Hold Me: A Sexy Billionaire Romance

By Anne Marsh

Dive into New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Anne Marsh’s delicious story of a fiercely hot billionaire, a quirky little smart-mouth and a sexy little game that’ll get them in a whole lot of trouble…

With ten jobs and six addresses in four years, Peony Harding might as well change her name to Ms. Anticommitment. But before she can initiate Peony 2.0 (the responsible, career-minded, settled-down version of herself), she meets Jax Valentine—at a sex party. Jax is over six feet of dark, brooding, dirty fun…with a 100 percent chance of trouble. Like a sexy little game of “pretend marriage” that ends with a wickedly real wedding night!

Jax Valentine likes his life just fine as it is. But Peony, a gorgeous, quirky firefly on the verge of disappearing into the night, completely unravels him. He cannot resist her…so why would he scare her off by admitting he’s a billionaire?

It’s a summer fling filled with ridiculously hot heart-pounding sex, laughter and tacos on the beach. But every fling has an end date. Which is exactly when Peony discovers who Jax Valentine really is: a billionaire, her new boss…and her very real husband.

Take control. Feel the rush. Explore your fantasies—Harlequin DARE publishes sexy romances featuring powerful alpha males and bold, fearless heroines exploring their deepest fantasies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harlequin
• Release date: Apr 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9780369702524

Anne Marsh

  Anne Marsh writes sexy contemporary and paranormal romances because the world can always enjoy one more alpha male. She started writing romance after getting laid off from her job as a technical writer—and quickly decided happily-ever-afters trumped software manuals. She lives in North Carolina with her two kids and five cats.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Peony

HE’S A BASTARD. A really hot, completely insufferable, prick. He always fires half of the staff on his first day. Hotly’s newest software engineer, Josie, slaps her palm on my desk, making my Melvil Dewey bobblehead dance.

I straighten the stack of books on my desk. They’re for show as Hotly’s archive consists mostly of television footage, but a book-less librarian would be like Barbie without her awesome shoe collection.

I should discourage Josie’s highly inappropriate work gossip, but the whole company’s been at DEFCON 2 since notice of the sale started circulating this morning. Startups get sold or close down constantly in San Francisco, but everyone’s twitching, wondering how it will affect them. I’ve quit or been fired so many times that I can’t bring myself to care.

Instead, I worry about Josie. Are you hiding out here? So that our new boss can’t find you?

Josie nods. You work in the basement, she says. I figure he’ll start at the top of the building. Do you think he fires us in person or does he have people to do that?

People. I say this with confidence because I’ve always been fired by a random Human Resources person; CEO spottings have been rarer than the dodo bird in my work life. I can’t imagine the new owner of our internet television channel will bother coming down to the corporate library.

Maybe it would be better if he did it himself. Josie looks agonized. He’s hot and loaded. When will we ever get the chance to meet a guy like that again?

You make him sound like a baked potato with bacon and cheese. I don’t think this is a dating opportunity.

Dating opportunities have been limited. Josie waves her hands as if fresh air will make everything clearer. When is the last time you had a date? Or a second date?

Three months. Although it was more than just a date. I hate that I can’t stop thinking about the guy I met over the summer. I’d feel even guiltier about ending it with him except that, eventually, I’d have screwed it up and then he’d have been the one to walk away. It’s always better to leave first.

Josie bounces back from a dejected slump. If we’re still gainfully employed tonight, I’ll buy you a drink and we’ll work on your dating plan.

You’re on, I say.

Since Josie’s only been my fellow employee for two weeks, she has legitimate grounds for her continued-employment concerns. Last in, first out is practically a workplace rule. Plus, rents in San Francisco are brutal and she shares a one-bedroom apartment with three other girls.

Since I’ve been working for Hotly.com for almost three months, I’m practically an old hand. As my family would tell you, this is a record for me. I’m a temp, so I bounce from job to job like a pollen-seeking bee. Except, in my case, I’m looking for a paycheck and some ephemeral something else. I’m currently organizing four years of internet broadcasts, along with a ton of scripts, props, contracts and other ephemera so that people can instantly put their hands on what they want.

I spent the first two weeks on the job sorting through about a thousand boxes and organizing backup tapes. It was like a treasure hunt—so much fun but also super dusty. So I’ve adopted the engineering wardrobe of blue jeans and an old button-down. Since it’s Friday—always the most popular day to fire staff—I’m also wearing a bright orange T-shirt with Hotly scrawled across my boobs. The girls are generously sized, so the letters have to really stretch to cover my real estate.

Josie twitches as the silence drags on. Do you think he can possibly be as hot as they say?

Google is your friend. I push my phone toward her. This is not the sort of search that should happen on the company network.

"What if he is? Josie chews on her bottom lip. Wouldn’t that make it really awkward working with him? Like, I’m supposed to say ‘yes, sir’ to whatever he asks. It’s a bad BDSM plot waiting to happen."

I don’t think we’re supposed to tie people up during company meetings.

Naturally my head decides now would be a great time to start a porn strip starring the hot boss and the naughty employee. I blame my recent lack of non-solo orgasms.

The important question is whether I want to be the boss or the employee.

Women’s rights win, and I mentally flip the script in my head so that I play hot, bossy boss and Josie’s unknown suit is my very bad secretary.

If in my head he looks a lot like my last hookup, it’s just because I lack imagination and Jax Valentine had an amazing pair of shoulders. He was a big, bad-ass, scruffy surfer built on Goliath-like lines. A long-haired, inked-up giant with a soft spot for making me happy, particularly in bed. Really, I’m not sure why I ran off.

Okay. So I totally know why I did—I’m Ms. Anti-Commitment. I’ve had six different mailing addresses in the last four years and ten different jobs.

Josie pokes me. Are you even listening or are you trying to telepathically update your résumé on LinkedIn?

I grin at her. How could I not be listening? Please describe our potentially hot new boss in intimate detail.

This is me living vicariously because getting it on with my boss is firmly on my Do Not Do list. Or at least my Do Not Do Again list, which is longer than I’d admit out loud. Still, banging the boss is a fun fantasy and I sort of wish that Jax and I were still a thing so I could tease him into playing with me.

Come into my office, Mr. Valentine.

Shut the door.

Explain these mistakes in my spreadsheet. Are you trying to get into trouble?

In my head, we lean over a computer screen, our shoulders brushing as I point out his errors. He’s very apologetic, of course, and wants to know how he can make up this bad behavior to me, which leads to a discussion of extra credit projects.

Jax never had a submissive side—I took that part when we role-played—so maybe he wouldn’t be into me taking charge. Eh. This is my fantasy, so secretary he is.

I want to see his suit, Josie says wistfully. Apparently, our new boss has already made a big impression without getting naked. "I read online that he gets them hand-tailored. He flies to London in his private jet just to go shopping."

Glamorous if environmentally shortsighted, I agree.

Josie thunks her head down on my desk and Melvil goes wild once again. Do you think we can bribe him with sexual favors?

Ménage is a lot of work. I’m not sure our big bastard boss would be worth the effort. Josie’s mouth drops open, so I barrel ahead as she clearly isn’t going to contribute to this conversation. As it’s highly probable I’ll get fired today, I don’t filter.

You don’t agree? It’s all the logistics that bother me. You have to figure out where to fit together multiple sets of arms and legs. Unless you were envisioning something more like a spectator sport?

Josie squeaks. Possibly, she’s having a stroke. Or mouthing the word boss.

Shoot. Me.

Ladies. The dry voice that comes from behind us is deliciously rough and confident. If cavemen or victorious Roman legionnaires could speak, they’d sound like this. Does that make any sense? Absolutely not, but I blame my mental twaddle on the inescapable truth that the voice is also—unfortunately—very familiar.

That has to be a sex-deprived hallucination.

I mean, I’ve never had one, but the Victorians were certain lack of orgasms led to hysteria and delusions. And there’s no way my new boss actually sounds exactly like my summer fling. He definitely hasn’t talked dirty to me.

Or issued dirty commands.

Or done dirty, dirty things while he was inside me.

It’s just the mother of all coincidences. I should have asked Josie more questions. Sadly, she’s spent so much time explaining why he’s imminently datable/beddable that I neglected to ask his name.

I don’t want to turn around, but certain mature behaviors are expected of adults and crawling under my desk isn’t really a viable option.

Reluctantly, I swivel in my chair.

The man watching me from the library door is a scary, hot bastard, all right. For a moment, I think I’m mistaken and that he’s not my Jax. He’s someone else’s Jax—a giant of a man in an expensive suit, crisp white dress shirt and dark blue tie. His thick, shoulder-length hair has been pulled back in a club that just brushes the top of his collar; the archive’s crappy canned lighting makes it look blue-black. Stubble roughens a jaw that’s sporting a faded yellow bruise as if someone popped him, which is impossible. He looks exactly like what the office gossip claims he is—a ruthless billionaire who not only owns us lock, stock, and barrel, but isn’t particularly happy with his purchase and is considering a refund.

This can’t be the man I played dirty pirates with.

One of the studio VPs scoots out of Jax’s shadow. Peony, this is—

Jax Valentine, I say.

Your big bastard boss, he growls as he steps into the library. He follows this up with a snarled, Out.

While I’m not sure he means me, carpe diem, right? I bounce out of my seat, almost colliding with Josie, who’s making her own mad dash for the door. She scoots around Jax and then hightails it into the stairwell, followed by the studio VP and the rest of the power entourage. Jax promptly shifts until he’s blocking the door. A muscle in his jaw flexes.

Is he going to tell them we’ve hooked up and that I broke up with him? God, if I’d known he’d be my boss someday, I wouldn’t have gone near him, let alone dropped my panties.

He reaches behind him and shuts the door. Firmly.

I go back to my desk and start packing up.

So, you’re a billionaire, I say too brightly. And a businessman. I’m not sure how this didn’t come up in conversation before, but it’s going to take me some time to process that you’re not a normal person like the rest of us.

There’s a moment of tense silence during which I shove the bobblehead Dewey into my purse.

Peony. He really, really doesn’t sound happy.

I’ll email my letter of resignation by the end of the day. I sweep my phone into my purse then drop down into my chair so I can turn my drawers inside out. Or I can send it from the train. If the WiFi is working and I’m not stuck in a tunnel. Either way, you’ll have it and—

Firefly. He pinches the bridge of his nose. You quit too much.

He’s not wrong, but I’m smart enough not to agree.

You ran out on me, he says more gently. You left a goddamned Post-it note on my kitchen counter. Then you changed your number and moved. I couldn’t get in touch with you.

I didn’t think you’d care. We were just a summer thing. Why would you want to talk with me?

"We still had things to say to each other. I had things to say since I didn’t get to write a note of my own. Finding you here is a surprise." He comes over and leans against the edge of my desk. Brown eyes the color of chocolate examine my face. I let him look. It’s not as if I can stop him.

His knees bump mine.

So you’re not a superstalker. Good to know. I reach out and tap the encroaching knees. You’re in my personal space, big guy. Pretty sure that’s an HR violation.

Am I doing anything you don’t want me to do, Firefly? His voice is low and confident. The way he says my nickname—part groan, part greedy whisper—is familiar. He knows things about me. He learned all my tells during our summer, so I’m certain he’s caught the hitch in my breathing.

Touching him is a mistake. The simple contact of my fingers lightly brushing his knees reminds me of how hard and warm he is. When I’m with him, I feel safe. I stroke the soft fabric of his suit pants over and over.

You can’t sleep with your boss.

Remember what happened last time. And the time before that!

Jax and I had only been together anyhow because we’d met at a Napa Valley sex party where he rescued me from my then-boss. Apparently, boss dating was about to become a pattern and I just hadn’t known it. Stupidly, I’d thought attending the exclusive event would be fun or glamorous. I’d never done something like that before, so when the invitation had mysteriously arrived, I’d thought Be bold! And I’d gone.

It turns out that sex parties are highly overrated. They’re also disproportionately full of assholes who don’t understand simple concepts like no and fuck off.

Peony. I can’t do this. Jax makes a rough sound. I remove my fingers from his knee. God, where is my brain? We need to talk.

I don’t particularly want to.

You have two choices. His face is tight and controlled as he leans down so I look him in the eye. I have no problem believing that this man dismantles companies for fun. We talk now or you can meet me after work tonight for dinner.

Pass.

Choose. His voice has that note of command again. A note I’ve only heard before in bed.

Do you have an evil twin?

Pick, or I’ll start our conversation now.

What can you possibly want to talk about?

He looks me in the eye. Our marriage.

That was a game.

No. His mouth softens. You thought it was. Fuck, I thought it was. But it turns out we’re married for real.

What?

I got a wedding certificate in the mail from the fine state of California. He shrugs broad shoulders. It seems that we’re married.

I’m married to Jax Valentine.

I’m the boss’s wife.

CHAPTER TWO

Four Months Earlier...

Peony

AS FAR AS parties go, tonight’s is a bust. I can accept the ridiculously over-the-top circus theme and the hundreds of people dressed as sexy acrobats or ringmasters is absolutely fun. I freaking love sexy role-playing and see no reason to limit it to Halloween. I’m even willing to overlook that most of us couldn’t do a backbend to save our lives—making the sex acts being performed under the big top more aspirational than DIY demonstrations. It’s the guy putting the moves on me who is the deal killer. Each time I take a step away from him, he moves closer, as if my showing up at a sex party is all the consent he needs.

What takes the crap cake? He’s not even a stranger. Seven hours ago, I said goodbye to him at the office because that’s what you do when you’re clocking out for the week and your boss is still hanging around. When Mr. Martin—clearly my about-to-be-ex-boss—mentioned he’d see me around, I didn’t realize he’d meant tonight. Or that he was the reason I’d gotten an invitation to this swank party in the first place. Invitations to sex parties at a California billionaire’s place in Napa Valley have been few in number—I’m a total sex party virgin—so of course I’d seized the chance to legitimately visit a ten-thousand-square-foot faux château. The fountains are awesome and I’d kill to swim in the pools, but the public sex acts make Marie Antoinette’s real French court seem tame.

I’m really happy to see you tonight, Peony. I thought you’d like this. Mr. Martin—Call me Bob—braces an arm beside my head and leans in far too close. This is not the first time I’ve encountered his lack of personal boundaries, but I’ve dismissed his previous transgressions as accidental. Apparently, I’ve been too charitable. Peony 2.0 needs to work on that character flaw.

Should I lie and chirp back that I’m thrilled to see him? Because I’m totally not. He’s swapped his circumspect, weekday suit for crotch-hugging khakis and a white linen shirt. The top buttons are undone, revealing a tuft of blond chest hair I’d rather not know exists. His own happiness is also apparent, straining against the front of