Honey Do Me Read online

  Honey Do Me

  Nights In New York Book 4

  Tara Starr

  Contents

  Also by Tara Starr

  1. Carter

  2. Becca

  3. Carter

  4. Becca

  5. Carter

  6. Becca

  7. Carter

  8. Welcome to the Gossip Gurus!

  9. Becca

  10. Carter

  11. Becca

  12. Carter

  13. Becca

  14. Welcome to the Gossip Gurus!

  15. Carter

  16. Becca

  17. Carter

  18. Becca

  19. Ashley

  20. Carter

  21. Welcome to the Gossip Gurus!

  22. Becca

  23. Carter

  24. Becca

  25. Carter

  26. Becca

  27. Carter

  28. Becca

  29. Taylor

  30. Becca

  31. Carter

  32. Becca

  33. Carter

  34. Becca

  35. Welcome to the Gossip Gurus!

  36. Carter

  37. Becca

  38. Carter

  39. Becca

  40. Becca

  41. Becca

  42. Welcome to the Gossip Gurus!

  43. Carter

  44. Becca

  45. Hiram

  Also by Tara Starr

  Nights In New York: A Romantic Comedy Series

  (all books in this series are standalones)

  Book 1: Sticky Fingers

  Book 2: Man Vs. Woman

  Book 3: Broken Headboards

  Book 4: Honey Do Me

  Book 5: Bare Market

  Book 6: Pop Tart

  Book 7: Be Your Selfie

  Book 8: Hearts Don't Lie

  Book 9: #TooManyBillionaires

  Book 10: Cupid's Condo

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  Honey Do Me

  By Tara Starr

  Copyright 2019 by Tara Starr Publishing

  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.

  Chapter One

  Carter

  Yeah. You’re going to think I’m the world’s biggest asshole right about now.

  It’s only natural.

  And, in all fairness, a lot of women think that about me at first. They’re all, ‘Look at that fucking asshole. No way I’m going to give him the time of day.’

  But then, the ovary-abiding part of their brain is thinking, ‘Damn, that dude is fine. Maybe if he kept his fucking mouth shut I’d be okay with letting him run his hands up my legs.’

  Then, it transitions to, ‘Okay if no one finds out, I’d totally lick his rock-hard abs. And, if it was completely in secret, I’d totally let him squeeze my ass.’

  Then it goes a bit farther the longer you talk to me, becoming, ‘Okay, I can say I was just horny so I let him fuck me.’

  See, that’s the fucking magic of Carter Kane working on you. Because pretty soon, women will be, ‘Okay, it’ll sound bad if I say I was just horny, so I’ll just let him do me, and then say I didn’t know who he was. Maybe I can blame it on my girlfriends for not warning me.’

  Lastly, it becomes, ‘OMG. I need Carter Kane inside me! Let me bend over and shake my ass.’

  I don’t usually say shit like ‘OMG.’

  But, women do. The kind that I fuck, at least.

  You get the gist of what goes on in the female brain when they see me. There’s no way your holier-than-thou politically correct sensibilities can overcome millions of years of evolution.

  “Carter!” a voice screeches through the speakerphone as I’m being driven in my limo down Park Avenue. “Answer me! Are you breaking up with me?”

  I sigh, one of those deep, prolonged ones that you only give when someone just isn’t understanding something.

  I run a multinational, multibillion dollar import-export company. I don’t have time to deal with every single girl who thinks they’ve been wronged.

  That’s usually why I use my drive to work to end things with them.

  “That’s exactly what I’m doing, doll,” I say to the speaker as I turn on the news. “We’re through.”

  “What?!” the voice screeches. “I can’t believe this!”

  Oh, please. I’m rolling my fucking eyes. This morning’s particular harpy goes by the name of Brittney. She’s one of those typical Manhattan socialites. All she exists for is to go to the gym, go shopping, go to lunch, get dressed for drinks, get drunk, and then, get fucked.

  Yeah. There is actually an entire class of people who just fucking does all that. Living off Daddy’s money—who worked so fucking hard his whole life to leave you a fucking trust fund—so you could get on your knees every fucking night with a different fucking dude.

  I’m not bitter or anything, doll. I swear. I’m just so fucking over these women.

  “Carter!” the voice yells through the speaker again. “Are you fucking listening to me?!”

  That’s it.

  “Brittney,” I say with finality. “We fucked three weeks ago. Since then, you’ve tried to get into my building, followed me and waited for me outside of my place of work, and you’ve tried to visit my mom upstate. We’re not fucking going out. We just fucked. Yeah, so? It’s time to move on.”

  There’s silence at the other end of the line. I hate being so dramatic about it, but sometimes you gotta put your foot down.

  “I want to have your babies, Carter,” she wails. “Sex with you was life-altering.”

  Yeah, yeah. Tell me something I haven’t heard before. I got the magic cock of Manhattan, apparently. One lick, and I’m the center of their world.

  “Carter, I want you think about what you’re saying here,” Brittney drones on. “I know I can make you happy. I can suck your brain out of your cock if you give me another cha—”

  That’s not me interrupting Brittney, doll. I’m actually watching television.

  Christ. You see this shit?

  This is the fourth day that protestors have camped outside the tower that houses my firm—Kane & Company. The protesters are part of the #TooManyBillionaires movement that’s been targeting billionaires around the fucking country.

  I don’t know what Brittney is saying at this point because I’m fixated on the screen. The news is going on and on about how they’re protesting, and the size of the crowd.

  Gimme a fucking break. I’m actually heading into work to make money and provide jobs. These hippie protestors? They just want to take my hard-earned wealth and redistribute it.

  Well, what happens if they redistribute everything I’ve built?

  I got nothing left.

  “Carter Kane thinks he can hoard his wealth and keep it to himself, when the New York City Import-Export Law passes, he’ll have to pay the piper.” The news plays a clip of Becca Riordan from a few days ago as they talk about the new law.

  The fucking New York City Import-Export Law.

  It’s the reason I’m in the limo heading to work so early in the first place. To deal with this shit.

  See, the city just passed a new law at the behest of all the fucking whining bitches who feel they’ve been losing out to Kane & Company. So, the city passed a law, which states that any import-export company that operates within the city, and has more than 10,000 employees worldwide ne
eds to pay the city an extra $120—per employee— in New York City taxes each month.

  That’s an extra $1.2 million I’m going to have to pay in taxes for being successful.

  Every. Fucking. Month.

  “Carter Kane thinks he can hoard his wealth…” the image of Becca Riordan plays again, and I jerk back to the screen from looking out the window.

  I know I was talking to Brittney, but she’s so far out of my fucking mind right now that she might as well not even be on the phone, even though she’s still going on and on about what she’s going to do to me if I give her another chance.

  But…

  Becca Riordan.

  She’s pretty fucking hot.

  I mean it.

  She’s not your normal hippie-dippie, dreadlocked, pot-smoking, protest princess.

  Nah, this girl looks like she came out of the pages of fucking Vogue. She’s got class.

  And a nice fucking ass when the video zooms out.

  Lucky for me, they keep playing her on loop.

  Enough for me to to get a little hard.

  “…he’ll have to pay the piper,” she says again.

  Actually, I’m more than a little hard. I shift in my seat and unzip my pants. My massive cock pushes out and I free it from my boxer briefs.

  I need some tissues.

  Fuck, where are the fucking tissues? I don’t have any in the car. I look in the middle compartment.

  A personal hygiene box!

  Fuck, yeah.

  I open it up.

  It’s filled with condoms.

  Jesus. That says something about me. I don’t have tissues or bandaids in my limo, but I do have condoms.

  Whatever. It’ll do. I tear one out, and roll the condom over my throbbing dick while staring at Becca on the television.

  This Becca Riordan is going to give me satisfaction this morning to make up for the fucking law and her endless protests.

  I start stroking my cock slowly.

  She’s got beautiful blondish-brown hair. Her ass is something you want to fucking squeeze as you pull her close. And, why are you? So you can run your tongue over her massive fucking tits and then suck on them.

  That’s right. This protestor who is trying to improve humanity or some shit is nothing more than an objectified piece of meat to me right now.

  I’m grunting hard.

  “Carter, are you masturbating to me?” I barely hear Brittney say over the speaker. “Am I turning you on, big boy?”

  I don’t reply because the news clip shows Becca turning around to address her audience in a pair of black yoga pants, which frame her ass in a way that just makes me want to…

  AARGH!

  I’m fucking cumming.

  It’s a massive load.

  Shit.

  I see spots for a moment, and I’m breathing heavily, too.

  When I finally come to, I see a condom that’s about to burst.

  Jesus, I really needed that orgasm. I take the condom off my cock.

  We’re getting close to my building anyway. The protestors are already lined up on the streets.

  I need to get rid of this condom.

  I twist it and toss it out the window. It’s pretty much done.

  Yeah. I just did that.

  I know. It’s bad to litter. But, whatever.

  See, I told you you’d think I was a fucking bastard. But, trust me, doll, I will get better.

  By the end of this book, you’ll love me. You’ll see that I’m actually a good fucking guy.

  All I’m asking for is a chance to show you.

  The car stops and I get out, all zipped up. I hope I hung up on Brittney, but she’ll get the message sooner or later.

  Security stops the protestors from following me, and I walk quickly into the lobby where my camera crew is already waiting.

  See, I’m already prepared to deliver my response to the new law.

  I get in front of the cameras and the technician signals to me that I’m now live. I’m streaming to every single employee desktop, smartphone, and office TV in Kane & Company.

  “Good morning from New York City,” I begin, clearing my throat. “Yesterday evening, the New York City Council passed a tax that unfairly targets Kane & Company. We have to pay an additional tax for every worldwide employee. In response to this measure, effective today, I am converting every employee in Kane & Company, including myself, from an employee to an independent contractor.”

  See, an independent contractor gets my company around the fucking law, so that’s what I’ll do.

  “As of now, all your employment is terminated, and you now work at Kane & Company on a temporary, as needed, contractor basis. Human Resources will have more answers to your questions. That’s all.”

  The technician tells me the live feed is off, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  That was rough. There’s probably going to be a bunch of confused employees.

  People are probably going to call me a whole lot of names out there in the world when they hear what I did.

  Like, I’m an elitist billionaire asshole cocksucker. Or something similar.

  But, I swear, they’re not being given the same chance you are. See, you’re with me. You’re going to see how I’m actually not an asshole, and how fucking awesome I actually am going to be as a person once you get to know me.

  Trust me, doll. You’ll want to stick around.

  Let the world call me whatever it wants.

  You and I know by the end of this book, there’s only one thing you’re gonna call me.

  ‘Baby.’

  Chapter Two

  Becca

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I yell.

  I can’t believe this is happening to me.

  Did I piss off The Big Guy upstairs?

  Do I have a store of bad karma God himself is delivering to me?

  Please don’t have me catch my boyfriend cheating on me at my own place of work.

  Not today, of all days.

  “This isn’t what it looks like,” Peter, my asshole boyfriend, stammers. He backs away from the conference table and tries to pull his pants up, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

  I can’t believe he’s actually using that line.

  “’This isn’t what it looks like?!’” I repeat, my eyes glued on the petite brunette laying down on the conference table, her dress hiked up so high I can see her naked breasts. “Because it looks like you’ve been fucking one of my staffers, Peter!”

  “Well, technically, she isn’t one of your staffers,” he tries, backing against the end wall of the room as I step further inside. “She’s a volunteer, you know? I was just trying to show her how—”

  “Don’t you give me that bullshit,” I hiss through gritted teeth. My fingernails are digging into the palm of my hands, and my heart is beating a thousand times per minute.

  Right now, there’s only one adjective that can describe me.

  Murderous.

  I swear, I’m going to kill that man! Step aside, OJ, this is how it’s done.

  “Becca, please, I—”

  “Don’t even try to say you’re sorry,” I cut him short, immediately taking off one of my high heels and brandishing it like a knife. “Swear to God, you try to apologize your way out of this, and I’ll donate your balls to the local tennis club.”

  The moment I say it, all color drains from his face.

  He knows I mean it.

  Good.

  Because I really fucking mean it.

  Imagine, babe, if you walked in on your significant other banging someone you worked with. You’d be upset, too, right? I mean, there’s a reason they say there should be no cheating in romance novels.

  It sucks. People don’t want to read that shit. Too bad I’m having to go through it right now.

  With his back against the wall, he tries to fasten his belt with trembling fingers, but he’s so nervous, he can’t even do it, and his pants fall down to his ankles. His miniature-si
zed dick peeks from under the hemline of his shirt, and I can’t help but wonder why the hell have I put up with this asshole for so long.

  He doesn’t treat me nicely, and he never brings me flowers. We never really go out. He even forgot my birthday last month. He’s not there for me when I need him to be, and he has never made me breakfast. He’s always asking me for money to cover his rent, and he never pays me back.

  And, most important of all, the sex sucks.

  Want proof? Let’s just say that I send at least a half dozen emails in the five minutes it takes Peter to pump his way to premature ejaculation when he’s having sex with me.

  I’ve never asked him, “is it in yet?” because I didn't want to crush his ego.

  And, afterwards, when he acts like he’s God’s gift to women, I stare off into the distance, thinking about what I’m going to wear, and if there’s a makeup sale somewhere.

  I can’t even jerk him off because his dick is too small.

  I know. It sucks. It makes for a great story to commiserate with girlfriends over wine. Too bad it also makes for a pretty sad sex life.

  I mean, when I first met him, ladies, ladies—he seemed funny. But then after I watched his three favorite movies…wait, the only three movies he likes…I realized that he didn’t have an ounce of any humor in him, just more time on his hands than people who work for a living. But I didn’t break up with him. I know, my bad.