Finders Keepers_An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy Read online

  Finders Keepers

  An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy

  Kara Chase

  Finders Keepers

  An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy

  By Kara Chase

  Copyright 2018 by Real Hot Romance

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.

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  Description

  Question: How do two porcupines mate?

  Answer: Very carefully.

  Vivian Sweet.

  She’s the most ruthless corporate lawyer in the world.

  I’m the King of Wall Street.

  We’re both gunning for the most exclusive condo in New York.

  The kind that comes with fame. Status. And power.

  She thinks she’s going to beat me in getting it.

  Man did she pick the wrong dude to mess with.

  The only problem?

  We may have bought it at the same exact time.

  So now we’re both moved in, trying to wait the other out.

  Whoever moves out first gives up their claim to the place.

  Sure, she’s got some tricks she’s going to pull.

  But I can play just as dirty if I need to.

  It’s a dangerous dance we’re doing here, baby.

  Because if we’re not careful, our two alpha personalities will just fall into f&%^ing love

  And New York City’s premier condo that’s being shared by two people?

  Will soon be shared by three.

  Chapter One

  Lucien

  In the whole history of the world, there has never been a smoother motherfucker than me.

  That’s right. There’s never been a more calm and collected man than yours truly—Lucien Parker to the world, but you can call me Daddy.

  I look around my surroundings, at the plush luxury that greets only the most elite of elite of Manhattan.

  Rare oak shined to perfection. Marble countertops. Gold.

  This place could pass for a palace for most people—but here at Scala’s Bistro on 33rd and 5th Avenue, it’s only the bathroom.

  This is the kind of restaurant that the uber-wealthy come to cavort in. It’s discreet, safe, and more importantly, free from the prying eyes of the less fortunate of the world.

  I know I sound like an asshole right about now. But eventually, you’ll see just how fucking amazing I can be.

  But of course, we have to prioritize; I’ve got some pleasurable business to take care of first.

  “Fuck baby, keep sucking that cock,” I say looking down.

  On the bathroom wall, I lean my head back and let out a deep sigh. I shudder as I take in the sight before me.

  There on her knees is the classic example of a privileged Manhattan heiress. Dressed in an expensively black YSL that clings to her frame with black heels and perfectly coiffed hair, she’s kneeling with one hand stroking my cock and the other playing with her clit as she blows me.

  “Oh baby, that feels so fucking good,” I whisper, looking at the door.

  I gave the bathroom attendant a hundred dollars to go take a smoke break. He knew exactly what was about to happen when Daphne walked in as he was leaving. He gave me a thumbs up and put a “OUT OF SERVICE” sign on outside the door.

  There’s something about closing off an entire bathroom just to get some head. Tough luck for the other guys, eh?

  It doesn’t matter.

  Even if they did complain, they’d drop it as soon as they saw me, saw who it was that was getting his dick sucked in the men’s room. They’d drop it as soon as they realize it was Lucien Parker—the King of Wall Street.

  Entirely self-made, I am the sole owner of the Lucien Parker Group. My company sits proudly on eighty-seven stories on Park Avenue in Midtown as the undisputed most valuable hedge fund ever conceived.

  With clients clamoring for me to take their money and invest it for them, even in this economy, I have a waiting list at least a year-long of people trying to give me money.

  I started out as a kid with nothing. No parents. No future.

  But I worked myself hard. Stayed in school. Played sports until I got myself a boxing scholarship to Harvard, where I went into Finance and began to work selling bonds.

  I didn’t have many connections, never resorted to nepotism just to climb up the corporate ranks.

  No—

  I did everything the old-fashioned way, and that’s hard fucking work.

  But even though I worked my ass off to get where I am now, I always made time to play—always made time for women.

  Women are my fucking drug of choice.

  I respect them. I value and treasure them, and when I’m with a broad, I treat her like a queen.

  I tell her up front at the very beginning, “Baby, I’m into you, and I think we can have some fun. I want to fuck the living shit out of you—but I need you to know who you’re dealing with. I’m not looking for commitment. I’m just looking for a good time. And I’m only ever going to spend two weeks with you.”

  These sluts I end up dating are nodding and saying things like “Of course” and “I never get attached.” But in the end, it’s almost inevitable that they’d fall head over heels for me—I mean, who wouldn’t?

  I groan as Daphne increases the pace of her sucking.

  The bathroom is filled with lewd noises of slurping, sucking, and stroking as she continues her ministrations on my cock. She’s getting into this.

  And so am I. I grab her hair with one hand and start fucking into her face.

  Saliva drops from her mouth and dribbles down her chin, and I can tell just looking at what I’m doing to her is making her wet. Her hands are furiously working her clit, and she clamps down with her mouth on my cock as she starts to cum.

  I hold her head against my crotch as her entire body starts to shake at her self-induced orgasm.

  This is the part that’s always too much for me, and before I know it, I’m groaning and unloading my jizz straight down her throat.

  Rope after rope goes down, and she tries to swallow, but like I said, I’m fucking amazing, and that means I just cum longer and stronger than most men.

  My cum pools in her mouth, and she starts to gag. I take my dick out as it starts to leak out of her mouth.

  As my stream turns into a dribble, Daphne gives me a few last minute kisses, coaxing everything out.

  She looks up at me with smile.

  “How’s that for an appetizer, Lucien?” she asks me with her vapid fucking eyes.

  She’s never been into anything else other than sex, and while the sex was fun, it’s time to close this show up and move on.

  “Great, baby,” I say, as I zip up. “I’ll see you at the table.”

  Leaving Daphne to clean herself up as best as possible, I head out of the restroom towards my table.

  It’s been two weeks with this broad—and that’s why we’re at Scala’s.

  See, I have a tradition of sorts.

  Every time I let the broad go, it’s in public, during dinner, and after a blowjob in the men’s room at Scala’s.

  I got this shit knocked down to a fucking science.

  I know you’re still thinking what an asshole I am. But think about it like this:

  I need to do this shit to let all the other women of the world get a chance with me.

 
I don’t ever want to be tied down.

  Lucien Parker is a fucking precious commodity— with my eight pack abs and chiseled face. My bedroom eyes and magic cock that will give you fucking life-altering sex.

  If I didn’t move on, it would be a crime to the other ladies of the world, baby.

  Daphne sits down, and the waiter brings us two glasses of wine. He’s done this so many times by now that he doesn’t even ask me for my order. Just puts me down for the filet mignon.

  Daphne looks at me and does her trademark nose scrunch before asking me yet another question that goes to the depth of her character.

  “Lucien, can you buy me a new car?” she asks with a whine. “I keep asking Daddy, but he says that I already have two that I don’t drive.”

  Now don’t misunderstand me and what I am about to say to Daphne. But honestly, you don’t need a fucking car in New York City. Only assholes drive fucking cars in the most pedestrian and public transportation friendly city in the world.

  The subways are world class. There are sidewalks and bike paths like you wouldn’t believe.

  Oh yeah. I drive an Aston Martin too.

  Why?

  Because I’m a motherfucking asshole, baby. And you fucking love it.

  But Daphne at heart is a spoiled little brat whose parents spent too much money on her giving her everything she fucking wanted when she was young.

  I look her in the face and talk to her in a very calm fashion.

  “I can’t, Daphne,” I say.

  She pouts.

  “Why not?” she asks.

  I take a moment to pause and wonder how it’s going to all go down this time. Then I shrug and dive in.

  “Because Daphne,” I say to her, “I don’t think we should be spending any more time together.”

  There’s usually a full five seconds for my words to register in the brain of the broad before they end up saying, “What?!”

  Daphne is no exception.

  I look around. People turn their heads slightly to see what caused the elegantly dressed party girl across from me to lose her cool.

  “What did I tell you two weeks ago, Daphne?” I ask coolly.

  She flares her nostrils.

  “I don’t know,” she huffs. “What the fuck did you tell me two weeks ago? You know I can’t remember shit!”

  I sigh. It’s always something like this.

  “I told you two weeks ago that I don’t do relationships. We were just having some fun,” I say to her, and she twists her face into a sneer. “We were having fun, and I think now at this point it’s time for us to go our separate ways, keeping our memories and continuing to be friends.”

  In real life, I would never, ever, ever be fucking friends with a woman like Daphne Engle. But this is the one lie I afford myself.

  Daphne is silent. That’s not unexpected.

  I’m not trying to be a fucking dick here. I’m just genuinely not interested in spending the rest of my life with this broad—or even spending another day.

  “I want you to know I will always cherish the time we had together,” I tell her, hoping for a response.

  Usually they have something to say.

  Some negotiate. Some threaten. Others beg.

  But it ends differently every time.

  “You BASTARD!” Daphne yells at all of a sudden, and now the entire restaurant is looking at me. Well…this is a fucking new one.

  “Daphne, calm down,” I say to her as calm as I can be.

  “I WILL NOT CALM DOWN!” she yells. “You LIED to me!”

  “I didn’t lie to you,” I retort.

  I make it a point never to deceive a girl I’m about to fuck. I don’t need to lie to get pussy.

  “You told me you LOVED me!” she throws back.

  “I never said I loved you. I don’t even like you,” I shoot back.

  That’s a new one.

  “I GAVE YOU MY BUTT!” she wails, and now I grimace.

  People are stopping to stare at me mid chew. An elderly couple is openly gawking at me.

  “My BUTT, Lucien! My booty. My ass!”

  I remain silent. She did give me anything I wanted.

  “What do you have to say to the fact that I let you fuck me up the ass?!” she demands, seeing my silence.

  I pause. There’s only one thing to say.

  “Thank you.”

  Her face turns five shades of red.

  And she grabs her wine glass and throws it in my direction.

  “That’s for fucking me when you knew you would leave me!” she yells.

  Then she grabs some mustard next to the shrimp appetizer placed discreetly by a waiter at some point. She grabs it and throws it.

  “And that’s for saying thank you TO FUCKING ME IN THE ASS!” she yells.

  It lands on my two thousand dollar thousand-dollar Brioni suit as the wine drips down the lapel.

  “Asshole!” she yells as she gets up from the table.

  “Oh, I’ve been up there, alright,” I say, unable to help myself from smirking.

  Daphne starts to lunge for me as I sit there, but two waiters come by and restrain her. She struggles for minute, and then she gives up.

  “Mr. Parker,” the head waiter approaches me. “So sorry for the commotion. I’ve brought your other suit coat.”

  And sure enough, there he is, holding another two thousand dollar thousand-dollar Brioni suit.

  See, this happens pretty frequently. About once every two weeks.

  It happens so frequently that the restaurant has taken to keeping an extra suit of mine.

  They exchange it with me after an episode, dry clean it, and keep it ready.

  Like I said, this shit is down to a science.

  “Will you be staying for dinner tonight?” the head waiter asks solicitously.

  I look at my phone.

  Apparently, I got a text from my real estate agent. My eyes widen as I read it. I can’t believe it.

  “No, Paul,” I say. “I need to get uptown immediately.”

  “I’ll have your car prepared, sir,” he says, backing away.

  I nod as I start to take my coat off and put the clean one on.

  I’ve forgotten all about Daphne.

  I need to get uptown.

  Lucien Parker is going to do one better than fucking random Manhattan heiresses if what I read on my phone is true.

  Lucien Parker is about to ascend to fucking godhood.

  But only if I act fast.

  I know you’re a bit unsure about whether you like me or not, but I guarantee you that if you get to know me, you’ll fucking fall in love with me.

  Care to find out?

  Chapter Two

  Vivian

  “And here we are,” the driver tells me with a smile as he holds the door for me.

  With his cap tucked under his elbow, he smiles politely as I step out the limo, the heels of my Louboutins softly clicking as they hit the asphalt.

  “Thank you, Andrew,” I reply, smoothing the front of my burgundy dress with the palm of my hand.

  To the casual onlooker, I might look as if I’m dressed to impress—well, whoever thinks that, they have no idea who Vivian Sweet is.

  I never dress to impress.

  My Louboutin shoes, Fendi handbag, and high-end tailored dress are all part of a killer outfit. And by killer, I mean that I’m always ready to grind into dust everyone who dares step in my way.

  Does that sound ruthless? Yeah, I can imagine it does.

  But you don’t get to be the Vivian Sweet without being a little ruthless.

  Oh right—I haven’t properly introduced myself.

  You already know my name, but what you don’t know is that I’m the best damn corporate lawyer this town has ever seen. Whenever someone has a problem, whenever someone needs to make shit happen, guess who they call?

  That’s right—Vivian Sweet. And as long as their pockets are deep enough, I’m game.

  And when I say I’m the best, I me
an it. You know how guys like to brag they’re closers?

  Well, I eat closers for breakfast. Probably after fucking the living daylights out of them, too…if they’re good enough, that is.

  So that’s one thing for you, honey—don’t make any assumptions just because my surname is Sweet.

  “Miss Sweet,” the doorman greets me as I walk toward the Scala Bistro restaurant, one of the places where the Manhattan elite like to gather in.

  The place screams luxury and, for the common mortals, entry is only possible in their dreams.

  Without missing a step, I stroll through the front door and scan the room.

  I’m already half an hour late, but don’t think that it’s because I’m careless. No, everything I do, I do for a reason.

  I notice Mark sitting by himself in a table by the corner. He’s fidgeting with his cellphone—poor guy has probably been trying to contact me for the past half hour. I’m never late—well, unless it’s on purpose, anyway—so he knows that something’s up.

  Oh, he doesn’t know how right he is.

  As I walk across the luxurious dining room, a few men respectfully nod my way as they notice me. I spot the New York Mayor, two tech billionaires, and some oil guy I had to save from a hostile Russian takeover.

  “Vivian!” Marks yelps as he sees me, and he jumps out of his seat so fast you’d say he was sitting on top of broken glass.

  I can’t help but wince at that. You see, Mark used to be such a bold and confident guy. Broad shoulders, easy smile, and that millionaire strut.

  He made a fortune investing in tech startups, and everyone sees him as this fucking wonder boy—there’s even some hushed talk about him having a real shot at politics.

  Yeah, no.

  After a few weeks with me, and Mark started turning into a pussy.