Billionaires in Paris: An Alpha Billionaire Romance
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Authors: Cynthia Dane
Tags: #Alpha Billionaire Romance
Billionaires in Paris
A Dom Vs. Domme Story
BARACHOU PRESS
BILLIONAIRES IN PARIS
A Dom Vs. Domme Story
Copyright: Cynthia Dane
Published: June 27th, 2016
Publisher: Barachou Press
This is a work of fiction. Any and all similarities to any characters, settings, or situations are purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
BILLIONAIRES IN PARIS
Chapter 1
KATHRYN
Paris. City of lights, city of love. A city with a rich and detailed history going back thousands of years. Something about Normans and the English language… conquering… revolutions… Napoleon… free and kinky love…
Fuck it. I’m here in this spot for one thing.
Haute couture.
I stand on a Parisian sidewalk, gawking like a total tourist at the simple display in the shop window. Most people wouldn’t look at it twice, regardless of the heavy gold writing and the black, feathery dress in the single-mannequin window. But if you’re
me,
then you know that this is one of the greatest boutiques in all of France. Maybe Europe.
The whole fucking world!
I’m not usually big on fashion. I grew up in New England, where anyone with means wore the latest styles and then pitched them in the garbage as soon as the season changed. Schoolgirls from the nicest public schools would rummage through our trash looking for designers they had heard about online. Givenchy who? Dolce & Gabbana who? Anna Wintour could eat our hearts out!
When my boyfriend asked me to go to Paris with him for a week, I thought, oh, how nice. Some elegant meals and maybe a gratuitous selfie by the Eiffel Tower. Ha. Ha.
The moment we stepped off the private jet, he went off to a dinner meeting, leaving me to my own devices. I checked into our historic hotel suite.
Then I came here, drawn by the call of beautiful, mind-blowing clothes.
I love couture. I never wear it, but I love to stare at it, admire its craftsmanship, and maybe drool. I can’t pull off extravagant styles. I’m as Boston chic as it gets. (Or is it called Autumn in New York now?) I wear simple dresses when appropriate. Otherwise, I’m in pants, sweaters, scarves, boots…
Fuck it! Let me in!
A man in tailored tails approaches the window from the other side. He has a tiny spray bottle in one gloved hand. Doubtlessly, I am a rutting cat in need of spritzing.
“Get away, vermin! These aren’t for you!”
He’s joined by a dowdy middle-aged woman with curly red hair and a floral sweater dress. Not exactly the types you expect to be working at a couture shop that processes hundreds of thousands of dollars a day.
They look at me. I gape at them. Me, in my brown cashmere sweater and $700 jeans. I’ve got a Prada bag, but is it enough?
No. It’s not enough for these fuddy-duddies. The French
invented
fuddy-duddies! (Sorry, Britain.) Their judgment is scathing. I’m gonna need burn treatments later on. That’s just from the searing looks both man and woman send me. Soon enough, security will arrive, scraping my fashion-desecrated body off the street.
I open my Prada bag and pull out my leather wallet. Do I go for my ID? No. Are you fucking kidding me? Like I’m gonna slap an American driver’s license against a haute couture window! Did you not get the memo where I’m trying to get
in
to this boutique and be treated like the spoiled princess I damn well am?
Instead, I slap my black credit card against the window. Greasy fingers leave marks on the glass. My grin announces my victory.
Their sudden, kind smiles flash back at me. The woman scuttles away, and the man makes a welcoming motion. By the time the woman pops out of an intimidating door below street level, I’m hopping up and down like a girl on her sixth birthday.
My phone starts buzzing. I ignore it. Pfft. It’s only my boyfriend asking if I want to meet him at the restaurant. As soon as I pick up some new threads, babe!
Chapter 2
IAN
I don’t know where the hell Kathryn is (answer my texts, damnit,) but I hope she’s having a better time than I am.
Don’t get me wrong. Paris is a great city. I’ve been here many times in my life, and every time I always find something to amuse myself with. Last time it was a busty brunette named Simone. Ahem. This time I’m sure it’s going to be my lovely girlfriend, Kathryn, whom I’ve been with for over a year now. Could we call this an anniversary trip? Maybe. It’s sort of a mulligan from a botched getaway to Vegas a few months ago.
Yet when my father, the always meddling and plotting Dominic Mathers, heard I was coming to Paris, the first thing he did was arrange a meeting between myself and Damon Monroe, one of the richest fuckers in America. Also one of the most intimidating. Not that I am ever intimidated, mind you.
What’s funny is that this guy actually lives in the same city as me back in America. Yet we have to meet in Paris if we’re going to meet at all. That’s the life of the rich, folks.
“The portfolio should be substantial enough to please my father,” Monroe says, casually sitting with his legs crossed and hands in his lap. A half-eaten plate of luxurious French food grows cold on the table. One of the most celebrated French chefs in the world owns this restaurant, and neither Monroe nor I can be too impressed anymore. At least I’m eating all my food, though. My mother taught me
some
manners. “I’ll have one of my assistants do a more thorough investigation into your family’s holdings, but I’m sure it won’t be an issue.”
I’ve spent most of my life dealing with men like Monroe – hell, some would say that I
am
a man like Monroe – and he has to be one of the biggest examples of an asshole I’ve ever encountered. I wish I could say that I’m kidding. Monroe and I are almost the same exact age, and yet while I was captaining the soccer team at the Winchester Academy in 2004, Damon Monroe was halfway through his undergrad at Princeton. He knows his shit. So when I hand over a portfolio detailing my family’s extensive real estate holdings, I better damn well make sure I check them over a million times and
make sure
they’re accurate. The Monroes are prime to pump hundreds of millions of dollars into my family’s business, and if I don’t secure it, I think my father will disown me. (I’m his only child and heir, by the way.)
He’s wearing one of the finest tailor made suits I’ve ever seen, and I have no idea what it is. His cologne is halfway to seducing
me,
the most heterosexual man you have yet to meet. (I swear. I’m not protesting too much. Really.) His body language both irritates and intrigues me. Fuck me. I’ve got a guy crush.
Monroe holds his hand up, and two assistants sitting off to the side leap up to do his bidding. Here I thought I was hot shit for having a full-time assistant back in America. Valerie would smack me across the face and pour her baby’s piss into my coffee if I treated her like that.
“Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir.” Some twiggy guy in a suit as expensive as mine takes the portfolio away. The other assistant pulls out her tablet and gets to work verifying the information. Riiiiight in front of me.
Not that I have anything to hide. It’s the principle of the thing. Like, really?
“My father will be in contact with yours over the final decision.” Monroe plucks his wineglass off the table and savors the aroma. Do I look like this much of a douchebag when I go to wine tastings? “By the way, how are things?”
He’s giving me a chilly smile, as if we’re best friends, or at least go back to Winchester. I think we may have attended the same Young Men’s Gala when we were thirteen, but that’s it.
“Things are well. Business is on an upswing this year. We’re looking to purchase and remodel an estate in the Hamptons.” I drink my wine faster than he does. I have nothing to savor. “Turn it into a quaint bed and breakfast. With eighty rooms and ten breakfast nooks.” It’s my mother’s ridiculous idea. I’m only along for the ride.
“Fantastic.” Oh, yeah, I can feel his enthusiasm seeping from his finely-trimmed brows. “Except I was inquiring more into personal matters. I saw in the paper that you and Ms. Alison have passed the one-year mark.”
Would it be uncouth to pour another glass of wine? Why the hell is he asking about my girlfriend? Like it’s any of his business. Does he even know Kathryn? Damon Monroe is
not
the kind of man she would bother with. Kathryn spends her free time in soup kitchens and underfunded libraries. Monroe is the man making people homeless and asking interviewers
“What do we really use libraries for these days?”
“Yes, I’m a very lucky man.” I’m by myself here, so I don’t have servants or assistants traipsing around Paris with me. Valerie would’ve loved to come, I’m sure, and she probably silently stewed when I told her it would only be Kathryn and me in Paris, but I’m a big boy who can do most things on his own. I don’t even need my assistant to hold my dick for me while I take a piss. “It’s the real deal with her.”
“With so many weddings happening this year, I would think you two are next.”
Thank my stars I am a controlled, contained man. Because Monroe brought up
marriage
and he has no idea what a can of worms that is.
To some degree I’ve asked Kathryn to marry me. More than once. I’ve at least implied that I want her to be my wife. She knows how I feel. Unfortunately, I know how she feels too.
“We’ll see,” I say, ready to break my wineglass stem. “We’re still young and taking time.”
“My father always said that when a man knows, he knows.” That all-knowing grin is worse than my father’s when he’s about to do something incredibly stupid. “I’m a bit jealous.”
What the fuck do I say to that?
I’m saved by one of his assistants springing forward. “Sirs,” he whispers over the table, “there is a woman asking to come in.”
Neither Monroe nor I flinch. “Who is it?” Monroe asks with a firm tone. The male assistant scurries to the female one, who looks up from her tablet and announces my girlfriend.
Another smile flashes in my direction. “Speak of the lovely lady and she appears. Go ahead and send her in. I’m sure Mr. Mathers will be fine with his girlfriend joining us.” Nevertheless, Monroe is buttoning up his jacket. “I’d like to say hello anyway.”
Does he know Kathryn?
Oh, hell, does he
know
Kathryn? The woman sauntering into our private dining room in one of the hottest blue dresses I’ve ever seen?
I’m not good at fashion terms, but they suddenly spring to my mind as I see my queen brush off Monroe’s assistants with an icy hand.
Ow.
My heart. My gut. My cock.
Queen Anne has nothing on Kathryn and the way that neckline frames her breasts. The sapphire blue fabric hugs her body as it travels down her long torso and grabs her hips like I often want to. Dark blue heels cut into the carpet, ass sashaying, French-tipped nails clutching a Chanel… clutch. (I’m starting to lose it here, sorry.) What kills me is her hair and frosty makeup. When she’s out and about, Kathryn likes to wear her light blond hair up in a French twist, either with dangling earrings – three rattling blue beads each – or none at all. One of my favorite things to do is rip that twist apart when in the throes of lovemaking. It’s a very convenient way to grab all of her hair and pull until she’s crying from the powerful ecstasy we share.
