Home > The Billionaire's Forbidden Little Sister

The Billionaire's Forbidden Little Sister
Author: Max Monroe

Author’s Note

 


The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister is a full-length, stand-alone romantic comedy novel.

 

At the end, we’ve included an excerpt from The Day I Stopped Falling for Jerks, one of our best-selling romantic comedies about fun-loving Australian surfer Oliver Arsen. ;)

 

Now that you know, don’t panic and call up your friend at the police station to activate an emergency alert when The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister concludes at around 90%. We will not be able to help you get out of that pot of hot water.

 

Also, prior to diving in, we ask that you please read this very important disclaimer:

 

*Disclaimer: The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister is NOT a taboo romance about a billionaire banging his own sister. In fact, no one is getting with THEIR OWN sister. However, if you would like for this book to be a taboo romance about someone getting with their actual sister, then you can still read this, you’ll just have to switch around some names. Every time you see Theo, switch it to Cap, and vice versa. We can’t guarantee it won’t be confusing as hell at times, but who knows? Maybe it’ll be just what your doctor ordered.

 

Now that we got that out of the way, please enjoy this hot and hilarious romantic comedy! Happy Reading!

 

All our love,

Max & Monroe

 

 

To red, red wine—who makes us feel so fine and keeps us rockin’ all the time: We can’t actually drink you without getting a raging hangover, but we won’t hold that against you. Clearly, we can’t hang.

 

To anyone who is now singing that UB40 song in their head: We’re sorry. But also, you’re welcome because that’s an awesome fluffing song.

 

And, last but not least, to anyone who has ever experienced the horrific pain of a *Brazilian wax: Girl, you deserve all of the laughs in this book, and we are prepared to deliver like an obstetrics team awaiting a set of octuplets.

 

*PSA: If you’re getting your wax done with strips, please CEASE immediately. For the love of God, find yourself somewhere that uses hard wax (i.e. European Wax Center #notanad). We can’t go on without getting this important message out there for whatever poor, desperate soul needs to hear it.

 

 

Theo

 

The late afternoon, early August sun reflects like glitter off the impressive glass panes of the skyline of New York City as the helicopter lifts off the pad on the roof of Cruz Headquarters and makes a hard turn to head across the Hudson River to New Jersey.

The scene would be the kind of luxury that movies are made of—the kind of thing gold-digging women dream of and powerful men exploit. It’d be a goddamn magnanimous showing of my wealth and status and paint a picture of me that would surely make it into tales of my legacy—if not for one thing.

I’m not wearing pants.

Yeah. Weird. A button-down shirt, my suit jacket, calf-high black socks, charcoal gray boxer briefs, and a set of tanned legs complete my ensemble.

I should probably explain, but I have to tell you up front, I wish the story were better.

I wish I could tell you that I ran into a woman in some deliciously seductive location and promptly got lost in making her every sexual fantasy come true.

That we’re at the tail end of seventy-two of the wildest hours of my life, and she decided the perfect way to say goodbye was with a mid-flight blow job. That the lush flesh of her lips is around the base of my dick, with the rest of its length down her throat.

But the real story, as it were, is that I spilled my entire cup of scalding hot coffee on the crotch of my pants as I boarded this whirlybird, and, as I’m due to fly out of Teterboro within the hour, headed for Italy—and my suitcase was already messengered over to the airport to meet me at the plane—it was either go pantsless…or suffer from third-degree burns.

I dial my assistant Carey on my phone, and my pilot, Pete, noticing my signal, patches the call through to my headset so I’ll be able to hear over the sound of the whooping blades.

Carey answers on the second ring. “Mr. Cruz?”

I laugh at his confusion.

“Yes, Carey, it’s me. Who else would be calling from my phone?”

“Sorry, Bossman. You’re supposed to be on a helicopter, and you only left two minutes ago. I’m surprised to be hearing from you off schedule.”

I roll my eyes at his mocking.

I’m one of those rare types who thrives off a schedule inundated with work and borderline obsessive precision. Some might use the term workaholic, but I prefer to think of myself as someone who’s motivated.

“Yeah, well, I had an unexpected incident.”

“Ooh, do tell.” His voice drops an octave, and I can imagine him leaning an elbow onto his desk and cranking the reception up on his ears to better hear the gossip.

“Sorry to disappoint, Care. Though I’ve placed this call at an unexpected time, my predisposition—or lack thereof—for gabbing like a couple of pals hasn’t changed.”

“Ugh. Bossman—always the pooper, never the party.”

“Listen, Carey, just have someone waiting for the chopper with a pair of pants.”

“Ooh, I take it back. Maybe you are a party.”

“It’s a boring story, trust me.”

“No. I choose not to believe you. I’m going to picture you losing your pants while riding a magic carpet in the Arabian desert.”

I scoff as the helicopter swoops over a thick section of rich green trees interspersed with busy two-lane roads. “You’re picturing Aladdin? Without pants?”

“Don’t judge my fantasies, Mr. Cruz.”

Carey, my assistant of the last five years, is tall, handsome, and unfortunately for his many teasing efforts—some of which may actually border on sexual harassment—not my type. I like long legs, curvy hips, and a warm, wet pussy. And as much as he might be willing to try, he’ll never be able to give me that.

But he’s also the only person who can manage my schedule with the care and precision on which I thrive. He’s organized and forward-thinking, and besides all that, he’s a truly interesting person. I don’t know what I’ll do without him if he, one day, decides to move on with his life.

He’s also, obviously, a pain in my ass.

“Whatever, Carey. Just have the—”

“The pants will be waiting,” he interrupts, just barely covering the evidence of his giggle with efficiency.

“Great.”

“While I have you, I just got confirmation of your schedule for Positano.”

I’ll be spending the next ten days in Positano, Italy—one of the most beautiful places in the world, but this isn’t the kind of trip that warrants leisure or fun.

This is purely business.

Which pretty much sums up my life—visiting some of the most sought-after destinations across the globe, all in the name of work.

God, I can’t even remember the last time I took a vacation—saw somewhere just for the pleasure of seeing it, enjoying it…relaxing. No doubt, it was years ago, before I graduated college. Before I started Cruz Nightlife. Before I became responsible for a billion-dollar empire.

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