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Read Online Books/Novels:

Thirty Day Boyfriend

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Whitney G.

Book Information:

I should’ve never agreed to this arrangement…

Thirty days ago, my boss—Mr. Wolf of Wall Street, came to me with an offer I couldn’t refuse: Sign my name on the dotted line and pretend to be his fiancée for one month. If I agreed, he would let me out of my employment contract with a “very generous” severance package.

The rules were pretty simple: No intimate kissing, no actual sex. Just pretend to love each other for the press, even though I’ve secretly wanted to knock that sexy smirk off his face since the first day we met.

I definitely didn’t need to think twice about this. I signed my name and started counting down the seconds to when I would never have to deal with his special brand of ass-holery again.

I only made it to one minute…

We argued the entire four-hour flight to his hometown, failed to make a convincing impression with the welcoming press, and right when I was about to knock that arrogant look off his face in real life? He purposely dropped his bath towel in front of me, distracting me with his nine-inch cock to “show me who the bigger person was” in our relationship. Then he gave me his trademark smirk once again and asked if I wanted to consummate our marriage.

Tragically, this is only day one.
We still have 29 more days to go…

Books by Author:

Whitney G. Books



There was only one thing worse than waking up at five o’clock every Monday morning. It was waking up knowing that the rest of my week was about to be spent working at Wolf Industries.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

The sound of my alarm jerked me out of my thoughts, and I rolled across my bed, yanking my clock from the wall. Sighing, I tossed the covers off my body and slipped into the bathroom, taking a quick, hot shower.

The second I stepped out, I covered my face with a light layer of make-up and put on one of my favorite navy-blue dresses with complementing nude heels. I debated whether I should wear something more festive to celebrate today’s occasion, but this shit was not worth celebrating. Ever.

I picked up my phone and noticed a slew of new messages from my closest coworkers.

Congratulations, Emily!

Congrats on making it two years with The Wolf, Emily!

Go, Emily! Two years!

How the fuck did you last this long???

Are we celebrating this or nah?

Another year at my job should’ve warranted a night of champagne, a celebratory evening with friends, or even legitimate happiness. But working for Nicholas A. Wolf—the literal Wolf of Wall Street, just meant another “x” stamped on my “days until I get to quit” calendar.

One of the most infuriating men I’d ever worked for, Mr. Wolf was an alluring enigma who ate deals for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He was the type of man who owned a different designer suit and thousand-dollar watch for every day of the year. He was also, unfortunately, the type of man who still managed to make me wet despite his weekly ass-holery. Especially when I was seconds away from wanting to slap him.

Over the past two years, I’d spent more time with him than I spent with anyone else in my life. He was the first person I saw in the mornings, the last person I spoke to at night, and since we were both workaholics, he was the one person I saw every weekend.

I stood by his side as he ruthlessly ran his billion-dollar corporation, as he channeled his life lessons from one too many viewings of The Godfather. I sat in on meetings with his closest cabinet of executives, taking notes on their body language and watching anyone who was suspected of being disloyal. And I accompanied him on all of his business trips—foreign and domestic, dutifully keeping him abreast of the inner workings of his corporation.

Our two-year business relationship now mirrored a modern marriage, without the sex. The only benefits I gained from working under him were material: unlimited town car access, a corner office that overlooked Manhattan, access to his credit account whenever I wanted to go shopping, and a salary that was more than five times what most CEOs paid their executive assistants. Then again, it was a salary I was never truly able to enjoy because I was always working.

My life was his life.

Scrolling down my list of contacts, I sent my town car driver a text.

ME: I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.

DRIVER: I’ll be there in fifteen.

I set out some food and water for my kitten, Luna. Then I called Wolf Industries’ main receptionist.

“Mr. Wolf’s office,” she answered on the first ring. “This is Savannah Smith speaking. How may I direct your call this morning?”

“Savannah, it’s Emily. I’m calling with your set of first of tasks for the day.”

“I’m all ears, Miss. Johnson.”

“I need you to make sure the conference room is cleared for Mr. Wolf’s eight o’clock meeting with Van Corps,” I said. “I’ll also need the files from Pierce, Inc. on my desk so I can pull out all of the unnecessary segments he hates before I give it to him for final approval. I’ll also need you to book me a five-minute meeting with HR so I can write up the intern who was flirting with him this past Friday—he didn’t appreciate that. Oh, and can you call Einstein’s Bagels and tell them I’ll be there to pick up his breakfast ten minutes earlier than usual?”

“Right away, Miss Johnson!” She was always way too cheery in the morning. “I’ll see you soon, and congratulations on your two-year anniversary here! I hope you’re feeling proud today!”

Far from it. “Thank you. See you soon.” I ended the call and turned up the volume on the last few minutes of Market-Watch, listening for any last-minute changes. I clasped my favorite bracelet onto my wrist and walked over to my twin sister’s bedroom.

“I’m leaving now, Jenna!” I said, knocking. “Can you make sure you sign for my packages this afternoon?”

“What?” She immediately swung her door open and she raised her eyebrow. “I thought you were quitting today.”

“I am. I just have to make sure a few things are in place first, and I want to make sure that I—” I stopped talking once I spotted a naked guy sprawled across her mattress. “Who is that on your bed?”

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