You can read Her Billionaire Toy Boy free below.
Blurb:
A clean, older woman, younger man, BWWM, billionaire romance book.
Mira has aced her legal career, yet when it comes to love, that’s an entirely different story.
A particularly tough day finds her in a bar, drinking wine to soothe her frustrations, when she’s approached by a much younger man that she knew she wouldn’t have a chance with.
However, making the decision to call him later turns her world on its head!
Sam, rocking the dual titles of sommelier and billionaire, is caught up in a wild dating game with his buddies, where they score points for hooking up with women.
He’s instantly attracted to Mira the moment he spots her, but it’s the thrill of earning “cougar” points that initially excites him.
Soon, Mira’s beautiful elegance and intellect completely mesmerizes Sam.
As for Mira? She finds herself equally captivated, developing a strong attraction towards him as well.
But when Sam tells her the truth, how will Mira react?
Will the age gap and the way they met prove too big a hurdle to overcome?
Find out in this clean, interracial toyboy romance story by Kimberley Taylor.
Chapter 1
The glass of wine made a red circular stain on the heavy white napkin set upon the wood of the bar. Mira dabbed at it but then gave up. Instead, she brought the thin, stemmed glass to her lips again, took the tiniest sip of wine, and then grimaced as the warmth went down her throat.
Strong wine, she thought. But then, it had been a very trying day. The paralegals she worked with had made a rather larger than normal—rather larger than acceptable—error in their calculations when preparing the briefs for one of her largest clients. It was okay, she’d told herself—and her paralegals—firmly; this was why she had set the deadline far earlier than was strictly necessary for the completion of that milestone. But, still—she expected excellence from her paralegals, and interns, and everyone she came into contact with, really. She found it hard to imagine why mistakes like this happened. Routinely, that was the effect of being human. Mira made mistakes herself and found it excusable when others did—but rarely. To the tune of approximately one mistake a year—that was acceptable.
Another sip of fire; another grimace. She drummed her red-tipped fingers on the bar.
Perhaps if she had an outlet other than work, she’d be less dialed in to her associates’ every move. Perhaps she should look into getting a hobby, Mira thought. Her mind drifted over the routine slate of possibilities, activities she listened to her colleagues chat about over morning coffee. Mira was not a runner. She did not cook or swim. Yoga—stretching in public—or any other sort of athleisure event seemed out of the question.
Mira sighed. She glanced at the menu and waved at a waiter. “I’ll have a baguette and some preserves to go with this,” she said. “Maple onion bacon, please.” The waiter nodded and excused himself from the area.
Mira glanced out the window. She felt a general malaise—ennui—overcome her. If she was being entirely honest with herself, her lack of excitement about her life—her general despondency at her day’s successes and failures—stemmed not from the specific activities which had made up her day, but from one specific event which had occurred in the lunchroom some six hours prior.
“Here you go,” giggled a gaily-dressed woman whom Mira had never met. She was several years’ Mira’s junior. Her makeup was impeccably done in a way Mira knew would have taken her hours to do. Mira half-smiled and glanced at the envelope that was thrust into her hand. A wedding shower, taking place at the office, two weeks hence. She had managed a perfunctory nod at the bride-to-be, thanked the maid of honor, and gathered up her things, quickly leaving the lunchroom.
Another one, she’d thought bitterly. Another one! Were all the young women, the human equivalent of beautiful butterflies, swanning out of their homes and picking up men as easily as it seemed they were? In Mira’s day—longer ago than, perhaps, she would have loved to admit—prospective husbands had seemed far less available. Judging by the mailboxes she saw teeming with wedding invitations, there had been a considerable inflation in that respect in the fifteen-odd years that it had been since Mira had hopefully begun to date, in a city which seemed to take as its personal job the squashing of certain romances.
Hers specifically, she thought, grimacing. Mira had only been on a handful of dates in the decade she’d lived in New York City. First, she’d been too concentrated on her career, then she’d been traveling too much to get beyond a second date—and then (now, she corrected herself), she was officially too old. Most of the eligible bachelors in New York saw her as a wizened crone.
Mira took another sip of her wine and smiled gratefully at her waiter when he brought her meal. It did not matter, Mira thought. She’d learned to enjoy the simple pleasures of life alone; today—and tonight—and the night after—would be no different.
On the other side of the bar, a man known simply as Sam was watching Mira with a hungry eye. This, however, was not due to any malicious or creepy intent on his behalf. He was simply hungry, and he only had one healthy eye available for his use at the moment—the other was being covered by an eye patch while a scratch on his cornea healed. In the meantime, he was sitting at a table for one on the other side of the classy bar. He was people-watching when he had found Mira. He found her pleasant to watch. He liked to imagine what it was that had brought the beautiful lady to that particular point in her life—why she had chosen that stool, why she had selected that wine—and, today, he was wondering what was making the woman so sad.
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Sam himself was not having the best of days, either. He had seven glasses of wine before him. Not because he was a drunk. Neither was he holding the table for six other friends. Sam owned the bar. He owned several bars in the area, as well as all up and down the east coast, and the fine wineries and breweries to back them up. After hearing many rumors that his product was losing its touch, he decided to go into one of his own establishments and order up a flight of his hottest selling wines to see what all the fuss was about.
He brought one tumbler, one that just had the dregs of a sip swirling around its base, and downed it. He then grimaced.
Wine should not taste like whiskey and neither should it taste like juice. It certainly should not taste like vinegar and that was what Sam was tasting. He made a note in a little book he had with him and then stood up.
“May I ask you a quick question,” he said, to an elderly gentleman who was sitting behind him, at a different table. The man nodded and Sam sat down. He proceeded to ask the gentleman a few well-placed questions about whether he liked the bar or not; what he thought of the wines; what he thought of the clientele; and whether he would consider coming again.
“I’ve been coming here for twenty years and I’ll be coming for another twenty,” the man said robustly.