by Julia Kent
Before Her Billionaires
by Julia Kent
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Copyright © 2014 by Julia Kent
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.
Author’s Note
The book you are about to read, Before Her Billionaires, is the prequel to the New York Times bestselling series, Her Billionaires. The four-part series first debuted in November 2012, and reached the New York Times bestseller list in October 2013 as a single-author boxed set.
Since that time, five additional books in the series have been published: It’s Complicated, Complete Abandon, Complete Harmony, Complete Bliss and Complete We. This prequel looks at the three main characters, Laura, Mike and Dylan, before they meet via an online dating service at the start of Her First Billionaire.
Sometimes your wildest dreams really do come true...
Laura Michaels sat up in her dark, lonely bedroom, heart slamming in her heated chest, the dream so real she could still taste his mouth against hers, feel hands pressed into her soft curves, sense fingers exploring where she wanted them most in the lush territory of her abandoned body. Yet her bed was empty, as always.
She should have calmed down. She should have been able to shake the reverie. She should have let it all fade.
What kept her heart beating so fast, though, was one undeniable fact.
There had been four hands on her in that dream...
This prequel takes Laura, Mike and Dylan from the New York Times bestselling series Her Billionaires and offers a glimpse into their yearning for what was meant to be...
Praise for Julia Kent
From Authors
“Her stories are sensual, incredible, and outright hilarious—the PERFECT combination.”
—Sara Fawkes, New York Times bestselling author of the Anything He Wants series
“If you like menage romances … with lots of humor, this is the series for you!”
—Mimi Strong, New York Times bestselling romantic comedy author
Reader Reviews
“This book is not to be missed!!!”
“Wow Julia has done it again!! This book had me on edge with the suspense and overwhelmed with laughter at times! I even cried a little. I absolutely love this series!!! I can’t wait to see what’s to come next!!! This is a must read!”
“Every chapter made my heart beat faster in anticipation. Julia Kent once again pulls at our emotions and allows us to fall in love with the characters all over again. Enjoyed the story from every character’s POV. Getting to see their individual reactions to every situation made the suspense for the finale overwhelming. Very well worth my heart palpitations.”
Reader Emails
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Before Her Billionaires
Laura
The sound of her steady breath was the only way she could anchor herself as he pressed against her in the silk-covered bed. Moonlight dripped into the room through sheer curtains that billowed in, pushed by a wind so eager to watch what Laura and her lover did under covers and in privacy that it made the cloth tickle her calves, eliciting a throaty laugh as his hands catalogued her.
He smiled, face in the shadows, thickly-muscled arms tending to her and only her. The muted sound of the city clamored outside, both immediate and distant, a background rumble that seemed necessary, like oxygen. It was there, it was noted, and it was forgotten, imprinted into her. What was new was him—his touch, his taste, his scent.
Him.
“You are perfect,” he whispered, a husky voice darkened by want echoing through the room. Mingled with her quickened breath, it made her feel whole. Richer and more mature somehow, tempered by her own driving, throbbing need. She felt changed, from a woman who felt lucky to be under his attentions to one who was wanted enough to be secure.
The shafts of light from the window teased her as they danced across his face, highlighting only the thick, blonde waves she could touch as she felt for his shoulders, fingers playing with his shirt collar, the warm rush of skin and hair at the back of his neck like an invitation to bury herself there. She inhaled musk and a lightly-spicy cologne, orange and clove and something that staked her in place.
She never wanted to leave. Her unclothed legs savored the feel of his, the tingle of thick leg hair against her own smooth skin. A deep breath filled her chest, her throat, her senses with his scent, making her ache to have him inside her in so many more ways. While his musk lingered in the air she inhaled, his fingers made other parts of her shiver, the rush of heat between her legs both welcome and foreboding.
If the mere brush of fingers on her hip could produce such intensity, what would his mouth between her legs feel like? A shudder of anticipation ran through her as his mouth made the delectable journey down the path of her torso, tongue leaving a lazy trail that made her breath hitch, air flow coming in fits and starts as he went down, down, down...leaving no question she was about to learn the answer to what she had just wondered.
Her hands plunged into his thick waves, the soft crush of hair in what became clenched fists maddening against the thin skin between her fingers. The texture of him, of his hair, his neck, the nuances of skin and beard and the nape of his neck, so masculine and yet so tender, made her yearn for this. For more. For all of it, as if she couldn’t grasp enough in the inadequate time they had to touch.
“Oh, there,” she murmured, feeling a smile spread his lips as he parted hers. So many words bounced in her addled head, jumbled and incoherent as his tongue found the pulsing center of her sex. Gratitude. Mercy. Delight. Ecstasy. Joy. Abandon.
Home.
“God, you’re so...” she whispered as he tended to her with such care, like a virtuoso of a woman’s body, playing her as if she were a fine instrument only a handful of masters could manage.
“Mmmm,” he murmured against her, one hand cupping her ass and driving under her, up over her hip and onto her belly, lounging there as if it were waiting for something that it knew was coming. “You’re the one who is a goddess,” he said against her thigh, the wisps of air against her vulnerable, exposed flesh making her quiver. “A luscious, beautiful, amazing gift,” he continued, his words arousing her as much as his ministrations to her flesh.
One hand on her belly, one hand in her, and then a third hand cupped the soft flesh of her ass, a fourth on her breast, tweaking the nipple where his mouth had just been.
And—wait.
Four hands?
A new m
outh kissed her, tasting like wine and spices, different from the earlier man, who’d carried a distinct minty flavor. Her body flushed and her eyes searched the dark room, seeking answers.
“We adore you,” said a new voice, deep and filled with a sensual growl that made her entire body shiver, the epicenter of this tectonic shift between her legs. Her hand groped to find the body attached to that voice, encountering hard, rigid muscle, arms with veins that stood out like a rope, like a lifeline she must grab and hold on to for dear life.
And just as her eyes found a shaft of light that illuminated the room just enough to see their faces, to focus on the very man (men?) who gave her so much pleasure, she woke up to a cold, empty room, her heart racing, pulse flying like a supersonic jet, a cold sheen of sweat soaking her breasts, her cleft, her soul.
“No!” she cried out.
Not again. Pounding her fists on the unsympathetic mattress, she hit two, three, four times, her thin cotton nightgown stuck to her loose breasts, her hair flying with the force of her anger.
Again.
These dreams invaded her mind most nights, slinking in like a snake, like a mist that moved and permeated, filling in the cracks of her subconscious. Heart pounding, clit throbbing, she burst into furious tears, starting an ugly cry that made her ribs ache, her throat hurt so much she thought she was choking, the sound of weeping as intimate as the touch of those warm hands from her dream.
But not nearly as satisfying.
The glow of the red numbers from her alarm clock infiltrated her brain. 4:44 a.m. It was nearly the same time every night, like clockwork (ha ha). As she took in a shaky breath and her neck stopped spasming, she rubbed her eyes over and over, as if she could massage into them some sort of message that could permeate her brain.
What that message was, though, she didn’t know. Something. Anything. Indistinct and uncertain, it was a message. The universe was trying to tell her something, and it involved two men, two mouths, four hands, and a lot of need.
Sighing, she pulled the tangled sheets off her legs and looked down, pink painted toenails chipped, her feet wiggling with restlessness. A cup of chamomile tea would be her nighttime companion, it seemed.
And not those two men.
Two. It started out as one, a guy who resembled her ex...boyfriend? Ex-cheater? Ex...something. Ryan had been the guy she’d dated, the guy she thought she would have a future with, the guy who turned out to be married.
Already married.
So was he a cheater, or was she? When he broke up with her he’d flung his marriage in her face, telling her it was her fault she had been with him, that she had made him stray, that she had been at fault for his infidelity. In the warped way that she allowed the world to work sometimes, she’d actually believed him for a short while. She’d apologized. She’d begged him to forgive her.
And even after her best friend, Josie, had spent a long weekend de-programming her and making her see what a manipulative asshole Ryan had been, she’d dreamed about him.
What a slippery animal the unconscious can be. It’s your best friend, your worst enemy, your confidante and your nemesis. The unconscious keeps you going at night and shapes your social instincts during the day.
And deep in the dark hours of the middle of the night, it arouses you to no end with dreams of a love life that would make anyone blush.
That cup of chamomile wasn’t going to make itself. Heaving herself off the bed, she took a few steps on shaking legs, thighs running together under the thin cotton of her nightgown. The throbbing between those thighs only intensified, a deeply irritating feeling that wasn’t going to abate.
Laura made a mental note to replace the batteries on her vibrator—it had stalled out on her the other night, sputtering to a dead halt just when she’d needed it most, making her cry out with a hoarse sound she’d last made during sex with Ryan, when he’d finished first and rolled over.
And you couldn’t just throw some new D batteries in Ryan and get him going again.
Too bad life didn’t work that way.
One of her cats, Frumpy, rubbed against her legs and purred, the cool feel of the fur brushing against Laura’s ankles with a disjointed sensuality. Gently nudging the cat away, Laura padded into the kitchen, filled the kettle, turned it on and dug out a can of cat food.
Miss Daisy and Snuggles decided to join in the food fest, making a mewling sound that made Laura laugh.
“All right, all right, it’s coming,” she said, her voice cracking. Living alone meant not talking much when she wasn’t at work or hanging out with her best friend, and by the end of twelve hours of not saying a word, she found her vocal cords in need of a little stretch. On long weekends she could go all day without saying a word, making the return to work a bit uncomfortable, as if she had to relearn basic social cues all over again.
Laura fed the cats, washed her hands, and set up the tea steeper, spooning her loose tea into the water reservoir. The kettle whistled at just the right moment, she poured the water in for steeping and shut the top—
And promptly burst into tears all over again. She was a single woman living alone with three cats, making tea in the middle of the night. This was not how her twenties were supposed to be.
Closing her eyes, she willed the dream to come back, to feel the sensual heat of those hands. In her mind’s eye she remembered the forearm that was attached to one of those loving hands, the sandy hair that peppered the tanned skin, the twist of muscle under the taut skin. It was a man’s arm, muscled and tight, with tendons and veins rigid and clear under textured skin.
We adore you.
The man’s words whispered through her like the rush of hot wind on a summer’s night, right before a burst of sweet, steamy rain, the kind you run outside and play in, even as an adult. You tip your face to the dark, cloudy sky and let the misty rain blanket you like it’s love.
She could feel the imprint of his palm on her thigh. If she weren’t firmly grounded in the world of logic, she’d think he was here. Right now, in another room in her small apartment, off to the bathroom or back in her tousled bed, waiting for her, warming the sheets and reclined in full, drawn-out nude beauty.
Her hand reached down to touch the expanse of skin that burned from the memory of his touch. A laugh burbled out of her, unbidden and without any pretense. She snorted as her fingers brushed against her own creamy curves, her finger tips sliding from mid-thigh on up.
Quickly, she yanked her nightgown down. Now she just burned with a stupid sense of shame, a cold chill making her shiver as the tea darkened in the clear plastic cylinder she used for steeping.
What had she done to deserve a life where her only intimacy was her fingers, her battery-powered night-table boyfriends, her cats and these all-consuming dreams? Dream men were fine and all, but they couldn’t bite your nipple at just the right time.
He has to be real, she thought, the palpable change in her skin making her more certain than ever that whatever she had dreamed had been more than wishful thinking. He’s out there. He’s real.
He has to be.
Don’t you mean ‘they’, a voice inside her hissed, the trickster who made her doubt, made her insecure and self-deprecating, asked in a disapproving voice.
They.
The second man had appeared with such stealth, yet such prowess, that she blended the two together in her addled mind. They weren’t the same, though. Distinct and heavenly, they were two separate men. She inhaled slowly, fingers curling around the edge of the kitchen counter, her breasts flushed with the memory of how all four hands on her had made her ache.
In the dream, she’d known that ache would soon ease as they pleasured her to release. Too bad life didn’t imitate the movie Inception. If it did, she’d hire someone to hack her back into that moment and live out her wildest sexual fantasies.
Pouring her now-too-strong tea, she smiled at the thought. Fantasies. They’re all fantasies, right? The first sip of chamomile made her mouth twist
from the concentration, but by her third she was calmer. More centered.
Thin strands of the dream slowly faded away. She tried to conjure an image of the man’s forearm but couldn’t. Then his scent. Cardamon and freshly-cut grass? Mint and orange? Synapses in her brain struggled to put it all together to form the atmosphere in which she’d awoken.
By the time she finished her cup of tea all that remained was the barest hint of memory, of being touched. Of being loved. Of being cherished.
The actual experience disappeared, though, as the sun made its slow ascent. As if sunlight chased her dream away.
All that remained was her frustration.
Miss Daisy meowed until Laura poured her a shallow dish of milk. As dawn made the sky outside turn a sickly shade of grey Laura sighed and slumped on her couch, turning on the television to catch whatever was on at 5:11 a.m.
The pre-morning-show talk show featured a young woman she’d never seen before and a guy she vaguely remembered from some reality television show where he ate food out of dumpsters for a week. They chatted on a boring, beige couch in a studio that looked like something a hotel designer created.
“Bachelor auction!” the woman chirped, turning toward a screen behind them. A shirtless man in a construction outfit appeared, stripper music in the background.
“Can you imagine paying $5,000 for a date with one of those hunks?” the male co-host joked.
“Yes,” said the woman, licking her lips. “I can. He’s a catch,” she added, pointing to a man dressed like a doctor, walking down a fashion runway wearing a white lab coat, jeans, and nothing else.
“Once you catch him, what do you do with him?” the man asked.
Click.
Laura wasn’t watching that. First off, who had $5,000 for a date? And second, even if Laura had that kind of money for a charity auction, how awkward would that date be?