Home > Shopping for a Billionaire’s Honeymoon

Shopping for a Billionaire’s Honeymoon
Author: Julia Kent

Chapter 1



Let’s do an inventory of this fine day. My day-after-I-got-married day. In Vegas.

After fleeing my Momzilla mother.

Today is supposed be Day One of my honeymoon after marrying the billionaire of my dreams.

(Let’s not count the night before).

Woke up to the lovely sight of my husband’s tousled dark hair sliding down my torso so he could feast on me for breakfast.

Had actual breakfast in bed after room service delivered mixed berries, cream, bacon, and maple-soaked carrot cake french toast, and the best damn coffee on the planet from the coffee chain I now own.

Made love with my delightful husband in the giant jetted bathtub in our suite. Turns out I’m as bendy as a Cirque du Soleil performer when I need to be. Maybe Mom’s insistence that I attend all those yoga classes she teaches has a silver lining after all.

Dressed and prepared to hop the corporate jet for Hawaii, kisses interspersed between readying ourselves for the trip. Undressed twice. Dressed twice. Declan insisted I not wear panties for the plane trip.

“But I’m already a member of the Mile High Club,” I’d protested.

“Not as a wife.”

He had a point.

Panties abandoned.

Found his brother, Andrew, with my best friend, Amanda, my former colleague, Josh, and a chauffeur all married to each other.

Notice something a little different about that last one?

Yeah. Me too.

Day One of my honeymoon had promise, but now? Now it’s a little too real.

We’re on the plane, settling into our seats, and I’m doing my best not to think about my poor best friend and her chaotic mess back at the Anterdec resort where Declan and I just spent nearly a week trying to figure out our entire life.

Which we did, successfully, to my utter surprise. After fleeing our wedding in a helicopter and lying to my Momzilla mother, we managed to get to Las Vegas, ensconced in a resort on the Vegas Strip that Declan had designed himself. By the time my crazy family caught up to us, we’d steeled ourselves for the inevitable fallout.

And got so much more than we expected, in more ways than one. We’re married now. Husband and wife.

That’s really all that matters.

That, and honeymoon sex.

Lots and lots and lots of honeymoon sex. It’s my wifely right to walk funny for the next few days.

And his husbandly duty to make it so.

With dozens of loose ends waving in the breeze like a batch of Tibetan flags in a typhoon, we’re escaping again, leaving Dec’s brother and my best friend married to who knows whom, Amanda covered in orange Cheeto dust in places where you just don’t insert snack products, and a fainting goat wandering the resort.

Poor Declan got into a wrestling match with his naked brother. Their father, James, grabbed a spray bottle of water and stole my own maneuver. For the second time in a week, we’re fleeing close family.

What a colossal mess.

Worst of all? I am being ignored by my husband.


On my own honeymoon.

But that’s okay, because it’s temporary. The man has to do his job at Anterdec while finishing the acquisition of the new chain of coffee shops he just bought for me as a wedding present. I get it. I do.

If this goes on much longer, I’m turning all Fatal Attraction on him.

I will not be ignored.

Declan’s talking a mile a minute into his Bluetooth earpiece. Freshly shaved, his skin is smooth, mouth tight with tension. His green eyes glitter and dart, filled with intense intelligence as he thinks and strategizes, makes snap decisions, and gives his assistant, Grace, a laundry list of action items.

He looks like Christian Grey joined The Borg. Brows down, he’s talking about financing and leverage and acquisitions in a language that starts to sound like Russian after a while. It’s English, but business-speak is so full of jargon it might as well be its own language. I tune out.

The pilot cuts in to tell us we’re about to take off. I fasten my seat belt. Declan’s pacing, turned in profile, and I shoo him over to sit down. He’ll end the call shortly, and we’ll turn to each other for a sweet kiss, then a hotter one, and finally we’ll stagger into the plane’s bedroom, have legs tangled in the sheets, my fingers spidering through his hair, starting our new life together, with a week alone in each other’s arms at a secluded Hawaiian resort before heading off to Japan.

Life is finally in order.



No matter how many times I travel by corporate jet, it never gets old. You feel like you’re in a very nice, extremely elevated Manhattan hotel suite, only instead of the New York skyline, your view is nothing but clouds and sky. The decor is very chic, all cremes and beiges, and each seat is a thick, comfortable recliner covered in leather that might as well be body butter. There are three bathrooms (one just for staff), one enormous bedroom with a bed that screams out my name in the same pulse as my clit right now, a full gourmet kitchen, and enough room for me to be comfortable while my husband ignores me.


I have no right to complain.

When did I ever need a right?

“No. The terms don’t work. I need to cash out the stocks I’ve had in the reserve....” Declan’s financial talk bores me to tears. When you marry someone, you accept them for who they are, for all the different slices of self that make up the beautiful – if sometimes infuriating – whole. He changes when he’s deep in the money weeds, going cold and analytical. Declan is still Declan. From the outside, the man is the same, but the way he projects himself changes. Business transports him to a plane of consciousness where his libido is in the backseat.

And not like on a Saturday night after a show at the Boston Opera House, headed home but stuck in traffic, where we have wild, raunchy limo sex while someone else drives.

I want him hot and untamed, in bed and raw, laser-focused on me. Is that selfish? Then call me selfish. My mother stole the show at my wedding. His brother just sucked all the attention out of our departure.

I’ll be damned if business upstages me on my honeymoon.

Six-hour flight. Jet with a bedroom. I can wait a half hour, I guess.

That Mile High Club Wife badge is worth it.


“Dubai? Impossible,” Declan drones on, his face filled with an irked sense of disbelief as he turns away from me. Business is so boring.

I, on the other hand, am not. He doesn’t know it yet, but I might not be wearing panties – per his orders. I have a secret weapon.

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