Read The Billionaire's Contract (His Submissive 1) for Free Online
Authors: Ava Claire
The Billionaire’s Contract (His Submissive, Part One)
Ava Claire
Copyright 2012 Ava Claire
SMASHWORDS EDITION
****
I gave the massive structure, all brute metal and glass windows glittering like teeth, a long, pensive look. The Whitmore Building looked so posh on television--almost gothic and cathedral-like--but without the flashing lights it was just another building on Fifth Street. Still, a couple of things set it apart from the others. The first was PR , an Emmy nominated reality television show that followed two tenacious publicists on staff, documenting the drama and glamour that comes with cleaning up the messes of the mega rich. The second was Jacob Whitmore, the twenty nine year old billionaire at the helm of the company and a constant fixture on the glossy pages of tabloid rags for his lavish lifestyle and penchant for supermodels and celebrities.
I futilely smoothed my dark, corkscrew curls and pushed through the revolving door. Stepping out of the muggy heat and into the cool of central air should have been a relief, but instead, it made me hyper aware of my nerves. The sweat at my back was sticky, making the sheer black blouse I wore adhere to my skin like glue. Even a swallow of the dewy ac didn't do my dry throat any favors.
I instantly recognized the lobby from the show, the motif of glass and white walls giving off a clean, sophisticated edge. Each employee passing through the revolving doors was more glamorous than the last and I couldn’t help but pause in the shuffle, gawking at it all like some awkward tourist.
Trying to gather my wits about me, I gave my head a hearty shake and locked eyes with a burly man sitting below an etched sign that read ‘Whitmore and Creighton’. I was supposed to check in with him and get a name tag. As I inched closer, my eyes drew up and around the marble arch behind the man and I paused again. This place was gorgeous. And even a blind man could see I didn't belong.
Remember Leila , I thought, squaring my back and taking a step forward. All that glitters is not-
BAM!
I let out a hiss of surprise as someone sideswiped me, making me swerve and clutch onto nothing but air until a woman steadied me before continuing on her way. Damn heels. Reason number 1,231 I had to move out on my own. All of my flats had mysteriously disappeared overnight, leaving me two options: my Chucks, or the barely worn stilettos Mom had gotten me for my 23rd birthday a few weeks ago. I frowned at the memory of her sneaky smile as I rushed out of the house in the cursed things. God works in mysterious ways, Lay.
Regaining my composure, I opened my mouth to tell whoever missed the woman sized figure in their path that I was okay, only to see the squared back of the man that ran into me hustling toward the elevators--with no intention of stopping.
"Excuse you !" I snapped, my annoyance following his confident stride. The man came to a hard stop then slowly pivoted to face me and I just about died on the spot.
It was Jacob Whitmore.
As his aqua colored eyes narrowed to slits and began to survey me, I took him in. The camera didn't do him justice. Dark, wavy hair framed an impossibly handsome face. He had an aristocratic nose; sharp, but not overly so. It was the kind of thing that seemed engineered to look down on everyone else. His jaw was strong and sure and a bemused smile at his lips created two dimples that made my heart skip a beat. I found myself drawn to his lips--not because he was clearly laughing at the fact that I was scared shitless after lashing out at the boss, but because they were thick and lush. Perfect for kissing. Perfect for running up and down a bare body...
When he took a step toward me, I began to babble. Talking, presenting myself had always been my forte. Back in college when I was put in a group, the other members always volunteered me to speak for the lot. After I gave the student address at graduation, both faculty and a couple of classmates told me that
Ava Claire
Copyright 2012 Ava Claire
SMASHWORDS EDITION
****
I gave the massive structure, all brute metal and glass windows glittering like teeth, a long, pensive look. The Whitmore Building looked so posh on television--almost gothic and cathedral-like--but without the flashing lights it was just another building on Fifth Street. Still, a couple of things set it apart from the others. The first was PR , an Emmy nominated reality television show that followed two tenacious publicists on staff, documenting the drama and glamour that comes with cleaning up the messes of the mega rich. The second was Jacob Whitmore, the twenty nine year old billionaire at the helm of the company and a constant fixture on the glossy pages of tabloid rags for his lavish lifestyle and penchant for supermodels and celebrities.
I futilely smoothed my dark, corkscrew curls and pushed through the revolving door. Stepping out of the muggy heat and into the cool of central air should have been a relief, but instead, it made me hyper aware of my nerves. The sweat at my back was sticky, making the sheer black blouse I wore adhere to my skin like glue. Even a swallow of the dewy ac didn't do my dry throat any favors.
I instantly recognized the lobby from the show, the motif of glass and white walls giving off a clean, sophisticated edge. Each employee passing through the revolving doors was more glamorous than the last and I couldn’t help but pause in the shuffle, gawking at it all like some awkward tourist.
Trying to gather my wits about me, I gave my head a hearty shake and locked eyes with a burly man sitting below an etched sign that read ‘Whitmore and Creighton’. I was supposed to check in with him and get a name tag. As I inched closer, my eyes drew up and around the marble arch behind the man and I paused again. This place was gorgeous. And even a blind man could see I didn't belong.
Remember Leila , I thought, squaring my back and taking a step forward. All that glitters is not-
BAM!
I let out a hiss of surprise as someone sideswiped me, making me swerve and clutch onto nothing but air until a woman steadied me before continuing on her way. Damn heels. Reason number 1,231 I had to move out on my own. All of my flats had mysteriously disappeared overnight, leaving me two options: my Chucks, or the barely worn stilettos Mom had gotten me for my 23rd birthday a few weeks ago. I frowned at the memory of her sneaky smile as I rushed out of the house in the cursed things. God works in mysterious ways, Lay.
Regaining my composure, I opened my mouth to tell whoever missed the woman sized figure in their path that I was okay, only to see the squared back of the man that ran into me hustling toward the elevators--with no intention of stopping.
"Excuse you !" I snapped, my annoyance following his confident stride. The man came to a hard stop then slowly pivoted to face me and I just about died on the spot.
It was Jacob Whitmore.
As his aqua colored eyes narrowed to slits and began to survey me, I took him in. The camera didn't do him justice. Dark, wavy hair framed an impossibly handsome face. He had an aristocratic nose; sharp, but not overly so. It was the kind of thing that seemed engineered to look down on everyone else. His jaw was strong and sure and a bemused smile at his lips created two dimples that made my heart skip a beat. I found myself drawn to his lips--not because he was clearly laughing at the fact that I was scared shitless after lashing out at the boss, but because they were thick and lush. Perfect for kissing. Perfect for running up and down a bare body...
When he took a step toward me, I began to babble. Talking, presenting myself had always been my forte. Back in college when I was put in a group, the other members always volunteered me to speak for the lot. After I gave the student address at graduation, both faculty and a couple of classmates told me that
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