WARNING: You are about to meet Kline Brooks, the swooniest billionaire of them all.
Please prepare yourself in advance to laugh, to swoon, and to fall head over heels in love because your new favorite book boyfriend is right here, officially in your hands.
Swoony Billionaire: The Kline Brooks Collection includes the following books:
Tapping the Billionaire
Tapping Her
Plus, a brand-new, hilarious novella—Be My Billionaire Valentine
And, because you’re so special—and because Thatcher Kelly is bound to be locked in your brain like a (charming) parasite by the time you reach the end of this collection—we’ve included an excerpt from Banking the Billionaire, the next book in our best-selling Billionaire Bad Boys Series and a standout reader favorite since its release.
Now that you know, please don’t buy a voodoo doll in our honor because Swoony Billionaire: The Kline Brooks Collection concludes at around 90%. We’re not very good at writing through any kind of pain. And trust us, once you finish this sexy and hilarious collection, you’re going to be ready for more Max Monroe billionaires and romantic comedies, and if you hit us with some kind of voodoo lightning strike, there’ll be no one left to write them.
Also, due to the hilarious nature of this book’s content, reading in public is not recommended. And we strongly suggest that you reconsider (aka: don’t do it) eating and/or drinking and/or operating heavy machinery while reading.
Happy Reading!
All our love,
Max & Monroe
This collection—my collection—is dedicated to every woman who has never had
a book dedicated to her.
This is for you, sweetheart.
Well, you and my Georgie. Because I value my life, and in order to keep it, I have to uphold my promise to value her above all other women.
But I can promise you this: You’re all in good company.
All my love,
Kline Brooks
Fuck you very much, Leslie.
You always manage to ruin everything, but you didn’t ruin this.
Disclaimer: You are NOT the Leslie we’re talking about. No, really.
You’re not her. We swear. It’s another Leslie. One you don’t know and have never heard of. Camp Love Yourself Scout’s honor.
I’m Kline Brooks.
Harvard graduate.
President and CEO of Brooks Media.
Net worth: $3.5 billion.
Devilishly handsome. How do I know this? I was prom king two years in a row.
Highly intelligent. Proof? I can solve any Rubik’s Cube, in front of your face, with magic fingers.
Certified master of female orgasms. My fingers, my tongue, my cock—I can make you scream, “I’m coming!” before you even realize I’ve removed your panties with my teeth. Not the almost orgasms that spur a pathetic moan and half-ass whimper. No. I’m talking toe-curling, back-arching, earth-shattering Os that will leave your voice hoarse, your body shaking, and pack a punch so powerful you’ll be left a sliver of intensity short of unconscious.
Am I piquing your interest?
Should I mention my cock is the kind of cock that’s actually dick-pic worthy? I’m not talking an average six-inch shaft. I’m talking big. Thick. Smooth. And hard. Especially when there’s work to be done.
Or maybe all I’ve done is turn you off. Are you thinking I’m like every classless man out there who’s literally a disgrace to my gender?
The type of spineless dicks who won’t call the next day. The guys who specialize in late-night booty calls but refuse to take a woman out on an actual date. Yeah, you know exactly who I’m talking about. Those idiots who have women thinking staying single for the rest of their lives is a better alternative than dealing with the bullshit that’s running rampant in the dating world.
Well, I’m not that kind of guy.
I say what I mean and mean what I say. I don’t kiss and tell. I call the next day. And if I’m interested in a woman, I will take her out on a date. I’ll open doors for her. I’ll pull out her chair. And I’ll never be the kind of horny bastard who texts dick pics—unless the right woman begs me for them.
Bottom line, I’m a gentleman. I prefer monogamy to serial dating and fucking my way through New York City. I’ve spent the past few years avoiding the kind of women most would label “gold diggers” and trying out a couple of girlfriends in between. I’ve looked for the kind of woman I want, but lately, I have to admit I haven’t put in as much effort. My focus has been on my company—building it to what it is and then keeping it that way, not only for me, but for all of the people who work so hard for me.
Until Georgia Cummings.
She’s fiery, beautiful, has this sassy attitude that demands attention from everyone within her orbit, and is worth way more in value of character than I am in money.
I don’t know how I missed her.
I don’t know why it took me so long to really see her.
Two years, right there in front of my face as my Director of Marketing.
Maybe it’s because I need to stop drowning myself in work so much. Maybe she didn’t want to be seen.
No matter the reason, it only took one spur-of-the-minute decision for this remarkable woman to come barreling into my world.
I wasn’t prepared for her.
And I sure as hell had no idea she’d knock me on my fucking ass.
Because the nice guy who believes in real love enough to build his entire fortune from a dating website?
That’s me.
And this story?
Well, that’s us.
My eyes! Dear God, my eyes!
There were things in life that, once seen, were damn near impossible to forget. A bleach scrub…acid straight to the retinas…three hours of perfect porn GIFs…hell, even a lobotomy wouldn’t remove those kinds of images.
Lucky for me, I had come across not one, not two, but four day-destroying pictures. Dick pics, to be more specific. And let’s just say this latest one was not pic-worthy. Not by a long shot. Or a short shot, if I took size into consideration. This was the kind of pic that would leave any woman wondering why. Why? Why would anyone want to advertise they were the owner of this?
It was the gremlin of male members—and the sole reason my night had taken a turn for the worse. What was supposed to be a nice evening in, watching TV with my best friend and roommate, Cassie, had turned into a nightmare of pubes, wrinkled balls, and a crown that was not fit for a king.
I banged my fingers across the keypad with a response.
TAPRoseNEXT (11:37PM): Is that your dick? Really? REALLY?
TapNext was the latest and greatest dating-site-turned-app for single men and women to meet, chat, and, hopefully, find their next date. Generally speaking, it was a better alternative to nights out at a bar or club. Because, for me, those nights had the same ending—politely declining the thrilling (insert heavy sarcasm) offer of hooking up with some random dude at his apartment, one hell of a hangover, and weird guys with names like Stanley or Milton sending me texts for late-night booty calls for the next month. Which I always ignored.