Burned by the Ultimate Billionaire

By Georgia Stockholm

Who is Justin Blake? Wouldn’t Danielle like to know!
Up until now, curvy librarian Danielle has played it safe when it came to love. An unexpected encounter with the volatile billionaire makes her realize she wants, needs, so much more. She makes a leap of faith, breaking it off with her passionless boyfriend and alienating her best friend, putting everything on the line.
As Danielle grows closer to Justin Blake’s secrets, sparks fly. Justin awakens in her an appetite for submissive sensuality long denied. New to the world of BDSM, Danielle takes to Justin’s punishing attentions but her fears of losing herself linger. When you’re bound by the richest man on earth, anything can happen.
When the passion is this hot, somebody is bound to get burned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gulliver Noir
• Release date: Feb 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310066580

Georgia Stockholm

I was a tomboy until I was 12.I hated pink, anything girly. I refused to wear skirts and dresses, and I played exclusively with boys. The day I talked my mother into letting me get a crew cut was the happiest day of my young life. At puberty, though, something shifted inside. I still liked boys, but I knew I wasn’t one.As I grew, I fell in love with fashion, costume, things pretty, and things dangerous. I’m still more comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt than heels and makeup, but there is a time and a place for everything.I’ve always loved to read. I devoured literary classics during the day, while at night, I curled up in my bed under the covers with a flash light devouring every genre imaginable, ending up bleary eyed and unable to focus in class. I was a crummy student.Writing has been my lifelong dream, and great good fortune has afforded me the opportunity to devote myself to it full time, at least for awhile. I really hope you enjoy my work as much as I enjoy writing it.

Book preview

1

Danielle

I’m an pretty ordinary person.

I’m good at my job at the library. I read a lot. I have a decent life. I’ve had a few admirers. I have partaken of the 24/7, all-you-can-eat bad sex buffet of twenty-something life. Swipe right, or go old-school; dress up, show a little skin, put on a face, go to a club.

A little cleavage, or a lot, can accelerate the process, if you’re in a hurry, toward some painfully awkward feeling down the road. The walk of shame. The endless, agonizing wait for a text. The momentary pleasure isn’t really worth the hassle. Sometimes you don’t even get a moment, if you know what I mean.

Still, while love might be too strong a word, I do like myself. Even though I’m big or thick or whatever. My high school BF said I was big in all the right places, which was sort of nice, even if it turned out he wasn’t. Mostly, alas, I get this sentiment from randos in the street. I’m very popular with construction workers. Not so much with financiers, philanthropists, or CEOs.

This is what the sight of Justin Blake beckoning us into the four car garage of his breathtaking cliffside mansion so, so weird. Blake was beyond merely rich.

He was powerful.

He’d begun his career as an architect but had advanced degrees in computer science and industrial design as well. He sat on the boards of a dozen disruptive start-ups which had gone public to the tune of tens of millions of dollars.

Each.

Somehow, Justin and I had become… a thing?

So he’s gorgeous, Julia whispered, without moving her lips. Is he an underwear model?

He’s a successful entrepreneur, I whispered back, moving my lips as little as possible. I hadn’t thought Julia would see it, for some reason, as Justin wasn’t a classic pretty boy. His attractiveness was rough hewn, as much a part of the way he held himself, and his incredible bodybuilder’s physique as the arrangement of his features. Please behave yourself.

Julia laughed in an unkind way. As if. I don’t trust men this hot.

You date hot men all the time! I whispered fiercely.

That’s why I know not to trust them.

Shut up. I’m pulling in now. Behave.

Justin’s steely gray eyes met mine and I repressed a whole body shiver. He helped me out of the car as the garage door shut silently behind us, smiling his little half-smile. The grip of his powerful, manicured hand sent an electric thrill coursing though me. My body reacted to his touch.

Shamefully.

2

Justin

Danielle, dropping her towel, saying I didn’t want her. Her nude form lush, soft and full in the morning light, hip thrust out, weight shifted on one leg, her expression simultaneously vulnerable and defiant.

I set down my stylus.

Danielle was on her way over. Now. For a visit.

I paced slowly on the treadmill at my workstation and tried to focus. My ‘drafting table’ is a customized 80-inch pivoting slab of multi-touch display driven by a stack of workstations running Knox; a variant of the UNIX operating system which I had curated in my twenties. Knox was now closed, proprietary and I had a half-dozen developers on the payroll who did nothing but chase down vulnerabilities.

I suspect it’s the most secure operating system on the planet; my developers are good, and I care more about privacy than most multinational corporations. Which made the data breach astonishing. The only obvious suspect with this kind of power was the NSA. There would be legal issues to untangle if and when my many identities were revealed to be a single person.

The last intrusion had revealed that someone knew who and what I was. The list of all my identities had been a message. The opening salvo in a blackmail attempt?

Or was it something else?

I couldn’t concentrate.

I rubbed my forehead and saw Danielle in my mind’s eye, looking over her shoulder as I readied myself to spank her, fear and anticipation shining in her eyes. I felt the heat again of that moment, saw her curves illuminated by the autumn light streaming through the west wall of my living room. I felt the softness of her flesh yielding under my fingertips… the ripples in her flesh as I made contact… the pink handprints blooming through her soft, pale skin.

I tapped up a window on my drafting table and watched my little smart car, which I’d loaned her, a blue GPS dot in a map window finding its way back home, crawling at the speed limit through the suburbs. I invoked a video stream from the car’s dashboard webcam, and suppressed a stab of annoyance at seeing that Danielle had brought along her friend Julia as promised.

Dora. I spoke to the empty air.

Yes? The AI’s response, as always was directionless. Her —its —speakers and microphones and cameras were everywhere, in my home, vehicles, and in my various offices and enterprises.

Breakfast for three. Caviar, smoked fish, fresh fruit, bagels, French pastries. Cold-brewed iced coffee. Rush order.

Order placed, she said. After a beat she continued, Rooftop delivery in forty minutes.

Thank you, dear. Dora wasn’t a person; my take on human-assistant style AI was little better than that of the smart phone manufacturers. Still, I anthropomorphized her because that is what people do.

Lonely people, particularly.

I studied the face of Danielle’s friend, Julia. She was another beauty in hiding, with the consciously ugly haircut and the masculine clothes. The look on her face, though, as she watched her friend drive, the way her gaze moved over her body…

Danielle had called Julia her best friend.

I tracked Julia down via Danielle’s social media, dug into her feed, her work background, her past. In five minutes I thought I had the measure of her, but something nagged at me still. I wished the camera in the car included infrared so I could study the blood flow in her face. An oversight on my part. I made a note to myself to upgrade all the interior car cameras.

Why had Danielle invited this woman? Or had she invited herself?

My stomach rumbled. I was hungry for real food. The custom neutraceutical shake I use, the meal replacer, was not designed to be lived on. But I’d grown