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Bound by the Billionaire (69th St. Bad Boys #5)
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This Christmas, the only thing I want tied up under the tree is her.
For some, Christmas in New York means ice skating in Central Park.
Bound by the Billionaire is a standalone holiday romance in the 69th St. Bad Boys series. It has no cliffhanger, no cheating and a happily ever after. It features a dominant alpha male and his submissive yet feisty BBW. It can be read on its own but if you like Manhattan billionaires and the womenwho win their hearts, be sure to read the rest of the series!
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The holiday windows at Saks Fifth Avenue usually filled me with Christmas cheer, but tonight the twirling sugar plum fairies did nothing to calm the category-five hurricane twisting its way around my stomach. I should have known better than to take a cab through Midtown the week before Christmas. The invitation to the masquerade party said eight o’clock sharp, but thanks to the sloth-slow traffic, I would be late. That was the last thing I needed or wanted because I was about to go undercover for a story I knew would kickstart my journalism career, something I desperately needed.
On the third floor of Expose Club, a few blocks from Fifth Avenue, was a sex club. The sort of place celebrities, politicians, millionaires, and billionaires frequented when they wanted to get their rocks off, and I planned to reveal to the world exactly what happened there.
Over the past month, I’d spent countless evenings at the club staking it out both inside and out. I knew that the first two floors were regular clubs where people went to get drunk, dance, and pick up people to have regrettable sex with. But I’d also witnessed politicians, movie stars, rappers, and pop singers walk through the first-floor club to the secret elevator by the kitchen that would take them to the third floor.
Last Saturday night, I’d slipped a couple hundred bucks into a bartender’s pocket for the chance to wash glasses and watch the elevator. But I hadn’t been able to discover what was behind the proverbial curtain, or, in Expose’s case, see what was on the other side of the elevator door. I wanted more than to watch people get into an elevator; I wanted proof.
My plan was to do an exposé on Expose Club because the world deserved to know about the double lives the men and women they worshiped and voted for lived. It didn’t hurt that by shining the light on their dirty little secrets, I’d also make a name for myself.
Uncovering the kinks of the rich and famous wasn’t how I’d expected or imagined I’d begin my investigative journalism career, but my editor-in-chief, ironically named Henry Miller, left me no other choice. I had to prove my worth to him, and going undercover at a sex club was how I planned to do just that.
Ever since I’d gotten a job at The New York Reporter, Henry insisted I write the agony aunt column because, in his words, a pretty young thing like me didn’t belong on the streets investigating anyone. His overprotectiveness was because back in the day he had been my dad’s senior editor and since my dad was killed by a hit-and-run driver while working on a story, Henry felt he had to look out for me.
He didn’t. I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much.
For crying out loud, I was a journalism graduate from Emerson. During my last two years there, I was the news editor for The Berkeley Beacon where my responsibilities included finding stories and managing reporters. I didn’t bust my ass or live on caffeine and no sleep for four years so I could advise desperate housewives on how to bring the sexy back into their dead marriages.
Plus, after my dad’s death, I’d vowed to follow in his footsteps and become an investigative journalist at The NY Reporter. Being an agony aunt was not how I intended to honor him or spend my days.
I didn’t care if getting my story meant I had to pretend I was a submissive in a sex club. I’d researched the lifestyle enough to know I could act the part. Sure, some of the naughty books I’d read turned me on, and some of the video clips had left me more than a little wet, but it wasn’t like I’d actually have to participate in anything tonight. I was attending the party as an observer only.
The thought of being cuffed, chained, or tethered didn’t do a thing for me, but I’d be lying if I said the thought of being spanked didn’t send tingles to my clit. I’d never had sex at all before but maybe one day, if I ever found a man I wanted to sleep with, I’d ask him to spank me. I had zero interest in any other type of punishment or control, though. No thank you!
The lack of romance in my life wasn’t because I wasn’t pretty or because men found me unattractive. I was what most people described as the girl next door. With my long blonde hair, green eyes and curvy body I got my fair share of appreciative glances and invitations to dinner, but so far, none of those dinner dates turned into anything more. I guess most men didn’t like my ambition or my competitive nature. Their loss.