BILLIONAIRE'S WILD TEMPTATION

THE BILLIONAIRE’S WILD TEMPTATION BLURB He is the embodiment of everything I loathe. So why the f**k do I want him to do the dirtiest to me? CHAPTER ONE UNGODLY Fuck. Nathan Hawthorne is unfairly, catastrophically beautiful. He possesses the kind of looks that announce itself the moment he walks into a room and somehow manages to suck all the oxygen out with him. It's hard not to notice. Especially when he's sitting three tables away in the company cafeteria, that panty-dropping smile perpetually dancing at the corner of his lips while half the marketing department hangs on his every word. Women laugh at every joke he makes, even the objectively terrible ones. Men want to be his friend. Clients love him. Nathan has the kind of charm that should probably be regulated by law. I try not to stare and fail rather terribly. But it’s safe to just watch from where I’m sitting alone, enjoying my packed lunch that my sister had insisted on making me. Because let’s be f*****g honest for one, he'd never notice me. Half the women around him look like they stepped off a runway and accidentally wandered into a billion-dollar corporation. Meanwhile, I'm sitting alone with my microwaved pasta, thick-rimmed glasses, and a permanent state of exhaustion brought on by working as personal assistant to one of the most demanding men in the city. "SCOTT!" Speaking of the devil. The roar echoes through the cafeteria and I nearly launch my fork across the room. A second later, pasta sauce splatters down the front of my shirt as every single person in the cafeteria turns to stare. Wonderful. Just wonderful. Slowly, I look up. Standing at the entrance is Maxwell Blackwood, founder, CEO, billionaire menace, and the reason my therapist drives a luxury vehicle. The man's face is so red he looks moments away from spontaneous combustion. "Sir," I say quickly, scrambling to my feet. His eyes narrow, "In my office. Now." I swear his voice could crack concrete. Without another word, he turns and storms out. The cafeteria remains silent for approximately three seconds. Then everyone resumes eating while pretending they weren't just watching my public execution. It’s so f*****g normal, I briefly wonder why I haven’t quit yet. Right, the f*****g bills. Not that they would wait on anyone. I glance down at my shirt and a massive orange stain stares back at me. Fantastic. Just what every professional needs before being summoned by an angry billionaire. "Here." A napkin suddenly appears in front of me. I blink once then blink again. Because standing beside me is Nathan Hawthorne. Nathan. f*****g. Hawthorne. Up close, he's somehow an even better walking temptation. Six-foot-something of broad shoulders, messy dark hair, warm brown eyes, and a smile so devastating it should come with a warning label. My brain immediately abandons ship, getting into a scrambling state. Every intelligent thought I have ever possessed vanishes. "Scott, right?" he asks. His hands disappear into the pockets of his jeans as he smiles. He knows my name. He knows my f*****g name. "N-not Nathan Hawthorne knows my name," my brain screams. "Yeah," I manage. Nathan chuckles, "I thought so." His smile widens slightly. God help me. "So listen," he says. "A few of us are grabbing drinks at Ray's after work. You should come. Honestly, you look like you could use a drink." A laugh escapes his lips, "I mean, your boss is a complete asshole." His eyes flick toward the hallway Max disappeared down as he adds , “No offense." "None taken," I say immediately. Because none was. Everybody in the company would easily agree with me on that. Max Blackwood was absolutely an asshole. A highly successful asshole. But still an asshole. Nathan laughs again. The sound does dangerous things to my nervous system. "So you'll come?" For a moment, I wonder if this is some elaborate prank. People like Nathan don't invite people like me anywhere. Yet there he is, waiting for an answer. And you know what? Screw it. It’s better than being holed up in my apartment, trying not to think of my dumbass ex Kane. "Yeah," I say, unable to stop smiling. "I'll be there." "Good." That smile appears again; the one capable of causing traffic accidents. The same one that has been a refuge of my thoughts ever sine the first time he walked through the revolving door of the company, five months ago. "I'll save you a seat." Then he turns and walks away, rejoining his coworkers as they leave the cafeteria. I watch him disappear out of the door, probably longer than is socially acceptable. Then almost like a jolt of electricity, it hits me. Nathan Hawthorne spoke to me. Nathan Hawthorne knew my f*****g name. To most people, that probably sounds like an overreaction. But if you're me-a chronically overworked personal assistant with a nightmare boss, a s*x life that has been dead for so long it deserves a memorial service, and an ex you still can't seem to forget, then you'll understand. Sometimes a tiny bit of attention from the office golden boy is enough to make your entire week. Maybe even your month. And maybe, just maybe, it gives you something else. A distraction. A fantasy. Something to focus on besides the increasingly depressing reality of your life. Unfortunately, reality is waiting for me on the thirty-second floor. And his name is Maxwell Blackwood. I wonder what I did this time round. Well, I guess we are about to find out.