Carrying the Billionaire's Baby (Breeding Erotic Romance)

CARRYING THE BILLIONAIRE’S BABY, BOOK 1

THE BILLIONAIRE’S
OFFER

Gwendolyn Bridges

Smashwords Edition,
Copyright 2013

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Somewhere between my 25
^th
birthday and the note Jason
left near the front door, I hit rock bottom.

My birthday itself hadn’t
been that bad, really. Good friends and better wine. But hitting
the quarter life milestone was hard on me. I was forced to look at
all that I had accomplished since I had dropped out of college
following my freshman year. And the truth was that there wasn’t
much to look at. A few crappy part-time jobs. A checking account
always at risk of overdraft. A too small apartment that had twice
been hit with bed bugs. That was hard to take.

Jason’s note hit even
harder.
April
, it
read.
I have to leave.
And then nothing else. He had taken all his stuff when I was
at work and moved on after four years of dating. I didn’t hear from
him again. My texts went unanswered, my phone calls straight to
voicemail. He was a ghost.

So there I was, seemingly
an adult now, but with no degree, no real work experience and no
boyfriend, facing a one-bedroom apartment lease that I couldn’t
even begin to afford on my own, even if it was a roach-infested
hellhole. I was in trouble. Big trouble. I hadn’t been able to land
a full-time job for six months, which meant my credit cards were
close to their limit. That plus the rent would be the end of me. I
thought about going to my parents for a loan, but that seemed so
sad. I was 25. I needed to stand on my own. That meant finding some
dollars quickly. I was desperate.

That’s when I saw the
online ad that changed everything.

“SURROGATE WANTED,” it
started, in big bold letters. “Family seeks experienced surrogate
to carry child to term. Must be discreet. References required. Will
pay upwards of $50,000 for successful insemination and
delivery.”

That figure caught my eye.
Fifty thousand dollars. I had never made so much money in my life.
With that kind of cash, I’d be set. I could go back to school and
get my degree. Do things right this time.

But carrying another
couple’s child? That was something I had never considered. I hadn’t
even really ever thought of having children. It seemed like an
impossible dream with the kind of men I had ended up dating. None
of them were really father material.

But, as I sat and stared
at my laptop screen, I tried to convince myself I’d be good at it.
I had always had the kind of wide hips that made my grandma talk
about how I’d be able to deliver her a whole mess of grandchildren.
Truthfully, I had never really taken that kind of thing as a
compliment. I had spent most of my life trying to make my hips
smaller. But now, I thought, maybe my birthing hips could pay
off.

It seemed crazy. But the
note stuck with me, especially as time wore on and the due date for
next month’s rent got closer. Fifty thousand dollars. That would
change everything.

“Strip,” ordered the older
woman in a brusque voice. “Remove your clothes now.”

She was all business, this
Ms. Brook. I don’t know what I had expected, going in to interview
for the right to carry another man’s child. But I could never have
predicted this.

The whole process had felt
weird from the day I finally worked up the courage to call the
number in the surrogate ad. I had worked out in advance everything
I’d say, but the call was surprisingly brief.

“What’s your name?” the
women’s voice on the other end of the life asked.

“April O’Connor, ma’am,” I
responded, doing my best to sound polished and
professional.

“Right,” said the voice,
sounding bored. “Okay, the first interview is Tuesday at 6 p.m. You
know where the Atherstone Tower is?”

I did know. Everyone knew.
The Atherstone Tower was the biggest building on the city skyline,
topped off just a few years ago.

“Um, yes,” I
answered.

“Right, okay. Well, your
interview is there. Top floor. Just talk to the desk when you
arrive.”

I was confused.
“It’s
at
the
tower?”

The voice sighed. “Yes. 6
p.m. Bring your résumé and references. Thanks.”

The line went dead after
that. I spent the next few hours trying to figure out what it all
meant. An interview to be a surrogate at the swanky headquarters of
one of the country’s largest consulting firms? That didn’t make a
lot of sense. Weren’t these things usually held at people’s houses?
And the top floor — wasn’t that the penthouse?

It turned out the top
floor
was
the
penthouse. That’s where I met Ms. Brook along with two dozen other
girls who were apparently also in the running for this surrogate
job. The other girls were similar enough to me — mostly young,
mostly nervous. The majority of them were skinner than me, I guess,
but we were all cut from the same cloth. We all looked nervous in
our ill-fighting professional clothes. I had worn a grey pencil
skirt and a simple white blouse. The other girls were similarly
dressed, some in pantsuits, some in simple dresses.

Not that what we were
wearing mattered much. Ms. Brook ordered us to remove our clothes
soon after she introduced herself.

I was surprised when she
entered and began talking to the entire group. I had figured we’d
be interviewed one-by-one, presumably with questions asked by the
family. Was Ms. Brook part of the family that wanted the child? Or
was she some kind of broker or specialist? It was impossible to
tell. And she wasn’t coming forward with any
information.

“Ladies, this is not your
typical surrogacy. This is a very exclusive and demanding
opportunity. Only the very best of you will be asked to carry this
child.” She was an older woman, in her late fifties, I guessed. She
carried herself with an exact grace, her body tiny and slender in
her perfectly-fitted pantsuit, her auburn hair tied back in a bun
so tight it looked painful. She spoke in a British accent,
enunciating her words as if we’d have trouble understanding her
otherwise.

The would-be surrogates
and I looked at each other nervously when she ordered us to remove
our clothes. We hadn’t said anything at all to one another when we
sat waiting in the opulence of the Atherstone penthouse. I felt
very small in the cavernous room, standing next to big glass
windows. Looking at Ms. Brook, I felt even smaller.

When none of us moved, Ms.
Brook repeated her order. “Remove your clothes, ladies. I will not
be asking again.”

With that, four of the
girls in the room turned to leave, crowding into the elevator and
descending away from the odd scene in the penthouse. That left
twenty of us, standing and staring, gobsmacked, unsure of what to
do next.

Finally, I decided to be
bold. What did I have to lose? With fifty thousand dollars at
stake, I could stand a little weirdness. And it wasn’t like Ms.
Brook looked like she could really hurt us. Besides, while I’ve
never been particularly proud of my body — too curvy, I’ll admit,
to match the kinds of girls you see in magazines — I had long
resolved to never be ashamed of it.

So I took the lead,
unbuttoning my blouse with determined fingers, revealing my plain
black bra. Next, I unzipped my skirt and started pulling it down.
As I did, I noticed that the other girls in the room had taken a
cue for me, starting to shed their clothes. One girl with a skinny
build hadn’t even bothered to wear a bra. Her small breasts were
exposed to the room, tiny nipples standing attention in the
air-conditioned air.

When I stepped out of my
skirt, I realized suddenly that Ms. Brook had approached
me.

“Good girl,” she said.
“What’s your name?”

She stood in front of me,
so close I could feel the warmth of her breath on my skin. I wore
only my bra and a mismatched pair of white cotton panties. The
older women stared at me with fierce eyes.

“Um,” I stammered.
“A-april. April O’Connor. Ma’am.”

Ms. Brook gave me a
half-smile. “Good, April,” she said. “I appreciate very much your
initiative.”

She stepped back and
looked around, surveying the women in the room, all of which were
now standing in some variety of underwear. I found myself gawking
at the woman next to me, heavyset and older, whose breasts seemed
so gargantuan it was hard to imagine how she managed to walk
upright.

“I said
strip
, ladies,” announced Ms. Brook.
“Everything off.”

There was little hesitation
this time. I reached behind me and unclasped my bra, only allowing
a small thought to cross my mind as I did.
This is crazy
, I thought.
This is a perverted game
. But then I weighed the possible outcomes. Either I made
fifty thousand dollars or I’d lose my apartment. Put like that,
nakedness was no big cost.

This is worth a
shot
, I reminded myself, as I let my bra
fall to the floor. Despite my better instincts, I enjoyed the
feeling of cold air on my full breasts.

I glanced around. Most of
the remaining women had joined me in nakedness, though another few
had taken the opportunity to grab their clothes and head for the
elevator. This seemed to be a game of attrition, though it was
maybe the weirdest game I’ve ever played.

There was maybe a dozen of
us left in the room, all naked. Across from me stood an incredibly
striking blonde, who looked almost as if she could be a model. Her
full breasts seemed almost impossibly firm, showing no signs of
sagging. I felt embarrassed for a second, comparing my own body to
hers. Despite being about the same age as her, my chest had already
started to sag. And while I kind of liked my hourglass figure, her
body fit the magazine ideal — skinny all the way down.

I was convinced that the
blonde girl would be the one chosen for the job. My face
fell.
All this for
nothing
, I thought.

Ms. Brook commanded us to
gather in a circle. We obeyed. She had us spread our arms and turn
around as she stood in the centre and surveyed the scene. We
obeyed. I didn’t know why all of us girls in the penthouse were so
obedient — I could only assume that maybe the other girls were in
the same boat as me. They must have been desperate.

“All right,” said Ms.
Brook finally, speaking in a quiet monotone voice. “Thank you all
for coming. Thank you all for listening. I am rather glad you are
not like those… other girls.” She scoffed, gesturing toward the
elevator that the other applicants had used to escape.

A silence hung in the
area. None of us knew what to do. Ms. Brook finally cleared her
throat, surveying us again. “I have selected three of you to go on
to the interview with Mr. Atherstone.”

Mr. Atherstone?
The name took me by surprise. Maybe I should have
figured it out earlier, but I had never even considered that the
surrogacy would be for the billionaire owner of the building we all
stood in. Besides, Mr. Atherstone was single, wasn’t he? His wife
had…

Ms. Brook interrupted my
train of thought by announcing her choices. “You,” she said,
pointing to the skinny blonde girl.
Of
course
, I thought drily, trying not to be
too jealous. Next, she pointed to a full-hipped Asian woman on the
other side of the room, who had a pretty round face and an amazing
smile. The Asian woman grinned widely when she was
chosen.

That left just one
remaining slot. Looking around the room, I didn’t hold out much
hope. I was one of the bigger girls there — and I certainly didn’t
like anything like a woman who might deliver an heir to a
billionaire. I couldn’t even imagine what kind of life a man like
Mr. Atherstone might lead, but I knew it would be far different
from what I was used to in tiny apartments and paycheck-to-paycheck
living.