Sold at the Ski Resort Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Sold at the Ski Resort:

  A Virgin & Billionaire Romance

  Copyright © 2018 by Juliana Conners and Sizzling Hot Reads.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover Design by 11 Online

  Published by Sizzling Hot Reads

  This book is a work of fiction and any portrayal of any person living or dead is completely coincidental and not intentional. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the author, other than brief excerpts for the purpose of reviews or promotion.

  To Matt, and to our love of skiing for inspiring this story.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Jane

  Chapter 2

  Jane

  Chapter 3

  Alex

  Chapter 4

  Jane

  Chapter 5

  Jane

  Chapter 6

  Alex

  Chapter 7

  Jane

  Chapter 8

  Jane

  Chapter 9

  Alex

  Chapter 10

  Jane

  Chapter 11

  Alex

  Chapter 12

  Jane

  Chapter 13

  Alex

  Chapter 14

  Jane

  Chapter 15

  Alex

  Chapter 16

  Jane

  Chapter 17

  Alex

  Chapter 18

  Jane

  Chapter 19

  Jane

  Chapter 20

  Alex

  Chapter 21

  Jane

  Epilogue

  Alex

  More Books in the Sold Series

  Sold on Christmas Eve: A Virgin & Billionaire Romance

  Sold on Valentine’s Day: A Virgin and a Billionaire Romance

  Sold on St. Patrick’s Day: A Virgin and a Billionaire Romance

  Sold as a Fake Fiancée: A Virgin and a Billionaire Romance

  Sold at the Company Party: A Virgin and a Billionaire Bonus Novella

  Bound by the Billionaire

  Books in the South Beach Bad Boys Series

  Don’t Say a Word: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance

  Don’t Forget About Me: A Second Chance Amnesia Romance

  Don’t Stand So Close: A Brother’s Best Friend Romance

  Don’t Stop Believing: Bonus Novella

  Chapter 1

  Jane

  December 23

  The snow looks as cold and miserable as I feel as I pull into my parking space at my apartment complex. Well, that went well! I think sarcastically, turning off the radio and practically ripping my car keys out of the ignition. Wear all my best, sexiest clothes, and the idiot doesn’t even know how to romance me out of my winter coat!

  I open the door and climb out into the winter wonderland. My fluffy, roly-poly coat that goes down to my knees does a good job of keeping the cold out, but not my irritation. Fucking poser!

  I shut my door with that thought, reminding myself that I’m not ever going to take Kyle up on another offer of a second date. Him, or boys like him. They are really boys! All of them!

  It’s so frigid that underneath the puffy warmth of my jacket, I can practically feel the skin I had planned to have Kyle drool over. Since he didn’t, I imagine the fabric of my coat is caressing me, whispering to me about all my unfulfilled desires. But this only makes me angry at the softness of the fabric, which reminds me of Kyle’s clumsy, unconscious fingers.

  He didn’t know a thing about how to deal with me when I was with him. What to do with all the hints I threw at him! In my head, I see myself exaggerating sexy poses. Inviting him to touch here, touch there. Pull aside this piece of clothing, lift up this part. Practically holding up a neon sign that says, “I’m ready and available! Please fuck me!”

  But no. Kyle couldn’t read the sign. Hell, he wouldn’t even see a sign if I waved one in front of his face.

  He just sat there like an idiot. Grinning. Watching me, like I was putting on a show for him, and not once getting the hint! I pull my coat more tightly around myself, and then cinch its hood around my head. Insulated from my embarrassment, and how much colder that makes the falling snow feel, I trudge across the parking lot and up the stairs to my second-floor apartment.

  As I get to the door of my apartment, and go to open the lock, I drop the keys. Partly because my fingers are numb, but mostly because my thoughts have turned to Kyle and what I thought he was promising me with tonight’s date. He and I had discussed how prepared he was to taste and finger his way into all my thirsty, curious holes.

  But that was all talk. I reach down to pick up my keys, and jam the front door key into the lock. Every bit of it. No game.

  I shove my way through the door, slamming it shut behind me. The faint aroma of peppermint and chocolate scents the air. Leftovers of the candy cane hot chocolate I’d had before going on my date. I’d added a shot of peppermint schnapps, but not enough to get me drunk. Just enough to give me a relaxed buzz.

  But after that nonsense — I shrug off my big winter coat, and comb my fingers down my plump breasts, smooth belly, and fashion-doll hips — I might need another one. That was a fucking disaster! I pet the fluffy, faux fur trim on my winter cocktail dress, and run my fingers over myself again, feeling lonely. Hungry. Even with just a little touch from my own fingers, my nipples are already hard.

  But I guess I’m not one to talk either. Not really.

  I walk into the kitchen, pouring myself the last bit of leftover spiked hot chocolate. The schnapps is almost too strong. Almost too violent against the chocolate; cold too, but I drink it anyway, berating myself.

  It’s not like I know what I’m doing any more than Kyle does.

  I swallow the last bit of chocolate, and then run my fingers down my dress, feeling its unique material— it cost a week’s wages. More than I’d ever dream of spending on an item of clothing . And after all the effort it took to get this outfit ready, it should get some use. Some appreciation.

  I may not be very experienced in the bedroom, but that doesn’t mean I should keep getting with guys who are so inexperienced! Who are good at telling me what I want to hear, not giving me what I need or want!

  With these thoughts, I let my fingers tease the furry hem of the dress. The one by my thighs, and by my breasts. I’m allowed to be inexperienced. Some men would kill to teach someone like me what do to in bed.

  I drop my hand down the front of my dress. The lacy, practically see-through bra only makes my nipples feel harder. Bigger. Plumper, and irritated that they weren’t touched or sucked on by the man they’d gotten all prettied up for.

  I was no stranger to dates but I hadn’t found the right guy— the take-charge, dominant kind of guy I knew I needed. Instead, the guys I went on dates with seemed intimidated by me. The night would always get awkward when it became obvious I was more interested in sex than they were.

  My male friends have told me I come on too way strong and scare guys away. That those men who always disappoint me can sense I want more
than they’re able or willing to deliver. My friends tell me to come across as meeker and less interested in sex. But instead of changing myself, I want to find a man who can handle me the way I am. Take me or leave me.

  Plus, I don’t know if I could be disinterested in sex if I tried. It seems to always be on my mind lately. Since I can’t find a guy to pleasure me in real life, I’ve been reading a lot of steamy romance novels and watching a lot of porn. Lately, I’ve even gotten into some BDSM stuff— but only in fantasy; I’m not sure how I’d even actually like it in real life.

  Women shouldn’t have to know more than the guys.

  I sigh— partly out of frustration, partly out of a rising, numb and chilly pleasure. I start to pinch and twist my nipples with my free hand.

  Not in my world.

  In my world, a man would take control. Would know more than I do and enjoy educating me.

  Almost immediately, my mind starts running wild with ideas about how such a man would “educate” me. Would make a true woman out of me, if I’m ever able to meet the right one. But before my mind can conjure any more of an image than that of a handsome shadow of man undressing me, I force myself to press “pause” on the movie my mind is about to play for me. I want to save that fantasy for when I’m in my bedroom.

  I kick off my boots to one side of the hallway. From there, I hurry into my room and close the door.

  At least when real life lets me down, I always have my imagination. When dates turn out to be duds in real life, I have my book boyfriends and big screen heroes. In other words, I may have found a cold reception from my date, but my fantasies are just heating up.

  Chapter 2

  Jane

  I don’t bother to turn on any lights in my room. I don’t need to. I’ve hung bluish-white Christmas lights strung up for ambience, and they create a soft, subdued, and sexy atmosphere. I even have some light-up snowflakes stuck to one window, which provide just the right amount of mood lighting. Christmassy and cozy.

  I go immediately to my bed and climb under the covers. I snuggle into them, enjoying the feel of the cool sheets against my warmer skin. Against the silk, satin and fur of my dress. Already, I feel my breasts and hips jutting against the fabric, which is riding up in some places, and getting pulled down, the way I’d wanted Kyle to do. But I don’t want to think about stupid frat boy Kyle.

  Instead, I start imagining Mr. Experienced — the man of my dreams — catching me like this. Wearing such a revealing dress in bed, and letting it move enough to show off my lacy panties and eye-lit lace bra.

  “What are you doing wearing such a naughty dress like that to bed, hmm, kitten?” I imagine him asking me. I imagine his voice is soft and deep right now, and very commanding. “Are we sulking?”

  The way I imagine “sulking” coming out of his mouth is enough to make me squirm. I whine, feeling my pussy begin to tingle.

  “Yes,” I imagine myself replying like the spoiled little girl I know I am and want to be for him.

  “Oh?” Mr. Experience says, running his fingers up my hip and to my ass. I imagine he gives it a slap. “And why are we sulking?”

  “Because,” I imagine myself saying, “I dressed up really, really nicely and no one gave me a nice time!” Part of this internal dialogue bubbles up to the surface. “Nice time,” slips out of my mouth, as I pull down the front of my dress, and start circling my nipples.

  In my head, Mr. Experienced gives a sympathetic groan. I imagine he puts his mouth on my exposed nipples, and plunges knowledgeable, sturdy fingers down the front of my panties. In between my hot, moist lips.

  “Don’t worry, baby,” he says, as he begins to rotate his finger around the head of my clit. Then he slides a few more into my puffy, swelling hole. “I know how to look after my girl.”

  His strong and slim fingers go into my shaved pussy, and quickly stretch the skin. I feel every notch. Every bit of texture.

  “Oh, you’re so pink,” he whispers. There’s an aching to his tone. Almost like my pinkness is sweet pain to him. “Look at all that cream you’ve made for me,” he adds, and I imagine that’s exactly what’s there: evidence of my aching need and desire for him. My full pussy on display for him, and my juices welling up so that he can see how wet I am for him. “Such a good girl.”

  I squeal, feeling my fingers rubbing fiercely up against my clit. I’ve been so lost in my fantasy that I’m not sure when I started playing with my pussy in reality, but I don’t care. My long, silky nails are covered in thick, warm juices. I shove a few fingers in my pussy, imagining they belong to my perfect man, not me. I imagine that the soft mattress is his large, sculpted hand holding my ass.

  “I am a good girl,” I whimper aloud, throwing myself back into my fantasy. “What are you going to give me for being such a good girl?”

  Part of me can’t believe I’m saying these kinds of things out loud. The other part of me doesn’t care.

  In my head, Mr. Experienced is giving me his answer. He’s dressed me in a schoolgirl’s outfit, and a leather collar and leash. He’s dressed like the headmaster of a school.

  “You’re going to learn how to please me, and then you’re going to take this cock in your pussy.” He pauses, and in my head, I imagine he takes a long ruler and teases my clit — my lips — with it, before smacking my tits with it. “If you’re good.”

  From the pockets of a long coat I imagine he’s wearing (it accentuates his light brown hair and goldish eyes), he takes out a handful of clamps. He puts them on my nipples through the schoolgirl uniform. I squeal, but he uses the ruler on my ass to keep me straight. Quiet. He puts the leftover clamps on my pussy lips. He even puts one near my hood. “If you’re bad, you’ll get it in the ass.”

  I imagine him flipping up the skirt I’m wearing and accentuating his words with a finger eased into that hole. Warningly. Commandingly. “Do I make myself clear, young lady?”

  “Oh, yes, sir!” I imagine myself replying. I pull on my nipples. I squeeze the front and tip of my pussy imagining that’s the weight of the clamps, not the pressure I’m applying. “Crystal clear,” I say out loud, pushing myself toward the cliff of mind-bending pleasure I’m about to throw myself off.. “I’ll be such a good student! I’ll study really hard!”

  My clit throbs under the weight of my finger, and I began to rub her harder than ever. I even run my fingernail into its soft spots a little bit, imagining it’s the end of Mr. Experienced’s ruler. This is more than enough to get me climbing into that burning, exhilarating atmosphere.

  As my hips and ass begin to rise off the mattress, and I hear my pussy’s wet lips smacking in the quiet snowflake-lit room, I imagine I’ve been bound to his desk with my legs spread open. I imagine they are being kept open by a black bar, built into my ankle ties. “Then pay attention. Listen closely, because I’m not teaching you this again. I’m not telling you twice.”

  With that, I’m gone. My orgasm falls on me like a wild animal, gripping every part of me. Scratching deep into my pussy. I cry out, imagining that I have a similar orgasm on Mr. Experienced’s desk, and that I get an A+ for it. He says so, as I feel pleasure roll through me, and ebb out from my fingers and toes.

  Once my orgasm ends, my fantasy does too. The images and sounds fade, but not my tingly afterglow. It stays with me, like the peppermint schnapps I can feel sloshing around in my belly.

  I stay in that fuzzy gooey zone for as long as I can. I wish I could float in this warm, fun bubble forever.

  But soon my mind turns from fantasy to reality. And in that reality, I resign myself to only being dominated that way in my head.

  There’s no guy that would ever want to satisfy me that way, let alone take the lead, I think miserably, taking my hands out of my pussy and out from under my dress. Just keep it in the realm of fantasy, girl, I tell myself. You won’t get disappointed that way.

  Chapter 3

  Alex

  Aspen, Colorado has class on the outside and inside.

  D
oesn’t matter how many times I’ve been here, I’m still blown away by how pristine peaks and trees can give way to such black-tie sophistication in the lodge’s bar. I suppose I should expect nothing less, since this isn’t just any old watering hole like the ones we have back at home.

  No, this is practically a lounge — a place where well-to-do people come to put themselves, and their wealth — on display. Some of that wealth is in jewels and fancy watches; some of it is in fancy clothes. But most of it, as I look around the bar at all the hot honeys and snow bunnies, is beauty. Looks. Perfect proportions from top to bottom on nearly all of these girls. Thin waists and curvy chests and hips for days.

  But, of course, my brother, Paul, can’t see any of it. Or if he does, it doesn’t do it for him. I notice this — the way he’s scowling, scrutinizing all the girls like there’s nothing good about any of them — as I look at the drinks menu. I don’t really look at it, since I already know what I want. Beer. A German import.

  I’ve got to get him out of that mood if my plans are going to be successful, I think, placing my order. He’s gotta find some girl he can send a look at for more than five seconds, otherwise the invitation is going to go to waste. Jordan takes the menu from me like we’re a couple of kids having to share the crayons. Can’t let that happen. Those invites are not given out to just anybody.

  My friend Jordan orders a rum and Coke after thumbing through the menu just to make comments about the names of the “fancy drinks.” He catches me looking and nudges his chin in my brother’s direction. The look on his face says, “Get talking to him. Do something.” He mimics Paul’s frown. His million-mile scowl.

  “Talk to him,” Jordan whispers, “before he starts thinking we’re just here to get wasted.”

  I nod at him, muttering, “Don’t you think I don’t know that?”

  The bartender delivers my beer, followed by the shot of tequila I ordered for Paul. “I was the one who came up with this idea to get him off the hamster wheel called Darla.”