JAKE

by Juliette Jones

“Okay, you two,” Jake says, smiling wryly. “Back off. I need to kiss my girl.”

  I hold Jake’s face in my hands and kiss a cut on his cheekbone. Then a bruise on his forehead. “You scared me to death,” I tell him. He points to his lips. I kiss his lips. His arm wraps around me and he keeps me there, kissing me like there isn’t a billionaire brother and his pretty wife not two feet from where we’re making out like horny teenagers. For someone who’s just been shot, he feels unbelievably virile.

  “You’ll compromise my recovery if you keep that up,” he tells me and I smile. “Are you okay? They didn’t hurt you?”

  “They ran as soon as they shot you.”

  “He’s being prosecuted as we speak,” adds Alexander. “Tax evasion, fraud, assault, invasion of privacy and embezzlement. There aren’t a lot of crimes Butch Flint hasn’t committed. It’s pretty likely he’ll get five to ten. And we’re making sure his soon-to-be ex-wife gets a very healthy settlement.”

  “Wow, Alexander. Thank you. You two could organize the universe.” I don’t feel happy about Butch Flint being put away for at least five years. But I am glad he won’t be a threat to me, my mother or Jake anymore.

  “And all charges against you have been dropped, Jake,” Alexander says. “Camille Ames has not only cleared your name but submitted a glowing account of your character and genius to none other than the New York Times.”

  Jake looks at me. “Did you happen have anything to do with that?”

  I pull the flashdrive out of my bag. “It was the pie that won her over. Oh, and I found your genius app developer. He’s fresh out of Harvard and has an IQ of 180. His name is Ryan … Ames.”

  He’s staring at me. “No way.”

  “Yes way. It’s all water under the bridge now, Jake. She’s never going to bother you again. She deserves a second chance. She’s done what she promised she’d do. And her brother could turn out to be exactly what you’ve been looking for. You should meet with him.”

  “For you,” he says, “I’ll do anything. But there is one condition.”

  “What condition?”

  “Marry me.”

  I’m kissing him and he laughs. I love his laugh. I love his smile. I love his face and his eyes and his kiss.

  “Is that a yes? Because if it is, as soon as I get out of here, I’m taking you down to Tiffany and you’re going to choose any ring you want. Then we’re going to Georgia to get married in that peach orchard you keep going on about. And after that, we’re going to New Orleans.”

  I never knew it was possible to be this happy. “It’s a yes, Jake. It’s a yes.”

  Jake gets discharged from the hospital three weeks later. He takes me straight to the restaurant. He still has to take it easy and I suggest we just go back to his apartment so he can rest for a while.

  “I’ve been resting for three weeks. I can’t take any more rest. Besides, there’s something I want to show you.” He leads me to a side door around the corner from the entrance to Sugar’s that always used to be locked. But Jake has a key. He opens the door and we step into a cute, airy foyer with an elevator. He presses the button and the elevator door opens.

  “What is this? I never even knew this was here.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  I give him a look. “What are you up to, Jake Wolfe?”

  “I haven’t exactly been doing nothing for the past three weeks,” he says. “I’ve been managing a very exclusive project. They’ve put it together amazingly quickly. Then again, practically every contractor in town’s been working on it. I’ve seen the pictures and I think you’re going to like this.”

  The elevator door opens.

  And then, we step out into the most beautiful space I’ve ever seen. It’s an apartment – a huge, open-plan apartment with a two-story glassed-in greenhouse in the middle with a domed top. In the greenhouse is a rose garden surrounded by five fully-mature peach trees. They even have peaches on them. The windows of the greenhouse open to the apartment itself so the light-filled space is scented with … home.

  “I had all of it shipped up from your orchards and gardens in Georgia. With strict instructions from your grandmother and your mother, of course. They were sworn to secrecy. They’re coming up this weekend for a visit, by the way. To make sure I’ve done it justice.”

  But I’m too mesmerized by this beautiful apartment to fully take in what he’s saying. It has clean white walls with black accents and lots of wood. Sophisticated details are everywhere. A huge chef’s kitchen fills one entire corner. There’s a long dining table with ten chairs that looks out the windows over the views of the city. There’s a living area with a big-screen t.v. and huge, comfortable-looking couches.

  “Let’s go see the bedrooms,” he says, leading me into the garden, where there’s a spiral staircase. “There’s also an elevator.”

  Upstairs there are five bedrooms. The master suite has a king-sized bed that looks like it could sleep an entire family, an enormous walk-in closet and a master bathroom made of marble and stone, with just the right touches of wood and soft fabrics softening the look, giving it an opulent, romantic feel. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “It’s for you,” he says. Then he gets down onto one knee and takes a small duck-egg blue box out of his pocket. “Sugar Malone, my Aphrodite Calliope Diana Penelope Malone Wolfe-to-be, will you marry me? I’ve loved you since the first second I saw you, with your dazzling beauty and your beautiful heart. I promise to love you every second of every day for the rest of my life, to spend my every minute making you happy, to dedicate my life to giving you more pleasure than you ever thought possible, and to making all your dreams come true. I love you. Please make me the happiest man in the world by marrying me. Please say yes.”

  I kiss his mouth, touching my tongue to his lips. Then I look into his eyes. “I already told you yes.”

  He slips a ring onto my finger. It’s a glinting, flawless yellow diamond, encased in a thick rose gold band. It reminds me of sunshine and peach trees and Georgia summers. “Good. Because the wedding is already planned. For next weekend. It’s all arranged. Your family’s coming up this weekend to go through some of the final details. And to go shopping. After the wedding we’re honeymooning in New Orleans for two weeks. Just you and me, with no distractions, no hospitals, no customers, no deadlines.”

  I kiss him again because everything he’s saying is music to my ears.

  We can take the time off. The restaurant is booming and running like clockwork. And the bakery is up and running now and there’s plenty of staff for both. I’ve had to learn how to delegate since I’ve spent most of the past three weeks with Jake. But with my phone and laptop in hand I can pretty much keep everything running smoothly from wherever I am.

  Jake did end up meeting with Ryan Ames. They hit it off right away. The two of them spent some of time while Jake was recuperating going through the details of the app they’re building. They’re planning for a launch at the beginning of January.

  Camille was true to her word. Jake’s bond was refunded in full, all charges were dropped, his reputation was restored and he could take off his cuff. I still wear mine.

  “So, do you like the apartment?” he says.

  “I adore the apartment. But we hardly need five bedrooms.”

  “Those are for all the babies we’re going to have. Starting whenever you want. Because I’m ready whenever you are.”

  Jake and I get married in the peach orchard of my family’s house in Georgia. There’s still work to be done on the grand plantation house of Grandma Mae’s but they’ve made a lot of progress. Alexander and Lila are there, as well as Bea, Ace, Maddie and Jon, Grandma Mae’s entourage of laughing ladies and many of my friends from high school and cooking school. Grandma Mae walks me down the aisle and Jake looks resplendent in his tux. Momma’s happier than I’ve seen her for a long time. She’s been spending some time with one of the building contractors, who happens to be Irish.

  After the
reception, Grandma Mae takes Jake and me aside. “There’s somethin’ I want to show you two,” she says. She hasn’t let me see the old cottage at the far end of the peach orchards yet, since it’s still being renovated, she said. But she walks us there now.

  It’s doubled in size: white with two gables at the front and a wide front porch that runs the entire length of the cottage. It has a new roof and everything’s been painted. There are white roses and purple wisteria vines entwined along the beams and the railings. Gas-lit lanterns cast their soft glow into the dusky night.

  “This is for you,” Grandma Mae says. “So you’ll always have a place of your own here in Georgia. I want ya’ll to come visit me a lot. I expect my great grandbabies to be running amok in these orchards within the next few years. So get busy.” She directs this last comment at Jake then ushers the two of us into the cottage and shuts the door, leaving us alone.

  The scent of roses and peaches through the open windows is like an ethereal elixir for the soul. I wish I could bottle that scent. Then again, I don’t need to. Both my homes are filled with it.

  It’s perfect. The renovations have captured every ounce of the cottage’s original charm but the spaces have been expanded and opened up. Everything feels airy and light. There are new, modern appliances, furnishings and decorations. I give Jake a tour, amazed at each and every detail as I show it to him. The house is clean and spacious but also cozy and comfortable. It feels like home.

  “I guess I better do what Grandma Mae says,” Jake smiles, and proceeds to carry me to bed, where he lays me down and carefully peels off my designer wedding dress, with its fitted bodice, frayed organza and feather-embroidered full skirt.

  “I haven’t renewed my prescription,” I tell him as he pulls my lace panties off with his teeth.

  “What prescription?” he murmurs, licking his tongue over the lips of my pussy, opening me, centering his mouth over my clit, which he suckles tenderly.

  “My birth control prescription,” I breathe, as the ripples of bliss begin.

  His head lifts. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  His dark eyes are bright with love and lust. He climbs up my body and unfastens his pants at the same time, shedding his clothes before he lays himself on top of me. The head of his big cock enters me and I gasp. He kisses me, licking my lips open and thrusting his tongue into my mouth as his cock slides deeper. “Do you want me to fill you up with my hot cum, Mrs. Wolfe? Do you want me to spill my seed inside you and give you a baby?”

  “Why, yes I do, Mr. Wolfe,” I tease him, in awe of his glory. “I’d like that very much.”

  Jake’s pushes my legs open with his thigh. He pins me down and drives his thick cock all the way to the hilt in one strong, slow thrust. I wrap my legs around him and pull him closer, deeper, clenching my soft core around him as his big body gains momentum, driving deeper inside, harder. My inner muscles quiver as the pleasure begins to spill over. My body works his as I come. Deep, clenching waves of ecstasy milk the length of him and I can feel the surging throb of his cock as he finds his release, flooding my womb with his thick, milky cum.

  The rippling pleasure lasts a long time. We lay like that, his full weight on top of me, my hands curled into his hair as he kisses me, as my body adores him, gently fluttering around his huge, slippery bulk.

  It doesn’t take him long to revive and I work him and love him until he spills himself inside me all over again. After, he turns our bodies so we’re side by side, with my knee bent and splayed over his hip as he holds my thigh with his strong hand and pushes into me, his thick shaft deep inside me as we sleep, entwined, bonded, so in love it hurts.

  Nine months later I give birth to twin girls. We name them Rose and Peaches. They have strawberry-blond curls and blue eyes. They’re born exactly one week after Alexander and Lila’s baby girl, who they name Ruby. My businesses are going exceptionally well. Jake thinks I should franchise the bakery, and it’s something we might do when we find the time. His app is, so far, one of the most lucrative in history. He takes a cut of each investment made through the game he and Ryan have developed. They’ve made more money than I can even think about. It turns out I’ve got a knack for investing, too, as his first customer. Every time I check the numbers I can’t believe my eyes. We’ve started a charity organization that’s run by, of all people, Camille Ames. She’s engaged to a hunky but slightly nerdy astrophysicist who thinks she walks on water.

  We divide our time between New York and Georgia. The girls do run amok in the peach orchards and I’m teaching them how to roll their dough smoothly and sprinkle it with just the right amount of cinnamon and sugar.

  Grandma Mae’s house is finished now, restored to well beyond its former glory. Momma has her own wing. She and Seamus eloped a few months ago and were married in Dublin. He calls her his sugar momma, which Grandma Mae’s friends, who have practically moved in, find hilarious.

  We spent our honeymoon in New Orleans, where we held hands as we strolled around the French Quarter, ate gumbo, listened to live music, made love too many times a day to count and drank champagne on a Mississippi river boat. It was fabulous.

  Two years after the girls, we have another baby, a boy with red hair and blue eyes. We name him Connor Patrick Malone Wolfe, after my father. He laughs all the time and spends most of his time climbing peach trees, eating as many as he can get his hands on. That boy has a twinkle in his eyes, says Grandma Mae.

  A year later, I give birth to our fourth child. We call him Jake Junior. He’s got dark hair and dark eyes like his daddy. He’s more brooding and serious-minded than his siblings but, also like his daddy, when he smiles, he lights up the world.

  It’s late on an August night in Georgia. The children are asleep and the crickets chorus their song outside the open windows. Jake’s sitting in bed, reading on his laptop. He closes it and sets it aside when I crawl under the covers next to him. I run my fingers along his skin, touching one of his many scars, which almost seem to have faded. He stopped having his nightmares soon after we got married. His newer scar is there, too, the neat round healed-up bullet hole. I kiss each one, like I do every night, then I crawl up his body so I can kiss his lips.

  “Thank you for fixing me,” he whispers.

  “Thank you for making all my dreams come true,” I whisper back.

  Jake makes love to me.

  And we live happily ever after.

  Connect with Juliette Jones:

  juliettejones.billionaire@gmail.com

  Also by Juliette Jones:

  Billionaire

  Honey Girl

  Taming Jake Wolfe

  Masterpiece

  Hot Summer Lust

  Wild Ride

  Wanted: Virgin Bride

  Wanted: Virgin Lover

  BILLIONAIRE (Part 1)

  I felt a cool sense of confidence as I rode the elevator skywards, not because I thought I was in the running for the job I was about to interview for, but for the opposite reason. It was a dream job, beyond the scope of my experience, and I knew I was unlikely to score a gig this good. Sure, I had an English degree from Princeton; I’d graduated near the top of my class; I’d brought along a portfolio of publishing credits. But I was hardly alone in those credentials. The small, neat ad for CEO’s assistant at Skyscraper would attract the best of the best. Every college graduate within a three-state radius would be clambering to get their résumés seen. Not because we had a lifelong dream to be a CEO’s assistant, but because an underling job like this one would lead to other opportunities within the company. And it was a company that every aspiring writer and journalist alike would have sold their teeth to work for. That rare combination of glamorous and highly acclaimed, Skyscraper was the It magazine of the year. I knew most of the other applicants would have more experience than I had, which happened to be exactly none, since I’d graduated only two weeks ago.

  So there was an element of resigned defeat to my mood as I approached the meeting.
Still, as I checked out my look in the glass reflection of the polished elevator walls, I couldn’t help but notice that my new makeover had definitely done wonders. At the insistence of my roommate, Eva, who’d orchestrated not only a shopping spree but also a pampering frenzy, I’d undergone a startling transformation. I had a stylish new haircut. I’d been massaged, waxed, trimmed, glossed and groomed to within an inch of my life. New city, new priorities, Eva had proclaimed. You’re no longer a student, you’re a hot young urban professional, she’d told me. Living the dream in New York City. I’d argued that I wasn’t a professional until I actually landed a job but she’d laughed that comment off as a technicality. Looking like you do, it’s only a matter of time, she said. Employers love hot, and you, my friend, are the total package. Time would tell if Eva’s estimations were at all accurate.

  I tried to let her enthusiasm rub off on me as I studied my own reflection. My long, honey-blond hair fell in sleek, waving skeins; highlights of platinum caught the light. My eyelashes had been lengthened by some carefully-applied mascara. A light green wrap sweater over a short black skirt hugged my curves and emphasized the green of my eyes. I had wondered if the V of the neckline was too low for a job interview but Eva had laughed at my prudishness and ordered me to ‘get real’. She’d even insisted that I wear no bra or underwear. According to Eva, it was the secret to success. It gives you an added sensuality that no one can quite put their finger on, according to Eva. I’d protested, of course, but her mulishness had won me over. Just try it, she’d insisted. You’ll see. So here I was, clad from head to toe in exactly one layer of clothing. Tall high heeled boots completed the outfit. The boots had cost a fortune, but Eva had reasoned that the cost would spur my impetus to get earning as quickly as possible. I didn’t bother telling her I had that impetus anyway, cringing every time I thought of my student loan. Anyway, I knew I’d never looked better. And it was true: my wanton secret made me feel bold and somehow risqué.