WILD HONEY: The Chronicles Of Alice Jaja

CHAPTER 1 The thing about being the daughter of a powerful man is that people think you’re untouchable. They look at your last name and think it’s a shield. Maybe it is—for them. For me, it’s a cage with silk bars, a glittering prison made of money, secrets, and expectations. And I? I was the wild thing inside it, licking blood off my lips with a smile. My name is Alice Jaja. I’m 22, filthy rich, and more dangerous than most men realize—until it’s too late. I grew up in Port Harcourt, on Odili Road, inside a mansion with twenty rooms and not one safe place to fall apart. My father, Honourable Kingsley Jaja, is one of those men who smiles with his mouth but not his eyes. People fear him. Even my mother, Rita Jaja—first lady of silk and stillness—walks like she’s on glass when he’s home. They say open marriages are for free spirits. But theirs isn’t about freedom. It’s control. Power. Performance. My mother has her lovers. My father has entire estates of them. But they both share one obsession: me. Their only child. Their little legacy. Their ticking bomb. I was seventeen when I realized they weren’t protecting me—they were preserving me. Like a vintage bottle of wine no one would drink, just display. I had other plans. I started sneaking out, losing my virginity to a boy whose name I forgot before his sweat dried on my chest, and from then on, I wanted nothing less than everything. Drugs. Boys. Girls. Older men. Younger women. I didn’t care. I wasn’t trying to be safe. I was trying to feel alive. Now, at 22, nothing shocks me. And everything turns me on. That morning, I woke up in silk sheets with a hangover made of champagne and weed smoke. My phone was buzzing beside me, vibrating against the glass table like it had somewhere to be. I reached for it with one hand, the other still between my thighs, lazy from the dream I’d just had—something about handcuffs and a stranger’s tongue. Belema: “Babe. Wake up. I’m downstairs. If you’re still naked, I’m coming in anyway.” I smiled and stretched like a spoiled cat. Belema Walter was the only person who could talk to me like that and get away with it. My best friend since FGGC Abuloma, co-devil, co-doll, co-addict. Her father ran one of the biggest hotel chains in Rivers State. On the surface, he was all bowties and philanthropy. Underneath, he was the man who sold white cocaine to senators in church suits. Belema wasn’t just rich. She was connected. More than me, even. And she was my mirror—if mirrors could snort lines off marble and still wear lashes longer than their patience. I threw on a silk robe, tied it low, and padded through the house barefoot. Odili Road was already awake outside. I could hear the hum of security cars and the soft purr of money moving. My parents weren’t home. My dad was in Abuja, and my mum was in Lekki with one of her yoga instructors. That meant I could be myself, raw and unrestricted. Belema was already in the living room when I reached downstairs, legs crossed on the Italian couch like she owned the place. She wore a white crop top, tight jeans, and that smirk that meant she had news. “Did you f**k him?” I asked before she even opened her mouth. She blinked innocently. “Who?” I raised a brow. She giggled and bit her lip. “Okay, maybe. But just once. Twice if you count the balcony.” “Which one?” “The senator’s driver.” “Oh.” I shrugged. “That’s fine. I only gave him head last weekend.” We both laughed. That was the thing about us. Nothing was off-limits. Not boys, not men, not each other. We had a pact: don’t fall in love, don’t snitch, and always finish your drink. We were in the kitchen when the idea came. “I’m bored,” I said, sipping coconut water straight from the fridge. Belema turned to look at me with that mischievous glint. “Let’s call one of your dad’s boys.” “My dad will kill me.” She rolled her eyes. “Your dad’s in Abuja. And they already want to f**k you anyway.” That was true. They did. His security, his PAs, his ‘special advisers’. All of them tried not to stare when I walked past in shorts, but their eyes always lingered. I’d caught one of them jerking off in the garden once after I’d gone swimming. I didn’t even mind. I blew him a kiss. That night, I picked one. The one who stared the hardest. And I gave him a show. Slow, deliberate. The kind of show that makes a man forget how to breathe. The kind where every movement is a promise, a dare, a warning. He watched me from the doorway, his eyes dark and hungry like a lion’s before the kill. The room was warm, scented with the sharp tang of expensive cologne and the faint sweetness of my perfume mingling with the coconut water I’d just sipped. My crop top barely covered my ribs, and the sweatpants hung low on my hips, just enough to tease, never reveal. I traced my fingers down the curve of my neck, the bare skin flushed with heat, then slowly slid them beneath the fabric, pretending to be lost in thought—but I wasn’t. Every flicker of his gaze told me he was counting the seconds until he could touch. The fridge’s cold hum was the only sound between us, until he finally stepped closer, the air shifting like a storm rolling in. His breath hit my skin, rough and urgent, sending shivers straight down my spine. I bit my lip and let my eyes drop to his mouth—full, slightly parted, promising sin. When his hands finally landed on my waist, firm and possessive, I gasped—part shock, part invitation. The heat of his touch was a wildfire, setting my nerves ablaze. He didn’t rush. No, this was a slow burn. Fingers exploring, mapping territory that was both forbidden and familiar. I arched into him, pressing back, wanting more but holding back just enough to keep him desperate. His lips grazed my collarbone, trailing fire along my skin, his tongue a teasing brush. The world outside the mansion faded. There was only the rough slide of his hands, the soft catch of my breath, the rapid drum of my heart in my ears. I tasted the sharp edge of his desire on my lips when he finally claimed my mouth, wild and hungry. For a moment, I forgot I was Alice Jaja—the daughter of Honourable Kingsley Jaja, the untouchable princess trapped behind golden bars. I was just a woman, reckless and alive, caught in the sweet chaos of wanting and being wanted. But the game was far from over. And I was the one holding all the cards. His hands slid lower, fingertips tracing the curve of my hips, sending sparks through every nerve ending. I shivered, part from the chill of the fridge, part from the heat blooming inside me. The soft fabric of my sweatpants whispered as I shifted, teasing him with every move. He pressed me harder against the cold surface, the contrast between my burning skin and the fridge’s icy steel electrifying. His breath was ragged now, mingling with mine, every exhale a silent confession of need. I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, tasting the faint trace of mint from his last cigarette. The world narrowed until there was nothing but us — the click of the fridge door, the slick sound of lips and skin, and the rapid beat of two hearts daring to collide. His mouth found the sensitive hollow beneath my ear, nibbling lightly, leaving trails of fire that made me gasp. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the moment, to the dangerous thrill of being touched by someone who shouldn’t want me — but couldn’t resist. When his hands slipped beneath my crop top, fingers cool against my heated skin, I arched, giving him exactly what he craved. Not just flesh. Not just a body to claim. But the wildness, the chaos, the defiant spark that made me untouchable — even if for just one night, he thought he’d caught me. He hesitated a breath before his lips brushed mine again — softer this time, like a secret shared in the dark. And I knew this was more than a game to him. Maybe even to me. But in this glittering cage of silk and shadow, desire was the only thing real. His palm spread flat against my stomach, warm and rough, and the feel of it sent a ripple of heat through me. My breath hitched. I didn’t stop him. I tilted my head back instead, eyelids fluttering shut, letting every nerve sharpen into awareness. The fridge door, still cracked open, spilled cold air across my thighs while his fingers trailed upward, igniting sparks beneath my skin. The contrast—his heat, the fridge’s chill, the silky slide of my sweatpants slipping lower—made my entire body feel like a live wire. Every inch of me was hypersensitive, begging for more, and still pretending I didn’t care. The scent of his cologne—leather, musk, and something faintly spicy—wrapped around me. It filled my nose, settled in my throat, mixed with the faint citrus from the coconut water I hadn’t finished. My mouth was dry. My skin damp. My heart pounding like music in a club bathroom—loud, messy, off-beat. He pulled the crop top higher, just enough to graze the underside of my breast with his thumb. My n****e tightened in the cool air. I hissed softly, biting back the moan, because I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction—not yet. His mouth followed the path his hands had taken. Hot. Wet. Slow. His tongue licked a slow, sinful stripe up my ribs, and I arched into it, my back brushing against the metal fridge, cold jolting through my spine like a reminder: you’re alive, you’re alive, you’re alive. The marble tile beneath my feet was smooth and cold, grounding me even as everything else slipped out of control. My silk robe gaped open now, barely hanging off one shoulder. The fabric kissed my skin with every movement, making me feel like a goddess being undressed by the storm she summoned. And he—he was breathing hard now, his hand slipping between my thighs, pressing against the wet heat through the thin fabric. He groaned when he felt it. I smirked. “You’re not supposed to want me,” I whispered, voice thick with heat and challenge. He looked up at me, lips swollen, pupils blown wide. “I’ve wanted you since the day I saw you.” I tilted his chin up with one finger. “Then take what you came for.” Because that was the thing about being Alice Jaja. I didn’t just break rules. I invited them to be broken.