Honey Girl by Juliette Jones
Alexander Wolfe is a billionaire whose priorities used to include work, money and total control. No longer. He now has only one obsession: his beautiful new fiancée Lila, whose combined innocence and sultry femininity drive him to the brink. Their attraction began as an uncontrollable lust and has bloomed into an all-encompassing love affair that awes them both. If Alexander could have it his way, he would confine Lila to his private penthouse and bask in the glow of her sensual charms day and night.
But when reality forces its way into Alexander and Lila’s private world in the form of Alexander’s supermodel ex-girlfriend, Alexander’s brother Jake’s impending prison sentence, and a very persistent work colleague of Alexander’s – who just happened to be present at a recent wild night of poker that got a little out of control – things get complicated.
Will the drama drive them apart, or is Alexander and Lila’s love strong enough to get them to the altar?
HONEY GIRL is the second book in the BILLIONAIRE series (and can also stand alone).
HONEY GIRL by Juliette Jones (Chapter 1)
He laid next to me, still asleep. His black hair was all askew, framing his face in artful, silky disarray. The cinnamon skin of his brawny shoulders looked dark, as always, next to my pale curves. He laid on his stomach, his face turned towards me, his muscular arm curled around a pillow. His full lips were barely parted, his face peaceful. He looked young in his sleep. Relaxed. That visceral, male aggression that clung to him softened when he slept, but the innate arrogance was somehow still there. In the curve of his mouth. In his strong features and the dark stripes of his eyebrows. I watched him sleep for a few minutes, fascinated by his mesmerizing flawlessness. He was astoundingly beautiful.
He had the build of an athlete. Tall and toned with graceful bones. Powerful, with the kind of strength that draws your eye and makes you aware of it. Of how easily it would be for him to use it. On you. Of how brutal he could be when he drove his immense, thick, hard-as-stone cock deep into you, forcing wave after wave of raw, lustrous pleasure.
I could have touched him, with feather-light strokes across his shoulders. Down his back. I could have rubbed myself against him and kissed his perfect lips, licking him, tasting the minted, drugging flavor of him. I knew he’d be instantly ready for me.
Alexander was always ready.
But today was the day I was starting my new job. As Alexander’s assistant.
Not as his assistant, I reminded myself. As his business partner.
This whirlwind romance had not only landed me a gorgeous sex-god of a fiancé, it had also placed me at the right hand of one of the most powerful CEOs in New York City: founder, owner and mastermind of Wolfe Enterprises. Alexander was the executive of the esteemed and hugely successful magazine Skyscraper. He also owned two major book publishers and ran several investment companies, hedge funds, and a number of cash cow Internet businesses.
He was a type-A genius with a dark side and a voracious carnal appetite. Which he took out on me whenever he got the opportunity. Which was, it had to be said … often.
It was Monday morning. Early. Earlier than we usually woke. We’d become night owls, the two of us. Darkness was our erotic haven, where we could exist only for each other.
I didn’t regret a single decision. Of course I didn’t. But sometimes when I stopped to think about things, like now, in the quiet of a purple-skied dawn, I almost felt a sense of vertigo from the gargantuan shift my life had taken over the course of exactly two months.
Two months ago, I’d been a capable yet fumbling, unemployed, broke, virginal recent-graduate who dressed in baggy clothes, wore unfashionable glasses, had a bad haircut and who preferred to keep all members of the opposite sex at arm’s length. And now? Well, times had most definitely changed. At least when it came to one particular member of the opposite sex.
I lay in the semi-darkness and took in my surroundings. The heavy, decorative drapes that framed Alexander’s – our – bedroom windows were never drawn. We were too high up to be visible to the mortals down below. Our view overlooked the distant streets, the treetops of Central Park, the gritty, graceful skyline of some of New York’s most expensive real estate. It was early October and the deep indigo of the city night hung on. The quiet, expansive room hummed with plush, cocooned luxury. Alexander’s bed was huge, swathed in expensive cotton and silk, most of which had been displaced and/or rumpled by our lovemaking.
At this, I’d proven a prodigy. Whoever thought virgins took things slow once they finally got going at the advanced age of twenty … well, they hadn’t put me in a locked room with Alexander Wolfe. It had taken all of thirty minutes for us to get not only intimate but downright feral. There had been a desperation to it that I still couldn’t explain. Physically, we were like magnets. Greedy, super strength magnets who had no choice or control. None of it made sense, really. That we’d been willing to risk everything to get as close as humanly possible from that very first encounter – and every encounter since. Who does that? What highly educated, soon-to-be professional, modern woman throws all – and I mean all – caution to the wind just to get down and dirty with a ridiculously sexy, overconfident billionaire?
This one, apparently.
He was my drug and my addiction. With him, lines became skewed and normal considerations simply did not apply. To not get close to him proved impossible. To not want to get close to him seemed insane.
My lover. My devil and my saint. My strength and my weakness.
Beautiful, crazy Alexander. All mine.