HONEY GIRL (Part 1): BILLIONAIRE Book Two

HONEY GIRL

Part One

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by Juliette Jones

Copyright
© 2014 Juliette Jones

All
rights reserved.  No part of this work may be reproduced, distributed or
scanned in any electronic or printed form without permission.

HONEY
GIRL (Part One) 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: June 2014

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CHAPTER
ONE

Lila

           
He
lay 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 lay 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 cashcow 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 one month.

One
month.

One
month 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, superstrength
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.

Alexander.

My
lover.  My devil and my saint.  My strength and my weakness.

My
fiancé.

Beautiful,
crazy Alexander.  All mine.

I
was intensely happy that we would spend the day together.  That we’d spend
every
day together.  That seemed to be our way, though.  Since I’d met him to
interview for the position of his assistant, we’d been … completely overcome,
to put it mildly.  Inseparable and insatiable.  He had difficulty letting me
out of his sight, and I knew why.  I knew what fueled his protective
instincts.  Still, it would now be a challenge for him: seeing me at work,
having me ensconced in his professional setting.  In his office and meeting
with his staff.  It would be difficult for us both.  To resist temptation.  To
act like normal people and not amped-up, lust-crazed hedonists.

I’ll
agree to
try
to employ you,
Alexander had said.
 
I can’t guarantee that this will work for me, though.  I’m too close, too
deep.  I need to be able to focus on my companies, without distractions.  And
you, my sweet Lila, are more of a distraction than I can handle.

We’d
fought about it but that had been before my meltdown.  Before Jake had rescued
me.  I knew Alexander wouldn’t risk driving me away again.  I now had a ring on
my finger and a key to his universe, to come and go as I liked.  He would tame
himself, or he would die trying.

I
hoped it could work.

And
I wanted to be ready for it.

Silently,
I rose from the bed, taking care not to wake him.  I needed some time to
prepare myself, physically as well as mentally.  It had been a while since I’d
worked or studied, or done anything at all except immerse myself in the
decadent idyll of Alexander’s attentions.

I
showered alone.

Already,
I missed him.  The contact.  The closeness and the warmth.  If I’d stayed in
bed, dozing, he would have woken me like he always did.  With his mouth on me,
licking into me, softly opening me with his tongue, his hair silken against the
sensitive skin of my thighs.  Or with his cock, pressing its huge, hard heat
against me as he spooned me, cradling me in his all-encompassing embrace.  At
first he’d just hold me.  Then I’d feel him finding his way inside, barely
entering me.  He’d wait, pressing gently until my body began to soften and
dew.  I’d arch sleepily against him, taking more.  And more.  Until I became
slippery enough for him to slide his massive arousal deep, and deeper, filling
me, possessing me entirely.  His fingers would be everywhere, intimate and
playful.  Coaxing warm, blissful pleasure.  His powerful hold would demand submission,
but I’d squeeze him with my body, pressing back against him invitingly, taking
everything he gave.  Making demands of my own.  My own pleasure would tug at
his, drawing the ecstasy out of him in clenching, undulating pulls, until he
flooded me with his liquid heat.  He’d stay inside me.  We might sleep a little
more.  This time when he woke me, I might feel him at my breast, suckling
lazily, feeding on me like I was offering him some kind of spiritual sustenance
that was drugging to him.  When we were fully sated, we’d get up.  We’d shower
together.  He’d wash me and I’d wash him, my careful fingers soaping him
everywhere.  We’d make love again.  Because we couldn’t get enough.  Our hunger
for each other was relentless.  Eventually, we’d venture out into the day. 
We’d eat at a restaurant and talk.  We’d walk a little, and he’d buy me
something he saw in a window.  Gold earrings.  A cashmere sweater.  A leather
coat that cost more money than I’d made in my life.  We’d visit a museum or a
gallery, see a movie, or just walk.  We might meet his brother somewhere and
have a drink together.  And then the two of us would return to his limo and
make love, starved all over again.

Not
today.

Today
we’d be working.

I dressed
in one of the many outfits he’d bought me.  I chose a sleeveless sea-green silk
tunic that matched the color of my eyes.  It was a fitted wrap-around that was
simple yet elegant, professional but feminine.  I brushed my long blond hair
and pinned it up in a French twist.  Gold hoop earrings, my gold watch and my
new ring were the only (real) jewelry I owned – all given to me by Alexander. 
I couldn’t help wondering how much he’d spent on my engagement ring.  It was
beautifully designed, a solid, rose-gold band inlaid with the largest,
glintiest diamond I’d ever seen.  It looked very, very expensive.

I
wondered how Alexander’s staff would take this new development: that his new
assistant was also his new fiancée.

Putting
on some light makeup, I walked back into the bedroom.

His
eyes were open.

He
rolled onto his back and slung one arm behind his head.  The way he moved was
insouciant, utterly self-assured.  So purely Alexander.

Damn.

His
body was unreal.  Big and bronzed and hair-dusted and fully aroused.

“Lila,”
he said, his lazy, sexy charisma hitting me where it always did.  In the most
intimate place imaginable.  That sleep-roughened edge to his voice reminded me
of his rasped growls and lust-driven oaths …
when he was inside me, groaning
my name as we climaxed together, my body spasming around the hard, beautiful
bulk of him.
  “Come here.”  He patted the bed.

I
went to him and sat down.

His
fingers entwined with mine and he played idly with my ring, looking into my
eyes.  “Let’s get married soon.  I don’t want to wait.”  The combination of his
sincerity and his staunch manliness was riveting to me, almost unbearably
alluring.  “Something small.  At one of my houses.  Whichever one you want.  At
the hotel in Paris, or on the beach in Key West.  Or maybe in my vineyard in
Malibu, overlooking the ocean.  I think you’ll like it there.  Water Mill is
quiet this time of year.  We could do it there, if you don’t want to travel too
far.  Or in Maine, on my island.  It’s very secluded.”

“They
all sound nice.”  I’d never been to any of those places.  Except Paris, of
course.

“Or
we could do it right here in the city if you want to.”

“I
really don’t mind where I marry you, Alexander.  As long as I do.”

His
slow smile just about killed me.  “You weren’t here, in my bed with me, where I
need you,” he accused gently, that alpha glint touching his expression. 
“You’re dressed,” he added, sulky with the observation.

“I’m
getting ready.  Since I start work with you today.  Remember?”

A
smile played at the corner of his mouth.  Of course he remembered.  He was
amused by how eager I was.  I
was
eager.  In my former life it would’ve
seemed too good to be true.  I wouldn’t just be working as an underling at
Skyscraper
,
which just so happened to be the most glamorous magazine in publication, that
rare combination of stylish and acclaimed, whose editors-at-large included Pulitzer
prize-winning journalists, supermodels, film directors, bestselling authors,
rock stars, celebrity chefs, presidents and aging beat poets, to name just a
few.  I wouldn’t just be answering phones and typing memos, I would be
meeting
these people.  Expanding the list.  Learning about everything, at Alexander’s
side.  I would read the articles before they went to press.  I would take part
in the art direction and the decisions about shoot locations and the relevance
of political op-ed pieces.  I’d been fantasizing about jobs like this one all
through the long days and dark nights of my gloomy adolescence and the toiling,
grinding slog of my hard-won Ivy League education.