Page 1 of Filthy Mouth
Prologue
Benedict
I tried not to stare at Magnus in disgust, but when he choked up saying his vows to his young bride, I almost threw up. I did have the foresight to pass Iris a tissue. The man made her bawl at her wedding. Or maybe it was the pregnancy hormones Magnus kept banging on about like he was the one carrying the child.
I never thought my friend of twenty-seven years would become so utterly pussy-whipped. The number of times I’d had to hang up on him was reaching critical levels. Then there were the three a.m. phone calls, like a distressed teenager in jeopardy. Benedict, she cried. Benedict, she called me Daddy in public. Benedict, I can’t stop fucking her.
Okay. I might be exaggerating a tad, but I wasn't far off.
Honestly, what the fuck?
But he couldn’t have Google as his best man, so here I was—old, jealous, and bitter about my good friend’s ridiculous fortune. Two failed marriages in my twenties and thirties had left me just cynical enough to doubt this one, too.
I glanced around at the guests.
Weddings. If nothing else, they were prime hook-up territory. All that love in the air made people desperate.
Chapter 1
Benedict
Rain trickled down the window. The grey skies were as dark as my mood.
This prestigious address was proof of my success—a high-rise office in the heart of London's financial district. I was a forty-five-year-old billionaire, and not many people could boast about that—except for Magnus Trentham, who was a few months younger than me. My friend, who’d recently met, knocked up, and married his sugar baby.
They now had a perfect baby on the way.
That lucky son of—I ran a hand through my thick, long hair. At least I wasn’t as grey as Magnus. It still burned that I was jealous of my best friend.
Perhaps a hook-up was in order. I pulled my phone from my pocket and scrolled through my contacts. None of them appealed to me. With a grunt, I stuffed it back.
What the fuck was this inertia?
I should’ve been living my life to the max. Nothing was tying me down, and I was in the prime of my life. Bar hopping might do it. Maybe I’d find someone who interests my brain as well as my dick.
??????
When I laid eyes on her, it wasn’t the auburn hair or the curves that caught my attention—it was her lips. Pink. Not the kind swollen with filler, but naturally plump, slicked with gloss, and so fucking ripe I almost licked my own.
I glanced further down, beneath the table.
She wore Jimmy Choo sling-backs.
I searched their website—they were the latest season’s shoes. After two wives, I’d learned that shit. Even in London, she looked too young to be earning a high salary.
That left only one conclusion.
My perfect-mouthed lady was a prostitute. If I paid the right price, I might persuade her to dig deep and get extra nasty with me.
I went to the bar to find out what she was drinking. Armed with drinks, I rushed to her table before some other man took up her services. By hook or by crook, that sexy mouth was mine tonight.
“Hello,” I said, accompanied by my most seductive smile.
Her eyes flicked up from her phone. Hazel, with a tinge of green around the edges—highly unusual.
“I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward. I bought you a drink,” I said, setting her glass down.“If you’re in the mood for some company—”
The corners of her full, well-shaped pink lips turned upward.
