finely toned, fighting machine and I compete at the professional level of MMA. All before age 21. That’s what the power of love can do. Or more like the power of unrequited love.

  Nope, that wouldn’t be quite right either. More like the power of watching helplessly as the love of your life wastes away. That will most definitely motivate you. Or crush you. And if you’re not strong enough, it will. That’s what they don’t tell you about love: It can destroy a spirit just as easily as it can bring one to life.

  Without discipline, I might’ve become a fucking loser. Discipline is control. The ability to endure any hardship, to suffer through any pain. Control over your mind and your body. To fight through any punishment. When I couldn’t control her, I took control over my own life and put it in an iron vice.

  But today’s the last day of that. Today’s the day things start to move forward and time begins again. There’s just one last thing I have to do.

  Meet with the private investigator.

  ***

  The glossy pictures are splayed out in front of me, and now that the reality of what I had to do is right in front of my face, every part of me screams in defiance. This is against everything I ever stood for, the exact opposite of how I want to do this, how I fight my battles.

  This isn’t my nature. But I know it’s the only way.

  As I look through them, the voyeuristic nature of the photos accuse me of how dirty I am, how low I would stoop to get what is mine. Even when I know the man featured in them is a slimy fucking worm, somehow I feel just as contemptible as him.

  I don’t even want to look at them, but I have to make sure. I can’t have this getting fucked up at this crucial point, in the final moment.

  But to see his disgusting face makes me want to punch a wall and puke at the same time. This man isn’t a man. He’s worse than dirt. He doesn’t deserve her.

  “OK. Everything’s good. Send it.” I say to Olivia, the woman I hired to do the dirty deed. Even that sits uncomfortably with me. I should be the one to bring down the hammer.

  She didn’t want to do the job either at first. She’s not some cheap divorce PI always drunk with a potbelly and a cigar. She’s a corporate spy, slick and skilled, and she’s worth every penny. At a thousand dollars an hour, it’s basically extortion. But with the millions I made off her information, I wonder who was extorting who.

  She gathers the prints and sticks them back in the manila envelope. With her knee high black leather boots and fierce grit, she reminds me of Kalinda from the Good Wife. We would’ve made a great pair if I had room in my oh-so-black heart, but we both knew there’s only one woman for me. The woman I’m doing all this for.

  “You know what this means, right? If you do this.” Here comes another reminder as to why I’m the scum of the earth.

  “No, I don’t. Please, tell me again why I’m such a goddamn evil bastard.” It isn’t anything I haven’t heard before.

  “You’re not just ruining his life, you’re ruining an entire family.” She ignores my sarcasm and proceeds to lecture me.

  She’s always been like this. Too fucking nice. But in this case, she’s absolutely right.

  “You can’t ruin something that’s already in ruins. I’m doing them a favor.” But I know I’m just making excuses.

  No matter what, the truth is I’m about to destroy a family and I didn’t give one shit because all I want is her and I’m willing to do anything, even this cowardly shit, to get her.

  “You might think that nothing can touch you, that you can do all these things and you’ll come out unscathed. But every time you look into the void, the void looks back at you.”

  “Stop quoting Nietzsche improperly and just do what I’m paying you to do.”

  “And how much is that again? Double my usual rate?” Suddenly, she’s mischievous and sly as she twirls her curly brown hair around her fingers, her green eyes flashing as if they’re reflecting the piles of cash she could extract from me.

  “Nothing, if you fuck this up.” And I’m serious. Nothing could go wrong when it had to do with her.

  “You’re so cruel.” I have a feeling she isn’t just referring to my payment contract.

  “Triple if you do it right.” I give her what I know she wants.

  “Well,” she turns to leave, finally satisfied, “I hope she’s worth it.”

  “She’s worth more than you can ever imagine.”

  CHAPTER 2

  LISA

  I had no clue what I’d do.

  It’s the kind of situation you never plan for, never expect to have to plan for. And even if you try, even if you think you know what you’ll do or how you’ll act, you find out that the truth is:

  You really don’t know yourself at all.

  I wait, sitting in that old ratty armchair of his. The orange one that was now stained brown. The one he refused to throw out no matter how much it reeked of alcohol and cigarettes.

  The pictures are still on the coffee table. I looked them over carefully, in some twisted morbid curiosity. The girl couldn’t be a day over 18 and she seemed to be enjoying herself, but in some fake, exaggerated way like she was in a porn video or she learned how to act when getting fucked from a porn video. And of course, it was missionary, the boring bastard.

  I’m not thinking about anything, not planning, not scheming. I’m not even angry. For the first time in a long while, my head is completely clear. Like some weird meditation, all I do is sit and wait.

  He strolls through the front door, whistling a tune. The balls on him. Relaxed and casual, as if he didn’t just come back from fucking his teenage whore.

  He looks at me once but doesn’t look twice. Even though, across my lap is a silver aluminum baseball bat. The same bat that we’ve kept by the front door for our protection, for just in case.

  Just in case of a robbery. Just in case of a home invasion. Just in case my scumbag husband decides to cheat on me.

  All those years, it sat unused. Until today.

  I don’t know what
was the last straw. The whistling, the nonchalant way he ignored me or maybe it was that shit-eating grin he had plastered on his smug face.

  But one second I’m sitting in the living room and the next, I’m tackling him like a football linebacker. Head down, shoulders square, straight into his unsuspecting back.

  He pitches forward, quite comically, crashing to the ground in a heap. All accompanied by a satisfactory crunch.

  And as I stood over him, something dark and violent emerged, something that wasn’t so clean and pure. Something that I kept buried and hidden for years as the perfect housewife, the perfect stay at home mom.

  The funny thing is, he didn’t think I would do it. The whole time, the asshole looked up at me and just laughed, smirking in my face. That is, until the first swing of the bat came down on him.

  And goddamn, if it didn’t feel amazing.

  For me. Not for him.

  I can still picture that deliciously depraved moment when that cheesy smile of his gave way to a look of pain and confusion.

  Ohhh, god! This was it! That utterly satisfying feeling.

  Like the good fuck he was never able to give me.

  As I kept raining down blow after blow, his disbelief quickly turned into one of horror, crying for me to stop. But I didn’t. It only added to my wonderful, cathartic experience. And I savored every single wince, every little whimper, feeding off his pain.

  Finally, he could feel what I felt. All the abuse, all the suffocating agony from living under his oppressive rule. Finally, I could give it all back to him.

  Let me give you a piece of advice: it’s unhealthy to repress that much shit. So don’t. Unless one day, you might end up beating your douchebag husband half to death.

  After a good solid minute of getting his ass beat, he finally snatches an opportunity to escape. As I take a breather, he scrambles towards the front door, running out onto the lawn.