Taken by the Billionaire in New Orleans

By Kayden Jones

This is a standalone insta-lust age-gap romance novella with a lot of steam.

The man of my dreams works for the mafia... and he doesn't take no for an answer.

I was looking for adventure when I went to New Orleans during the Mardi Gras, but I never expected to be swept away by a tornado of a man. Jackson is a billionaire who is much older than me and this combination of power and experience makes my legs shiver...
***
He makes me his, but then I learn about his shady dealings and the fairytale shatters... I run away and leave behind my broken heart.
***
One day there is a knock on my door and Jackson pulls me back to his world never to let go again... and I say yes!

For adult eyes only. All characters are over eighteen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kayden Jones
• Release date: May 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224726844

Kayden Jones

Kayden had a lot of adventures during her teenage years and a lot of fun with dominant older men. Now she writes about these adventures in her books unless she is busy getting seduced by another older alpha!You are guaranteed to find a lot of dominant older men and submissive young women on the pages of her books, so grab a copy and enjoy![e-mail]

Book preview

Taken by the Billionaire in New Orleans

Spicy Romance Novella

Kayden Jones

Copyright © 2024 Kayden Jones

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter One

The air buzzes with the vibrant energy unique to Mardi Gras, where the colors seem brighter, the music more alive. I’m swathed in the celebratory atmosphere, the city of New Orleans itself a living, breathing entity of exuberance. My senses are overwhelmed; the tantalizing smells of Creole and Cajun spices mingle with the sweet scent of beignets, a combination so intoxicating it rivals the strongest liquors.

I haven’t partied in years—spent them buried in textbooks and exams, earning my degree with a diligence that left no room for such wild abandon. But now, as I gaze upon the elaborate costumes and painted faces around me, I feel a thrill. This is my time, my celebration. I’ve earned this moment of liberation.

As I move through the crowd, laughter and snippets of jazz fill the air, creating a symphony of revelry. A flutter of excitement licks at my insides like the flames of the candles lining the street vendors’ stalls. My eyes dance over the sea of people, all here to lose themselves to the magic of the night.

And then he’s there.

He stands out from the crowd—a man whose very presence demands attention. His salt-and-pepper hair gives him a distinguished look, but it’s the sharpness in his eyes that captures me, hinting at a mind as penetrating as his gaze.

His tall, fit form moves with an ease that speaks of power held in check, a sense of control that makes me acutely aware of my own vulnerability. His suit fits him impeccably, tailored to accentuate strong shoulders and a frame that suggests not just wealth, but a life well-lived.

Our eyes meet across the throng, locking for a charged moment. Heat flushes my cheeks, and something within me stirs—a primitive recognition of desire. I quickly look away, my pulse throbbing in my throat.

But when I dare another glance, space and time bend to his will, and suddenly, he’s before me. Good evening, he says, his voice a low rumble that resonates deep in my chest. I’m Jackson Mitchell.

The simplicity of his introduction belies the complexity of the man before me. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—an acknowledgment of the unspoken tension between us. He extends a hand, and as I take it, the contact sends a jolt straight to my core.

Maria, I manage to whisper.

Welcome to Mardi Gras, he says, his smile revealing nothing and everything all at once.

Tell me, Maria, Jackson’s voice is silk over steel, have you ever let yourself be swept away by the night?

I laugh, a little nervously, aware of his gaze tracing the contours of my face. I can’t say that I have. I’ve been too buried in textbooks to be swept away by anything.

Then tonight, chère, we change that. He offers me his arm with an elegance that feels both old-world and thrillingly modern.

Vous êtes ravissante, he murmurs, our arms linked as we weave through the pulsating throng of bodies. The words roll off his tongue, exotic and smooth, and though I don’t speak French, I understand the intent behind them—his compliment ignites a warmth in my cheeks.

Thank you, I reply, my