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Icy Shots on a Hot Billionaire - Racing Book 1

New York City gives the start of a romance. Or does it? Selena Duchmond is a single 31-year-old Marketing Manager at a humongous real estate company for the last month. She’s a curvy girl, with a professional attitude, and nothing intimidates her, not even the hottest and wealthiest guys out there. Personal problems? Three million dollars in debts for her side family business since the economic crisis, and a shitty health. Are these problems keeping her out of being an Alpha girl in her all? Not at all. Nobody in the office knows about her problems. She’s just considered the fatty, arrogant ass. Oh! And the Ice Queen. Ice Queen? She keeps all male population in a friendzone manner or strictly business. Why? She doesn’t believe in true love. All attempts on her from guys are considered as fake and unreliable promises. Her only wish is to restore peace and stability in her family. When the hot billionaire is waiting for the Marketing Manager at the meeting who is kind of late, and lays his eyes on her, though she’s not his type in general, a strong impression envelopes his being. Seeing she’s not having any reaction at the sight of him, his interest spikes so much that the burning fire of having her urges him to accept the challenge of making her his…. What will he do to make her his? Will he take advantage of her financial situation to turn things into his favor? Will he be the fire that will melt the ice that traps her heart? Will she make him a one woman’s man? Will she surrender to him? Will their story be a romance of true, pure love? One thing is for sure, she’s his Angel and he’s her Satan.

Andra-Cristiana Stan · Urban
Not enough ratings
75 Chs

Chapter 35 - Half Iced, Half Warmed

Selena's POV:

After I cried for a few good minutes on Satan because of the pain he got me into with his fucking dick, I’ve got a cushion, that the bastard gave me per my orders, and I’m now sitting on the chair on a side of my butt, still sore, trying to fucking eat a ham frittata, a small bagel, my latte and orange juice. Of course, my Pepsi, too. I feel like throwing up because of my state and don’t really want to eat, but I need that for my diabetes and energy. I feel like shit.

“Feeling better, baby?” Satan asks me, but I can’t look at him. I think I’ll murder him with my fork if I look at him.

Waves of coldness, soreness, dirtiness, anger, heartbreak, crying cross my body at once. Even his voice is profane on me.