BILLIONAIRE

Part 1

by Juliette Jones

Copyright © 2013 Juliette Jones

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed or scanned in any electronic

or printed form without permission.

BILLIONAIRE is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

Cover art photo used under license from Shutterstock.com

First Edition: February 2013

BILLIONAIRE (Part 1)

Lila

I felt a cool sense of confidence as I rode the elevator skywards, not because I thought I was

in the running for the job I was about to interview for, but for the opposite reason. It was a dream

job, beyond the scope of my experience, and I knew I was unlikely to score a gig this good. Sure, I

had an English degree from Princeton; I’d graduated near the top of my class; I’d brought along a

portfolio of publishing credits. But I was hardly alone in those credentials. The small, neat ad for

CEO’s assistant at Skyscraper would attract the best of the best. Every college graduate within a

three-state radius would be clambering to get their résumés seen. Not because we had a lifelong

dream to be a CEO’s assistant, but because an underling job like this one would lead to other

opportunities within the company. And it was a company that every aspiring writer and journalist

alike would have sold their teeth to work for. That rare combination of glamorous and highly

acclaimed, Skyscraper was the It magazine of the year. I knew most of the other applicants would

have more experience than I had, which happened to be exactly none, since I’d graduated only two

weeks ago.

So it was with a sense of resigned defeat that I approached the meeting. Still, as I checked

out my look in the glass reflection of the polished elevator walls, I couldn’t help but notice that my

new makeover had definitely done wonders. At the insistence of my roommate, Eva, who’d

orchestrated not only a shopping spree but also a pampering frenzy, I’d undergone a startling

transformation. I had a stylish new haircut. I’d been massaged, waxed, trimmed, glossed and

groomed to within an inch of my life. New city, new priorities, Eva had proclaimed. You’re no

longer a student, you’re a hot young urban professional, she’d told me. Living the dream in New

York City. I’d argued that I wasn’t a professional until I actually landed a job but she’d laughed that

comment off as a technicality. Looking like you do, it’s only a matter of time, she said. Employers

love hot, and you, my friend, are the total package. Time would tell if Eva’s estimations were at all

accurate.

I tried to let her enthusiasm rub off on me as I studied my own reflection. My long, honey-

blond hair fell in sleek, waving skeins; highlights of platinum caught the light. My incongruously dark

eyelashes had been lengthened by some carefully-applied mascara. A light green wrap sweater over

a short black skirt hugged my curves and emphasized the green of my eyes. I had wondered if the V of

the neckline was too low for a job interview but Eva had laughed at my prudishness and ordered me

to ‘get real’. She’d even insisted that I wear no bra or underwear. According to Eva, it was the

secret to success. It gives you an added sensuality that no one can quite put their finger on, according

to Eva. I’d protested, of course, but her mulishness had won me over. Just try it, she’d insisted.

You’ll see. So here I was, clad from head to toe in exactly one layer of clothing. To-die-for black

leather boots completed the outfit. The boots had cost a fortune, but Eva had reasoned that the cost

would spur my impetus to get earning as quickly as possible. I didn’t bother telling her I had that

impetus anyway, cringing every time I thought of my student loan. Anyway, I knew I’d never looked

better. And it was true: my wanton secret made me feel bold and somehow risqué.

With that in mind, as the elevator binged and the doors slid open, I took a deep breath,

squared my shoulders and entered the lobby of Skyscraper. A lone receptionist sat behind a large

mahogany desk with a massive print of the New York skyline mounted on the wall behind her. She

watched me approach and took in my hair, my body and my boots with a somewhat critical eye. If I

had worried that more than hint of my own cleavage was visible, I laid that concern decisively to rest

now, as the receptionist’s ample breasts were barely concealed by an almost-sheer fitted black top.

Her outfit, her gleaming long dark hair and ruby red lips seemed to announce that her after-work plans

were already on her mind. Employers love hot. Apparently so.

“Lila Carmichael?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m meeting with the interview panel at three o’clock.”

“Actually, Miss Carmichael, several members of the panel are otherwise engaged this

afternoon. You’ll be meeting with Mr. Wolfe himself.”

I had heard rumors about Alexander Wolfe’s reclusiveness and also his ruthlessness and

acumen when it came to matters of business, but even so, I felt a small sense of relief. Public

speaking had never been my strongpoint, and a one-on-one meeting sounded less intimidating than a

full-blown inquisition before a panel of many.

“He’s expecting you,” said the receptionist. “Go right on down this hallway. Take the

elevator up to the 27th Floor.”

The phone rang and the receptionist gestured down the long wood-panelled hallway before

she picked it up. I wanted to ask her what number Mr. Wolfe’s office was, but she was already

immersed in conversation. His door probably had his name on it, I reasoned.

Fine, I thought. I can handle this. No problem. A brief interrogation by a stuffy publishing

executive, followed by a dismissive ‘We’ll call you if we’re interested’. I knew already it was a

phone call that would probably never come. I’d wait a few weeks before reality settled in, as I

meanwhile resumed my search through the classifieds for an opportunity that might be slightly more

realistic.

I walked down the hallway, finding the elevator. I wondered if this was a private elevator. I

knew it was not the same one that accessed the lobby of the building. And as the doors closed, I

noticed the elevator car had an opulent air, with gold features and lengths of plush velvet panelling.

When I reached the 27th floor – the top floor – I stepped out to a glass hallway boasting a killer view

of the city below. There were several swanky leather chairs flooded with sunlight that I wouldn’t

have minded sitting in for a while, appreciating the view. Next to the chairs was a single door. So

Mr. Wolfe was the only executive with an office on the 27th floor. Maybe he was the president of the

company, or the lone CEO –a thought that didn’t help ease my nervousness. I wished now that I’d

read up on the power structure of Skyscraper. I’d only seen the ad in the paper two days ago and

between my shopping agenda and Eva’s grooming-appointment schedule, I hadn’t had time.

I knocked on the door.

It may have been a full minute before the door opened. A man stood there, silhouetted

momentarily by the sunlight streaming in from behind him. If I had been expecting an ordinary,

middle-aged, work-addled managerial type, I was sorely mistaken. In fact, it took a few moments for

my eyes to adjust to the extent of my miscalculation. There was nothing ordinary about this god-like

creature.

He was tall, and big, dominating the space entirely. His black hair was neat but slightly

longer than one might expect from a man of power, which he clearly was; it touched his collar, lightly

curling in places. He wore an extremely well-cut suit but didn’t appear entirely at ease in it, as

though it constricted a natural wildness that could barely be contained.

“Mr. Wolfe?” I said, and my question came out breathy and cautious.

His eyes were as black as his hair and were narrowed in surprise at the sight of me, as

though I had somehow caught him off guard. His face was swarthy and tanned, and his features were

incongruously rugged for the setting, as though he spent more time sailing the Southern seas or

wrangling broncos than doing deals in an oppressive, airless boardroom. He was too masculine to be

called beautiful but it was a word that came to mind. His full lips twisted into a slight sneer as he

motioned with one hand for me to enter, his eyes trailing intently across my face and my body as I

stood before him.

“Ms. Carmichael.” His voice was deep, tinged with bass notes that sounded almost like a

purr. “Please, come in.”

I experienced a violent rush of contradicting urges. Deep-rooted instincts piqued with

genuine warning, which I found unsettling. Was he dangerous? Even more disconcertingly, these

warnings were overridden by a potent wave of undiluted longing, which stunned me with its

ferocity. I don’t care if he’s dangerous, I thought. I could not tear my gaze away from his huge,

broad shoulders and his strong arms, where the muscles were defined even under the layers of his

clothing as he clutched the edge of the door with gripping, brutal fingers, opening it further. Isolated

and alone as we were, I couldn’t help feeling I was walking into Mr. Wolfe’s lair. No one will hear

you if you call for help. Oddly, despite this flicker of fear, I didn’t hesitate.

I walked into the room and felt a thrill of anxious excitement as he closed the door firmly

behind me, clicking the lock into place. “You’re very punctual, Ms. Carmichael. I like that in an

employee.”

A good start, I thought. “Please,” I said. “Call me Lila.”

“Lila.” My name, spoken in that molasses-rich voice, sounded strangely erotic, like the

subtle vibrations of his speech poured lazily into my body, charging me with a new, sensuous hum. I

wanted to hear him say it again, to groan it, to growl it in deep, pleading tones. What was wrong with

me? This was not like me at all. I was a clean-cut girl, a scholar, punctual, reliable, conscienscious

to a fault. And embarrassingly inexperienced. I’d had boyfriends, but this was the first time I’d ever

felt such an instantaneous and desperate pull of white-hot lust. That his mouth caressed my name in

that way seemed almost indecent, as though he’d tasted a part of me. At that thought, my nipples

tightened as I watched his mouth. His full, pouting lips. What would that mouth feel like on my

body? Licking. Biting. Everywhere.

I silently cursed Eva for encouraging me to go commando. I felt like my clothes were

entirely sheer, like he was somehow penetrating them with his predatory appraisal. My aroused

nipples would be easily visible, and I could feel the warm, wet heat between my legs; I hoped

desperately that it wouldn’t be detectable somehow through the thin wool of my short skirt. I willed

my body to control its responses, but it was no use: I felt needy and wanting and entirely lacking in

self-discipline. I want to step closer, to touch him. I could barely restrain myself from doing this.

I’d gone mad, that was all there was to it.

Flustered, I forced myself to unlock my eyes from his sinfully perfect mouth. I distracted

myself by taking in the surroundings. His office was large, and circular. Half of the oval was lined

with pale wood shelving, concealed cupboards and the subtle framed outline of two doors; the other

half was floor-to-ceiling curved glass windows. A large, modern desk sat in the middle of the room.

He half-sat against his desk and folded his arms across his chest, causing his suit jacket to

tighten against his arms. He’s inhumanely strong. He could so easily overpower me. These

thoughts only served to arouse me further, until my nipples were painfully beaded. Copying his

motion, I folded my own arms in an attempt to conceal myself, but he noticed my body’s response to

him and his mouth quirked in a laconic half-smile. He moved to take off his jacket then, which he

tossed onto a chair. Amused or not, I couldn’t help but notice – through a quick, tentative peripheral

glance - a swell in the area I didn’t dare stare at.

This was too much. My body was combusting within the potent cloud of alpha-male

pheromones he was emitting. I turned abruptly away from him and walked over the window, looking

out over the vast expanse of the hazy city. “Nice view,” I commented. I gave myself a point of

victory for the blithe, offhand tone of my voice. Meanwhile, a light throb in my slippery depths was

pulsing distractingly.

“Would you join me in a celebration, Lila?” he said.

I dared a glance over my shoulder. “What are you celebrating, Mr. Wolfe?”

“Call me Alexander,” he said. That he was a rich, powerful man was obvious enough. That

I was an unemployed entry-level job seeker was equally obvious. I was, in more ways than one, at

his mercy. His request for me to call him by his first name felt like a small triumph, an invitation for

a familiarity that was inappropriate, perhaps, but wickedly enticing. I wanted to issue invitations of

my own. An inner sense of decorum and better judgment wondered at my pleasure at his offer.

Alexander. The name suited him. Strong, dark, controlling.

“Today is my birthday,” he said.

“Happy birthday,” I said.

“Thank you. I was just sent a bottle of Moët on ice by my brother Jake, which was delivered

only minutes before you arrived - which to me seems rather serendipitous.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t like to drink alone. Can I tempt you?”

I couldn’t even begin to describe how tempted I was. I knew it was unwise to accept his

offer. A glass of champagne would only amplify the effects of my desire. But my desire had a mind

of its own. It wanted to be fed and stoked and ignited. It was a wild thing that was inhabiting me and

taking over, causing my skin to flush and my body temperature to rise. I slid the cashmere of my top

down an inch or more over my shoulder in an attempt to cool my rising flame by a degree. “I

wouldn’t want to you drink alone on your birthday. As long as you won’t hold this against me. This

is, after all, a job interview.”

He smiled, and his gaze caressed the milky-white skin of my exposed upper shoulder.

“There’s no reason we can’t get down to business while we enjoy my brother’s gift. Please, have a

seat,” he said. He pulled a chair close to his own. I sat, and he handed me a glass of champagne.

He stretched out his long legs and leaned back in his leather office chair. By this time it was

fully apparent that he was as aroused as I was, but he acted as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

He sipped his champagne and glanced out the window, as though to allow me to take my time studying

the magnificence of his long, powerful body. Even concealed beneath the civilized layers of his

business clothing, the outlines of his form were, in every way, impressive. I imagined myself

unfastening his pants, taking him in my hands, in my mouth…

I took a drink, following his gaze, concentrating on the steely lines of the city far below.

“So you’re looking for an assistant?” I asked, instantly regretting my banal comment. Of

course he is, you idiot, or you wouldn’t be here.

His eyes glimmered as he seemed to read my internal banter. “I’ve had the same assistant

since I founded the company twelve years ago. She’s sort of a Moneypenny type. She’s retiring.”

“You founded Skyscraper?”

After a long pause, he confirmed, “I did, yes.”

“You … own the company?”

“Is that surprising to you?” he asked, taking a drink from his flute. His large hand held his

champagne glass carefully; he looked like he easily could have snapped the stem of it without any

effort at all. Amusement lurked in his dark eyes at my naiveté, maybe, or my complete lack of tact. I

felt foolish for even asking the question, and especially for being so shocked by his pronouncement.

I fumbled with a reply. “No, of course not. I just … you just seem too young to own an

entire publishing company.” Not only too young but too hot, was my unspoken thought. Publishing

people were typically dowdy and pale, like they’d spent months on end in a musty, dimly lit library.

“Thirty-three isn’t that young. I was young when I started. I’d only just graduated from

Princeton.”

“I … just graduated from Princeton.”

“I saw that on your résumé. It was one of the reasons I decided to interview you. And you

completed your degree in only three years. Impressive.”

I took a sip of the bubbling liquid, wondering what the other reasons were, but I held my

questions. Maybe it was best if he did the talking. My nervousness had made me thirsty, and the

champagne was the most delicious I had ever had; it tasted refreshing and expensive, and I sipped

again.

“A woman who enjoys a good drop,” he smiled, topping up my glass. “Another quality I

admire.”

His playful tone and suggestive smile only succeeded in igniting the traitorous urges of my

body one notch higher. My senses felt hyper-aware, and my erogenous zones felt piqued and

unsettlingly heated. Alexander ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his jaw, as though sensing the

signals I was struggling to control, and tuning into them. His outrageous handsomeness caught the

chiaroscuro light of the shadowed interior space and the bright light of the day. His tanned face, his

lips, his glinting dark eyes rimmed with thick black lashes. The man was an absolute specimen of

masculine beauty.

“Are you aware that Skyscraper is only one of the companies owned by Wolfe Enterprises?

One of the smaller ones, in fact.”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”

“We run a number of publishing companies. Two magazines and a book publishing company,

as well as three Internet businesses and several investment companies.”

I was beginning to grasp just how rich and powerful Alexander Wolfe was.

“I have to be honest,” I told him. “I’ve never been an assistant before. I did an internship

last summer for a literary agency, but the job mainly involved reading manuscripts and writing up

reports. But I’m a quick learner, and very eager to please.”

His dark eyes spangled, and I realized I sounded like a complete try-hard. Eager to please?

I’m coming across like a total imbicile.

“I’m very glad to hear that,” was his languid reply. “I think you and I have come to an

agreement, then.”

His black-satin voice seemed to penetrate the air as a physical force, touching me and

ruffling me. My arousal was very nearly uncomfortable, blooming in a furtive aching swell. The

champagne’s effect swirled through me pleasantly, allowing my barriers to soften and my nerves to

settle somewhat. Rather than fighting my body’s responses, I eased into them. Instead of

straightening the neckline of my thin sweater, I left it askew, allowing the upper skin of my breasts to

be revealed. I shifted in my chair, settling onto one hip and crossing my legs, which forced the hem of

my skirt to ride scandalously high. This was entirely unlike me, but I was hardly doing anything he

wasn’t doing. His erection was straining at the fabric of his pants and was in fact so enlarged that it

threatening to escape the confines of his waistband. I found myself wishing that it would. At this

point, high with desire and a glass of champagne, I hardly cared if I got the job or not; I was enjoying

this foreplay much too much. It was a completely new feeling for me, and one that I decided I needed

more experience with.

“I do require that whoever I hire must be available immediately.”

“I’m available whenever you want me,” I replied, only realizing after I’d made the statement

the double entendre. Despite the effects of the alcohol, I felt my cheeks redden. “I meant, of course,

that I’m available if you decide you’d like to hire me.”

“A few more questions first,” he said.

“Of course.”

“It’s a somewhat demanding job. Long hours. I need someone who can basically be at my

beck and call, at any hour of the day or night. We have affiliates in London, Los Angeles, Paris,

Sydney, and so forth, so we’re a 24-hour business. It can be hard on … significant others, if you

were to be working a lot.”

“I don’t have a significant other. I have a roommate, but her hours are ridiculous. She works

for a law firm and she’s studying for the bar.”

“Fine,” he said, and his smug charisma hit me in the low pit of my stomach. “There will be

times when my assistant will be required to travel with me. Frequently, in fact. Do you like to

travel?”

“I’ve always wanted to, but I haven’t had much opportunity to travel, actually. I never, well,

we never had the money. But as a graduation present to myself, I decided to get my passport issued,

just in case I get the chance some day. I just got it. This morning, in fact. I have it here, in my bag.”

I was so excited about my passport, I considered retrieving my bag from where I’d placed it near his

desk, and showing it to him. This incredibly beautiful man is a sophisticated billionaire. Stop

coming across like a hick and a schoolgirl, I scolded myself.

“Perfect,” he said. He reached for a pen and a small piece of paper. He scrawled some

numbers onto the paper and handed it to me. “This is the starting salary. Negotiable, of course. I

will cover all business-related expenses. You’ll have a driver, and an expense account, if you agree

to take the position. In addition, my apartment is in this building, and I have an adjoining studio

apartment available for your use, if you have need of it from time to time, which you will, when I

require you to work late into the night.”

I glanced at the number he’d written, and held back a gasp, wondering if my eyes were

deceiving me. It was more than triple what I might have expected to earn from an assistant’s job. A

salary this generous would allow me to pay off my student loan within the year, especially if I could

cut down on other expenses.

“What do you say?” he said.

“I say … yes.” My voice was no louder than a whisper.

“Well, then, Lila. You’re hired,” he purred, leaning forward to place his empty glass on the

desk.

As he moved, I caught a light whiff of his scent; he smelled of soap and mint and masculinity.

And there was more to it. Something elusive and outrageously, crazily appealing. The light-musked

spice seemed to unfurl something in me, intoxicating me with an unruly obsessiveness.

Unconsciously, I leaned slightly towards him.

The long strands of my hair fell forward with my movement, spilling over my bared shoulder.

“Your hair,” he said softly, fingering an end strand, “is lovely.”

My lips parted. I was having trouble breathing in enough air. I wanted to breath his air, his

breath. That scent of him, that one whiff, was not enough. I leaned closer, quietly urgent for more.

His fingers twirled around the strand of my hair, forming a lightly ensnaring hold, pulling gently. I

followed his pull, encouraging it, accepting any invitation he was giving. Sensing my consent, he

pulled me closer, and closer, until my mouth was only inches from his. My nipples had softened

during our discussion and with the soothing effects of the alcohol. Now, at his nearness, they rose

and peaked into tight little buds of sensation. Concentrated lust seemed to center there, and radiate

slowly throughout my body in shimmery, uninhibited waves. Alexander released his grasp on my

hair. His movements were dreamlike and tentative, like he was being guided by foreignly vehement

urges that he was attempting – unsuccessfully – to control. His hand paused near my breast. His

lower lip was close to my mouth, as plump as ripe fruit. Unable to hold myself back, I brushed my

mouth against his lips in a feather-light kiss, touching my tongue to the rounded curve of his lip. He

groaned, and his fingers touched my nipples through the soft fabric of my top. He teased them

between his thumb and fingers, kneading them into ripe buds. Searing sensation surged through my

body. I gasped as he pinched tighter, rolling my aching flesh more insistently, controlling me entirely

with his touch.

“This is not actually a requirement of the job,” he said against my mouth, cupping my breast

in his large palm, squeezing lightly. “Tell me to stop and I will. Tell me to continue and I … will.”

“Don’t stop,” I whispered. The ferocious urges of my body were driving me, and I realized

with a passing current of concern amid an ocean of surrender that I would do anything he asked.

Anything. His effect was flooding me with fire. “Please don’t stop.”

He pulled at the ties of my wrapped cashmere top, until the fabric parted. My full breasts

bounced gently as he freed them, the rosy hue of my swollen nipples sultry against the pale white of

my skin. Alexander deftly peeled off my top, until I was naked from the waist up.

My skin sang under his worshipful stare as he drank in the sight of me. “I was not expecting

such a perfect … luscious creature to walk into my office this afternoon. I had no intention of …”

He seemed almost overcome. He swore under his breath. He was torn, I could see, by the thought of

taking advantage of me, his new, young assistant. It was a strange and sudden turn of events, and

entirely unforeseen. But I was too far gone to allow his internal dilemma to steal from me this

stunningly needy anticipation.

“Alexander,” I said, kissing him again. I licked his lips with tender, inviting supplication,

opening to him. His tongue sank into my mouth, searching intimately, filling my entire being with

want. I sucked on his tongue, gently greedy, desperate to take more of any part of his body into any

part of mine.

“God, Lila. You taste so fucking good.” His voice had become rasped with lust and … not

indecision, but turmoil over a decision already made.

I wanted more from this big, perfectly made pirate-cum-mogul than I had ever before

imagined, ruled entirely by the pull of his intention and the promise of his touch. I stood before him,

loving the heated feel of his gaze on my body. Willing him to touch me, to put his hands on me, I

looked into his dark eyes, letting my eyes rove to his sinfully inviting mouth. A stranger to myself, I

felt a jolt of pure joy as his hands rested on the curve of my hips. His fingers circled the waistband of

my skirt, easing to the back where he began to slowly unzip. I squirmed as he pulled my skirt down,

to rid myself of any barrier between his hands and my scorched, restless skin. He made a soft, savage

sound of appreciation as he saw that I wore nothing underneath and his breathing quickened.

Clad only in my tall boots, standing before him, I felt utterly foreign to myself, like I’d just

climbed out of some underwater seashell and been reborn as a lusty nymph who had no inhibitions,

who was made purely of hot, lurid physical sensation. I knew the pink, swollen furls of my sex

would be fully visible to him. He would see how wet I was, how much I wanted him. His black eyes

were heavy-lidded as he touched me everywhere with his blazing gaze. He licked his lips. A hint of

shyness – some vanishing vestige of my old self – loosened as I reached my hands to rest on his

muscled thighs. I eased his thighs further apart, standing between them. My breasts were just above

his mouth and felt sensuously full and aching with need. I touched myself, pinching my nipples,

playing them. “Taste more of me,” I whispered. I offered myself to him and he held my breasts in his

big, warm hands, plumping them to his mouth, taking my nipples in lust-driven pulls, one then the

other. I moaned with the billowing sensation he inspired. His hands were on me, slow and stealthy,

wandering but not delivering, as though to torture me.

It wasn’t enough. The pulls of his mouth were too good, too rife with sensation. Each tug

sent a wash of molten feeling into my liquid core. My sex felt unbearably hot and ripe, like I’d been

dipped in warm honey.

I climbed onto him, straddling his hips. The massive rigidity of his raging erection was

stunningly hard, and hot, even through the layer of his clothing. His strong hands clamped onto my

hips, holding me exactly where he wanted me. Our eyes locked in a connective link. A strand of his

black hair had fallen over his forehead, somehow softening his severe beauty. I touched the thick silk

of it, as our gazes held, and a startling thread of tenderness passed between us, strengthening the lust,

stoking it. He began to move me, just slightly, rolling my body against him. Answering his lead, I

writhed against his straining erection, rubbing against the rock-hard outline of his cock. The intense

hardness of him pressed against my plumped sex, kneading it, forcing a rolling, circling pleasure.

Not satisfied, not close enough, I began to unfasten his belt buckle, and unzip his pants. I

fumbled with the fastenings, unable to find ease or dexterity; I was too hazed in a trancelike eagerness

as he was revealed to me. I might have moaned at the sight of him. At the sheer size and perfection

of him, dusky and silken and immense. I wondered abstractly if he would protest. Instead, he helped

me as I pushed his pants down low on his hips. After a long moment of awed appreciation, I took him

into my hands and caressed the long, stiff length of him. He was so hard his erection lay against his

taut stomach. I touched him tenderly with both hands, fingering his length, cupping him, feathering my

fingertips everywhere as he watched me do this.

Alexander’s hands were still on my hips and he pulled me closer, until my sex was touching

his, rubbing against him, along his length, wetting him with the honey of my desire until his cock was

slick with my own juices. I was so aroused that the tiny nub of my clit felt electric and hyper-

sensitive. Alexander’s thumb circled my saturated folds, centering, touching. With the squeeze of his

fingers, he pulled lightly on that little erect bud, igniting a potent bloom that almost undid me.

Blind with need, I guided the broad tip of his cock to my snug, slippery entrance. He swore

under his breath, the sound agonized. He said my name. He bucked upwards, at the same time

grasping my hips in his firm grip, thrusting into me, once, and again. I was forbiddingly tight, yet his

thrusting drives forced his thickness deeper. He lifted me slightly, allowing my arousal to moisten

him, to ease his passage, and he thrust again. I moved with him, grinding and opening to him until I

was impaled fully, riding the huge length of him, clenching my soft core invitingly around him. His

fingers found my clit, working a soft, squeezing, cyclical motion, while his other hand rubbed me

from behind, finding the tight, secret place, pressing in a dueling, connective rhythm. Aware of

nothing but the harmony, the rising pleasure of our joined bodies, I lost myself, engulfed by a release

so powerful that my body writhed and clenched with the overload of ecstasy. My inner muscles drew

so forcefully around him that he groaned as if in pain. He was saying something but I could barely

comprehend. Wait. I can’t hold on. But my body was too possessive, too slippery, and I was still

riding, still pulling him deeply, again and again. I felt the flooding wetness, the violent pulse of him

deep inside me. The silky beat of his climax rubbed sensuously against a sensitive place, causing

another wash of spiralling waves that milked him softly, again and again, until I had collapsed on top

of him, wrapped naked around his still-clothed body.

We sat that way for some time, rocked by the intensity of what had just taken place. His arms

were around me. My head rested on his chest. I could hear his heart beating.

Despite the glaring fact that, in a distant long-ago state of mind, I might have felt remorseful

for my total abandon, that the consequence of what I – what we – had just done could and would be

far-reaching, I felt supremely, ridiculously peaceful. I was warm, and euphoric, cocooned in a

circular haven high above the bustling city, wrapped in the arms and still moistly connected to a

tycoon Adonis, stranger or not. I didn’t want to move. I savored the lingering bliss, the recalcitrant

pleasure that, even now, held on. I wanted more.

After a time, my sated body stretched slightly, attempting movement, testing soreness. With

the small change in position, Alexander’s barely-softened shaft slid inside me. I was surprised that

he was still as large – and erect – as he was. I was hardly experienced with these things, but I knew

this to be somewhat unusual. In a subtle adjustment, he swivelled his hips, causing his cock to sink

deeper in a vague, circular rub that triggered a new, instant arousal. I was unsure how I could be so

easily renewed, and so soon after what we had just done. But the sweet pressure as he continued to

explore his deep, lazy thrusts caused me to gasp and to moan. I unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt,

exposing his chest. I inhaled his masculine scent, layered now with sweat and musk and satisfaction.

I clasped his nipple gently between my teeth.

He flinched, chuckling darkly, and hugged me against his body, gripping me and lifting me.

Still connected, he lay me onto his desk. He was above me, his mussed-up hair framing his

heartbreaking face in a lion-like mane. I smiled at his transformation from only a short time ago: the

cool, unapproachable top-floor CEO turned unruly, untamed sex god. I loved what havoc my hands

had wrought upon his hair. His dark eyes glimmered and his gaze was meaningful and tender. Then

he kissed me, softly at first, gaining momentum as he thrust into me.

Now he was in control, utterly, gripping me with both hands, lifting my hips higher so he

could drive deeper. I wasn’t sure I could come again after the momentous releases I’d already

experienced but his drives were measured, relentless in their pursuit of not only his pleasure but my

own. He was listening to me, gauging my every breath, my every whimper. He was reading my

reactions as he played my body, taking every quivering flutter to heart. With great skill and

unequivocal insistence, he coaxed a rising surge within me. “Come for me,” he whispered. “I love

the little sounds you make. I want you to come for me, Lila.”

“Yes,” I moaned, as he found a brazen sweetspot.

Triumphant, he rocked me, pushing deeper against the sensitive trigger, forcing the bliss. I

rode the tidal wave, exploding from within, shattering in pleasure. I scraped my nails along his back,

drawing him ever deeper as my body coerced his own orgasm with long, tight, silky pulls. He didn’t

try to pull out of me this time, even though he easily could have done so from this position, and I

didn’t ask him to. It hardly seemed to matter; we were already bound.

Alexander stroked my hair absentmindedly for a time. Then he pulled gently out of me. He

stood above me, his eyes roving my body. Abruptly, he paused, touching his fingers to my intimate

folds. He face looked appalled, almost furious, as he held up two blood-stained fingers.

“Lila. My God. You’re a virgin?”

Alexander

Fuck.

I couldn’t believe I’d gotten so ridiculously carried away. Christ. I just fucked my new

assistant.

The new assistant who was still peacefully sleeping in my bed with me.

I’d meant to pull out, at least. But I’d been so fucking overcome with lust that I’d spent

myself inside her. More than once. There was simply no way in hell I could have disengaged myself

from that tight, clenching, juicy little heaven on earth.

Goddamn it all to hell. That had never, ever happened before. Not even close. It hadn’t

even occurred to me to put on a condom. Or anything else. The minute that goddess had walked into

my office, with her sultry green eyes and her short skirt, practically oozing sexuality, my brain had

taken flight and left the room. Leaving my goddamn cock in charge, which was never a good thing.

She was so fresh, so innocently voluptuous, so fucking young.

The sane part of my mind wanted to wake her, to politely ask her to leave, to tell her I still

had a few more people to interview and I’d be in touch. I wouldn’t call. I’d send her some flowers

and a gentlemanly note. Done and dusted. She wasn’t the most qualified for the job anyway, not by a

longshot.

I watched her as she slept, surprised at myself for even bringing her here. I never brought

women to my apartment, which was adjacent to my office. It was a door I kept decisively closed.

Until now, apparently.

Her sunny blond hair spilled over the pillow in a silky cascade. Her pink lips were puffy

from my greedy kisses, insanely soft and tempting. The smooth skin of her jaw was reddened slightly

from the stubble of my beard. I’d been rough with her. Too rough. I’d taken her not only in my office

– twice – but several times during the night, damning all consequences. And she was a fucking

virgin.

Or at least she had been. Yesterday.

She must have been twenty-one at least. Maybe twenty-two. What kind of girl waits that

long? And why?

Her dark-blond eyelashes lay in graceful curves against her pale cheeks, dark at the roots and

lightening to an almost white-blond at the tips. Her makeup was all but gone, aside from some light

smudges on the pillowcase. I thought of waking her, just so I could see that sea-green burn in her

eyes.

The sheet lay low on her hips, drawing a line across the concave plane of her stomach,

framed by the jut of her angular hipbones. Her breasts were a work of art – there was no other way to

describe them. Full and rounded, high and plush with youth, the little buds of her nipples like

cherries on the perfect, creamy vanilla mounds. Her nipples were soft now, in sleep. And I couldn’t

resist. I was already harder than I’d ever been. Maybe equal to yesterday, or last night. I hardly

cared about the comparison. What I cared about was the soft pleat of her rosy skin, tightening even as

she slept, under the glide of my tongue. She tasted like nothing I’d ever experienced. Sweet,

somehow. Floral. Like she’d stepped out of a garden at midnight, while eating sugary cake and

blossoming into full-blown womanhood. I sucked on her like I was trying to draw that taste from her

body. It was perverse, almost, the greed and need I felt. Mother’s milk, or something like it.

Virgin’s milk, sweetened with honey, mixed with lust and the loss of innocence.

Little mews of pleasure came from her mouth. She writhed under the sheet, displacing it.

She opened her legs in a reflexive plead. For me. For this superhero between my legs that had never

known such stamina. I could see the lavender-pink pleats of her pussy.

Fuck.

I was a fucking goner. I was whipped like nothing I had ever known. Just the sight of that

moist, wanting flesh was enough to blind me, once again, to every normal consideration. I’d been a

high-achieving, successful, responsible, Type-A paramour, sometimes more darkly than others, all

my life. Every fucking second of my entire miserable straight-A millionaire – actually, as of last

month, billionaire – life.

But this. This girl. She disarmed me. She made me want to fuck everything up. I wanted to

dirty myself, and her. I wanted to feel what it felt like to not care about anything but the moment,

because I knew that this moment would be so good, so incomparably fucking good that nothing else

mattered.

I licked my way down her body, but I didn’t linger. I was too frantic to taste that sweet place

that would swell and squirm and pulse under my tongue. I’d taken her to the shower sometime during

the night, to wash my own scent away. I wanted her taste undiluted. And now, after a few hours of

sleep, the scent of her had deepened into a humid, dewy musk. I almost lost it just tasting that, that

feminine bloom, letting my tongue delve into the softness. Her willingness only compounded this

overblown, excessive desire. Her hands were in my hair and she was lifting herself to my mouth,

pulling me closer. I found the little nub of her clit and sucked it, playing it with my tongue, easing two

fingers into her. I waited for her to relax into the invasion. I waited for her to come to me, to beg for

more, slowing the lapping pressure of my tongue. Gently, I zeroed in on that tender bud, drawing it

into my mouth with soft, cyclical pulls. Her moans and the clutch of her hands in my hair were

driving me mad, but I reminded myself who I was. A control freak. An accomplished, driven,

intensely disciplined man. A few soft moans of a willing woman should hardly undo me. But then it

began. Her hips swayed in a back-and-forth rhythm. I slid my fingers deeper and her pussy clasped

tightly around them, sucking them into her body. She cried out my name.

I was mildly appalled with myself, with my reaction, how much I loved that sound. Of her,

calling to me. Saying my name in that dreamy exhale, like I was a mythical god-like being she

couldn’t believe. Like I was too good to be true.

I was about to come whether I was inside her or not. And there was no question I would

enter her, take her, fuck her, make love to her. The semantics hardly mattered. All I knew was that

there was nothing more sacred to me at that moment than being inside her. Her climax was still

happening. Her pussy was still clamping and spasming as I slid into the wet, welcoming constriction,

driving into her and compounding her pleasure. If I’d cared about proving myself, of prolonging and

lasting, the concern at that moment was inconsequential. That luscious, snug, pulsing embrace was so

tight, so insistent, all my restraint was pulled from my body in silky, furtive tugs that left me no

choice. This was ecstasy in its purest, most beautiful form. The release was complete and total. I

fell willingly, succumbing entirely to the perfect bliss of her, beautiful as sin, absolute as death.

BILLIONAIRE (Part 2)

by Juliette Jones

eBook now available on Amazon

BILLIONAIRE (Part 3 & Part 4)

by Juliette Jones

eBook now available on Amazon

BILLIONAIRE (Part 5 & Part 6)

by Juliette Jones

Coming soon to Amazon …