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Three-ways Till Sunday (MMF)

Billionaire Bad Boys

Etopia Press

Heat Rating: SCORCHING
Word Count: 55,427
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A weekend threesome with two sexy billionaires could be more than she ever dreamed…

Margarita Acuna—Margo to her friends—arrives in Miami with her boorish boss to discuss a business merger with Wilson Berretta, the hottest financial firm on the East Coast. The PR photo of Damien Berretta has Margo fantasizing about his exotic good looks—and wondering if he likes curvy girls. But a string of bad luck on the way to the terminal leaves her anything but prepared to face the smooth, sexy billionaire, whose devilish green eyes awaken images of the primal, misty jungle.

Damien Berretta's clearly losing his mind. He's scheduled a session with his personal trainer, the perfect Liam McCabe, owner of the Perfect Body fitness line. Only he's late for his meeting with the folks from Pinnacle Financial to discuss a possible merger. He should have rescheduled, but he figured ten minutes with Liam McCabe was better than nothing at all. Was it just too cliché to have the hots for your personal trainer?

Liam McCabe knows Damien lied about “forgetting” he had an important meeting. He can't help wonder if maybe—just maybe—the way Damien looks at him might mean he's interested. Liam can only hope. His conscience tells him he'll have to break it off with the woman he's seeing—she deserves a lover who's not thinking of someone else when they make love. But ugh, does that make him the creepy guy that preys on his clients?

When fate arranges for the three of them to meet at one of South Beach's most exclusive restaurants, it's three-way fireworks all around. But when Margo's boss decides to put the kibosh on her weekend getaway, their relationship hits the wall. Unless Damien and Liam can convince Margo that there's only one kind of merger that's important… and it's all about the three of them.

Warning: contains m/m/f ménage elements, interracial/multicultural romance, BBW heroines, male/male love, and mansions on the water with kitchens we can only dream of

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Margarita Acuna—Margo, to her friends—glanced disappointedly out the window as her boss’s private jet made its final descent to Miami Executive Airport. So not what she expected Miami to look like. Instead of waving palm trees and sunny skies, all she could see through the airplane window was a flat, square checkerboard of gray, congested streets and green fields beneath a dull gray cover of clouds. So much for hitting the beach this weekend after their meetings were finished. What happened to the sunny, 80-degree forecast she’d read for the entire month of November?

Her boss, Gary Grover, turned the page of his newspaper without looking up. “Call Wilson Berretta and let them know we’re finally here. And ask them to arrange for lunch. Something good. I’m starved.”

Margo turned her attention back to her boss as he spoke. He’d loosened his tie, and with his rubbery face, receding hairline, and dandruff speckling the shoulders of his blue suit jacket, he looked more like a cheap door-to-door salesman than the CEO of one of Fort Worth’s hottest up-and-coming investment firms. He looked decidedly out of place on the white leather sofa that ran along the wall of the luxuriously appointed cabin, which should have held movie stars and dashing billionaire bad boys. Like the guys they were flying in to meet. Damien Berretta and Noah Wilson of Wilson Berretta, the hottest financial firm on the East Coast.

“Do you have any preferences for the menu?” She knew his preferences: steak, prime rib, lobster. Please God, don’t let it be lobster. There weren’t enough bibs and baby wipes to keep him presentable for the partners of Wilson Berretta if he was going to nosedive into green lobster guts and melted butter.

“Something American,” Grover said, flipping the folded newspaper over to continue reading. “I don’t want any of that Cuban crap.”

“Steak it is.” Margo sat in one of the single reclining leather seats along the wall of the cabin. On the burled wood tabletop that swung out from its pocket in the wall paneling, she’d set her open brief case, containing her laptop and the financial files Grover would need for his meeting with Wilson Berretta’s partners. They were meeting to discuss a possible merger between the two companies. Margo had everything on her phone and on the cloud, but Grover still insisted she lug around fifteen pounds of paper.

He’d told her once it was good exercise. Pinche estúpido. Like he was Mr. America.

She looked down at the 8x10 PR shot of Damien Berretta and Noah Wilson attached to one of the folders.

Now there was some exercise she wouldn’t mind getting. She ran her thumb over the paper and wondered if Damien Beretta was as exotic in person as he was in the picture. Dark hair, cut short, and dark, piercing eyes—the kind that reminded her of a hawk scouring the ground below for prey. He looked Hispanic, although his name wasn’t. Italian, maybe? He definitely had some Hispanic blood in him, though. But not Mexican, like her. In Miami it could be anything.

She straightened the hemline of her new teal blue suit. She wondered if Damien Berretta liked curvy girls. She’d bought the suit especially for this trip. Nothing said Miami like all the brightly colored art deco buildings in the historic district, and the color had seemed like a perfect fit. She also liked the way the color set off her long, dark hair and how the fitted skirt and wasp-waisted jacket gave her queen-size curves a beautiful, hourglass shape. She felt sexy and sophisticated at the same time.

And sexy and sophisticated was going to be her mantra this weekend. Working fifty to sixty hours a week for Gary and taking care of Abuela and the house left her little time to socialize. But she was going to socialize this weekend.

Oh, yeah.

Gary was flying back to Fort Worth tomorrow morning. She’d made her own arrangements to stay in South Beach all weekend and fly home on a commercial flight on Sunday night. And she was going to take advantage of everything South Beach had to offer.

And then some.

Margo let her gaze fall back to the photo of Noah Wilson and Damien Berretta. Noah Wilson was hot too, very Anglo-looking, like a Calvin Klein model. But Berretta… Dios mio, he was hot, sweet, delicious, sticky sex on a plate.

He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

Too bad he was their potential partner. She couldn’t very well flirt with a business partner. It would reflect badly on both her and her company. And she had more riding on this merger than even Gary. She needed it on her resume.

Grover turned the page of the paper and scowled, slapping at the page with the back of his hand. “Look at this. ‘Gay Rights Organization to Host Hospital Gala for At-Risk Youth.’” He gave a snort of disgust. “The only thing the youth are at risk for is being sodomized by the organizers of the ‘gay-la.’”

Margo ignored him. She was used to Gary’s bigoted rhetoric. The only thing he hated more than the gays were the liberals, and the only thing he hated more than the liberals were the illegals. Which in his mind included anyone who came over after Cortes.

She let her lips curve up in a snide little grin. Actually, he’d probably include Cortes, too. And Columbus. And the Paleolithic people who crossed the land bridge through Alaska. Anyone who hadn’t come over on the Mayflower, like his million-times-great grahnd-mothah.

She glanced back down at Damien Berretta’s picture. No ring didn’t mean he wasn't attached, though. No man who looked like that could be single. No way.

She allowed herself a little chuckle. He was probably gay.

“What’s funny?” Grover asked.

“Nothing. Just smiling because you’re going to knock ’em dead and Pinnacle is going to make a killing with this merger.”

“Save it—I’m not giving you a raise. You already make too much money.”

“And if this merger goes through you’ll give me more. Because I set the whole thing up.”

Gary gave her a wave as if he were shooing a fly. “Just make the call about lunch. We’ll be landing soon, and I’m starved.”

“Will do.”

The runway rushing by outside her window caught her eye, and a moment later, the private jet touched down with barely a bump as the tires met the tarmac. Flying around to face-to-face meetings with Gary was one of the perks of her job. She hated it, mostly, but it paid extremely well. Much better than any of her previous admin jobs or those of her friends. Margo figured it was because Gary Grover was such a jerk that he had to practically bribe people to work for him.

Which was fine. As her abuela liked to tell her, if it was supposed to be fun, they wouldn’t call it work.

Besides, it wasn’t forever. She took his crap for two reasons—money and her resume.

Money to put food on the table for Abuela and her five cats and to keep Abuela stocked with yarn to knit toilet paper cozies till kingdom come. And money to pay the mortgage on the big, beautiful house Margo had bought all by herself last year, the first person in her family born in the US, and now the first to own her own home.

And as for her resume, Gary’s laziness was her greatest asset. It gave her the opportunity to handle all the work on high-profile deals like the current merger they were discussing with Wilson Berretta. With a few more high-profile, high-profit deals like this on her resume, she’d have a proven track record of success—and she could move on to something better.

Gary stood and grabbed his briefcase off the coffee table. “Come on, what are you waiting for?” he asked, snapping his fingers in front of her face as if to wake her from her dream. “We’re already a half hour late, thanks to that rain back home. And get Wilson Berretta on the phone. I’m hungry.”

She shoved her things back into her black leather briefcase and pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket. She swiped through her contacts for Wilson Berretta’s number. Grover had exited the cabin and was heading down the little stairway that led down to the tarmac.

“Mar-go-o-o-o! Get the bags and hurry up!”

“Coming!” She stuffed her phone back into her jacket pocket. “Call Wilson Berretta. Don’t call Wilson Berretta. Make up your freaking mind.”

She stood up and smoothed down her teal skirt, threw the shoulder strap of her briefcase over her shoulder, and headed for the little closet near the entry to get their suitcases—her small carry-on sized one and his much larger one. She had no idea what he could possibly have packed for just one night. He probably just liked the idea of watching her struggle. She pulled up their handles, then tried to navigate both rolling bags one behind the other to the stairs.

Yeah, not happening. There was no way she’d be able to get down those steep, narrow stairs with two suitcases without plunging to her doom.

One at a time, then. She left her briefcase and her carry-on in the plane and wrestled Grover’s larger suitcase down the first step. It was too awkward to carry by the handle, so she had to drop it down one step at a time in front of her, step by step, plunk, plunk, plunk. Down the steep, narrow stairway she went, leaning precariously over the big suitcase in her straight pencil skirt and four inch stilettos. She had to be careful where she placed her feet on the metal stair treads, which were slippery with condensation from the humid air. She wished now that she hadn’t worn such a tight skirt.

Gary looked up at her as she descended. He was probably waiting for her to fall so he could yell at her for delaying his lunch.

“Sometime today, Margo. We’re going to be late for lunch.”

Close enough.

She finally got to the bottom, sweating in her white blouse and teal suit jacket, and handed Gary his suitcase. It was much warmer than she’d expected, even though it was cloudy and gloomy-looking. The dark tarmac seemed to reflect the heat back up at her in waves. Even though it was November, it felt like 80 degrees. It had been 60 when they’d left Fort Worth. But even though it was warm, it still looked like rain. She hoped her weekend wasn’t going to be a complete washout.

“Don’t you have a suitcase?” Gary asked her.

She smiled her best Dealing With Gary smile. “Yes, Gary, I do,” she said perkily. She headed back up the stairs and got her briefcase and carry-on. She slung the briefcase’s shoulder strap over her shoulder, then started carefully down the narrow metal steps once more, carrying her small suitcase easily by the handle in front of her with her right hand on the railing.

Grover was already half way to the terminal, his graceless, duck-footed waddle making him bob side-to-side as he walked, pulling his rolling suitcase behind him in little zigzags. She shook her head. She was a miracle worker, making that man look good.

When she got safely to the bottom of the narrow little stairway, she placed the wheeled suitcase onto the tarmac and stepped down off the last step. Or tried to.

Her right heel dug into the gap between the metal ridges in the stair tread and stuck there. Margo’s body kept on going and she nearly tumbled over her suitcase. A shriek erupted from her lips. She caught herself on the railing before she went down, but not before her momentum sent her spinning around the bottom of the rail like she was doing some kind of crazy pole dance, with luggage.

Her briefcase spun around and smacked her in the gut.


She went flying backward and landed on her butt on the tarmac.

The hot tarmac.

“Mierda!” She leaped up like a rocket and back onto the bottom stair, gaping in all directions, hoping no one had seen her little accident. No one seemed to be looking. Gary was just entering the terminal, completely oblivious.

She reached down to pick her shoe up from the step, but it wouldn’t let go.

She stared down at the traitorous stiletto. It just stood there, like a black leather version of Cinderella’s empty slipper, waiting for Prince Charming to come and pick it up.

She grabbed it with both hands and tried to wriggle the narrow heel out of the gap in the stair tread. No luck. It was stuck, and stuck good.

She pulled, shoved, scraped. It wouldn’t let go. Apparently she wasn’t charming enough.

“Chinga tu madre!” She stamped her foot in frustration and placed her hands on her hips, breathing hard. She looked around again. She wasn’t sure what for. For help? To see if anyone was witnessing this lunacy of a semi-barefoot woman wrestling a shoe like it was an alligator? No one seemed to be looking.

Finally she gave the shoe one more enormous tug, and it let go of the stair, launching her backward onto her butt on the tarmac again and she gave another grunt.

“Mierda!” she said again, scrambling to her feet and looking around. She glanced down at the shoe in her hand. The black leather that covered the narrow spike heel was torn and pulled back, revealing the slender white skeleton beneath, which was bent at an uncomfortable-looking angle. She put the shoe back on. Her right leg now rode about a half inch shorter than her left.

“Great,” she said. “My favorite shoes.” She grabbed her rolling carryon and hobbled like a drunken, peg-legged sailor toward the terminal.

Thunder cracked directly overhead, and the skies opened up, unleashing a torrential downpour onto her head.

She groaned loudly, stopped, and looked up at the sky as the rain pelted down into her face. “Really?” she asked. “Is this how it’s going to be?”

Another crack of lightning lit the sky above her.

“Fine. Be that way.”

She hefted her briefcase higher onto her shoulder and strode off through the downpour toward the terminal.

The bent heel snapped off at the sole.

“Chinga tu madre!” She pulled off her broken shoe and threw it as hard as she could at the terminal. “Come mierda y muerte! You stupid shoe!”

Then she kicked the other one off and sent it tumbling end-over-end through the air to land with a little thud on the tarmac. She grabbed her suitcase and dragged it toward the terminal, her free hand fisted and swinging beside her as she marched barefoot through the downpour, her forceful strides splashing up rainwater as she went.

Grover was standing by the snack machine eating a bag of cheese puffs when she hauled open the heavy terminal door, lugged her bag over the threshold, and made it inside. He looked up at her as she approached.

“Margo! Why are you all wet?” he asked with an expression of horror on his blubbery face and a trace of orange cheese dust on the corner of his mouth.

Margo took a deep breath and wiped a drip of rainwater off the end of her nose. “Because it’s raining,” she said. She turned and trundled off toward the ladies’ room. She was sure her mascara had turned into raccoon eyes.

“And why aren’t you wearing any shoes?”

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