Billionaires in Paris: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (3 page)

Chapter 3

KATHRYN

Men rarely surprise me anymore. I could show up naked instead of in couture, and Ian would still strut around with the biggest bruised ego in France.

What I
should
have done, apparently, was give Damon my classic cold shoulder and pretend my shit was too hot for him to handle. Excuse me, however, if Damon Monroe is a bigger charmer than my own boyfriend. That’s not a knock against Ian. He’s charming, sure, but Damon takes it to another level. He makes you feel like the most important, most stunning woman in the room, and all he has to do is glance at you with those burning brown eyes…

“I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t want to leave this bed until I say so.”

Oh, right, we’re doing this.

My hands are above my head, touching the soft cotton of the pillowcase. Beneath me, the large bed sinks, and not just from my weight. My boyfriend has me pinned down, his legs straddling my waist and his eager erection digging into my stomach. Wow. He usually doesn’t get this stiff this quickly.

I must be that hot in this dress!

“I’m not going to say you can leave until I’m sure you know who I am.”

I play with his collar and the top two buttons already left undone. The more I feel, smell, and gaze at my man, the more I want him to make good on his promises. What were we quibbling about earlier, again?

“Why, you’re my boyfriend, of course.” My arms loop around his shoulders. His lip-biting tells me he wants to kiss me until we both suffocate. How much self-control is he practicing right now? More than I deserve. “You know what my boyfriend gets to do to me?” Nails tease his skin. He’s going to lose it, and I’m going to get it.

Ian whispers exactly what I’m thinking. I don’t think I have to tell you what my boyfriend gets to do to me.

“I’m not
just
your boyfriend.” His teeth touch my cheek, hot breath doing crazy things to my ear.

“That’s right.” My legs coax his hips to come closer to mine. Although layers of clothes exist between us, Ian has no problem riling me up with that hard cock rubbing against me. “You’re my
Master,
aren’t you, sir?”

Ohoho, he really loves it when I talk kinky. This man loses his mind when you relinquish all control to him. I admit, I love giving him that control. He’s the only man I’ve ever trusted to do that. If he thinks I did anything even remotely kinky – rough vanilla sex doesn’t count – with Damon, then he’s an idiot. Ian Mathers is the only man who gets to spank my ass, come on my tits, and call me deliciously filthy things.

I’m really open to those ideas tonight. Not only would I like to see him prove something, but we’re in Paris. Even I’m warm at the thought of giving up who I am while the early summer scents tickle my nose and views of the clear night sky spread beyond our hotel window. I don’t even care if some perv can see us. Hope they enjoy the show.

“Damn straight I am,” he groans into the crook of my neck. “Say it again.”

I draw out the word as if it’s my last breath. “
Master.
”

Before I know it, he’s surging against me, stealing away that very breath. Ian wants this dress off my body. Good luck, is all I can say. It’s so tight and there’s no zipper in the back. Just a million tiny eyelets and the glass buttons to go with them.

At least he doesn’t rip my dress off. He’s done that before, but I probably made enough noise about this acquisition earlier that he knows better, even with all the blood in his system rushing to his cock.

As the frustration mounts, he mumbles the hottest things. “Open your fucking legs.” “Don’t close your eyes. I want to see them.” “Fuck these blasted buttons. I’ve seen your tits a thousand times. Let me have your cunt.” “How can you be so wet already?” He calls me one of the dirtiest names in the book we wrote together. In everyday life, I’d kick his ass for calling me that. In bed, however, when he’s asserting himself all over my body and getting deep in my head (and other places,) I can’t wait for him to unload every nasty word he’s biting back in polite situations.

When I thought of making love with my boyfriend in Paris for the first time, I thought the usual: champagne and city views, massages, slow, sensual love… or at least a hardcore kink scene that lasts half the night and ends with me completely blacking out. Yet here we are, falling asses first into bed and on the brink of a dirty quickie without our clothes bothering to come off.

I love it.

“Get inside me,” I whimper, grabbing his clothes, searching for his cock beneath too many layers of fabric. “Fuck me like you own me.”

No silly jokes. No witty comebacks. We are on the same wavelength tonight. In fact, he’s probably been waiting for me to give the go ahead to pound me until my rambles sound like fluent French.

Everything’s raising to meet him as the tip of his cock grazes the inside of my thigh. You know that moment when everything goes blank in your brain? When all you can think about is having sex until you feed that starving hunger within you? The anticipation is killing you: you know that in one more second you’re going to be experiencing some of the greatest pleasure of your life, or so you want to convince yourself. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. All I know is that I want to become one with him.

Thump thump thump.

I’m ignoring it. Ian’s ignoring it. We’re gonna do this and not even Satan himself could crawl out from beneath the bed and light us on fire to make us stop fucking.

Thump thump thump.

“Madam Alison!” Some thickly accented English is floating in here, and for some damn reason I hear it over the heavy breaths of my boyfriend and the creaking bed beneath us. For a moment I’m distracted, head moving out of the way as Ian tries to plant a kiss on me. Instead, he makes out with my pillow.

“Ignore it.” He turns my head back toward his and kisses me. “This is more important.”

I’m not saying I disagree. The whole lower half of my body is screaming for sex.

“Madam Alison, there is a missive!”

“Slide it under the door!” I bark. Someone has his thick erection pushed against my thigh and I’m calling bullshit that it’s not inside me right now.

A pause. I think we’re in the clear and go back to having sex.

THUMP THUMP THUMP.

It’s so loud and disruptive that I leap out from beneath Ian’s body and snatch the end of the hotel bed. He rolls off me and, with the heaviest sigh, pulls a pillow over his lap. I get up and stumble to the door. I don’t realize my skirt is pushed up too high until my hand hits the knob.

“What is it?” The poor messenger on the other side of my suite door yelps as she faces the wrath of Kathryn Margaret Alison, a horny woman who wants to fuck her boyfriend. I must look like a rabid animal, for the young maid shoves a folded note at me, unable to make eye contact.

“
Un message,
Madam! Please excuse me.”

I snatch the note and curtly thank her. Her light footsteps scurry away the moment I latch the door shut again. When I turn around, note crumpling in my hand, I see my boyfriend twiddling his thumbs on top of the pillow protecting his second erection of the day.

“Well?” he asks. “What was so important?”

My eyes stay locked on his as I unfold the note. “Probably nothing. Let me…”

There are no more words. The moment I see the elegant handwriting covering the letter, everything comes crashing down. My mood. My hormones. My ability to rationalize with the world.

“What’s wrong?”

The letter trembles in my hand. “It’s from my mother.”

Chapter 4

KATHRYN

Eight in the morning in Paris. The city is waking up and going about its day. Then again, I’m in a hotel café, so there are a lot of tourists milling around, practicing their French and pretending to be more sophisticated than they really are. I see it a lot back in America too. Other parts of Europe. Even East Asia. But there’s something about Paris that really brings out the pretentious assheel from people.

I couldn’t sleep last night. Tired, but not sleepy, I sip my coffee and go through my emails on my phone. I’m wearing a big baggy white sweater even though it’s supposed to be 25 degrees Celsius today. I wasn’t thinking when I snuck out of my hotel room with Ian still fast asleep in our bed.

Ever since I read my mother’s letter, I’ve been in this trance. Funk, really. It was a short letter.
“Dearest Kathryn. I have heard that you are also in Paris this week. Let’s meet up for dinner if you’re not too busy.”
Sounds innocuous enough until you realize my mother is a manic depressive piece of work who skipped out of my life the moment I was sent off to college. She had mentally checked out long before that.

So to have my mother not only be in the same European city as me… but go out of her way to contact me for a meet up… something is wrong, and it’s making me uneasy.

At least the coffee here is amazing. I need some waking up. I didn’t sleep, but that doesn’t mean I still don’t have some jetlag to contend with. Don’t even get me started on how my body is still crying because we didn’t get any last night.

I tried. As soon as things settled down again, I tried to resume sex with Ian, but my brain was officially filled with anxious thoughts. Why was my mother in Paris? Why did she want to see me? Was she dying? Was she finally divorcing my father and wanted to tell me for herself? Did she meet a guy in Germany, where she’s currently living?

Why does she want to see me?

Suffice to say, there was no sex. My libido had jumped into the Seine and was doggy-paddling away. Dry as the Sahara. As interested in sex as a 90-year-old nun. Ian would take a distracted handjob and be grateful.

Yeah, right. Halfway through he told me to rest while he went to take a shower. Without me. Like I don’t know what he was doing in the shower! Unfortunately, I was too moody to surprise him in there.

“Kathryn? Kathryn Alison?”

That airy yet masculine voice snaps me out of my stupor. I look up from my phone and into the pleasantly surprised face of…

Oh my God!

“Martin?” My phone plops on my bistro table. “Martin Charles? No way.”

The man standing in front of my table looks like any other rich guy out for a holiday in Paris. Collared shirt. Linen pants. Obnoxiously cute but spoiled haircut. It’s the same damn haircut he had when we dated a long time ago.

I hold my hand out with a smile. He shakes it, also grinning at this crazy happenstance. “What are the odds?” he asks. “Are you staying in this hotel?”

“Yeah!” It’s popular with the social circles back home. If you announce you’re going to Paris, half the room asks if you’re staying here. I didn’t book the room, but my assistant did, and my assistant belongs to a society for young women who are, well, assistants to rich assholes like me. They share locations like this in their monthly newsletter. “You?”

“Been here three days already. Only staying a few more, though.”

“What are you doing here?” I gesture to the empty chair in front of me. When he says he doesn’t want to disrupt anyone I’m with, I glibly say I’m alone for breakfast. That gets his ass hovering in the chair. “Seeing some of my girlfriend’s family. They’re from Paris.” He lets out a pent-up breath. “They’re a handful of French people, but at least we don’t have to stay at their house.”

Martin and I broke up ages ago, but hearing he has a girlfriend makes me tense. It’s probably leftovers from my mother barging back into my life, like she belongs there, or something. “Girlfriend, huh? Who you playing with now?”

“It’s not just play,” he assures me. A server asks if he would like something, and in flawless French he says that water with lemon would be fine. He won’t be staying long. “It’s the whole package.”

“Oh.” What’s he trying to say? Besides the obvious – we were never anything more than a Domme and her obedient toy.

Martin doesn’t look it, but he’s as submissive as a good dog. Like most men of his standing, however, he’s
very
good at hiding his sexual inclinations in public. He’s the second heir to a lumber fortune in Canada. We met when he moved to my hometown for grad school and started frequenting The Dark Hour, the only place to go when you’re filthy rich and into kink (or at least voyeurism.) Didn’t take long for me to pick up that he was the kind of guy I usually looked for. That first night we met I had him licking my boots. Second night? I rode those rosy cheeks until I couldn’t come anymore.

What is up with Paris, anyway? First the hottest one-night stand of my life, and now Martin, the last boyfriend I had before Ian? This is getting crazy. It’s a parade of the most memorable guys I slept with in the year before I gave Ian Mathers all my time and free access to my body.

“Anyway, since you asked… I’m with Solange now.”

Solange. So. Lange. I rack my brain trying to remember where I know that name from. Naturally, I start thinking of Dommes.

It hits me.

The
French
Solange, of course. A tall, lean mean machine who even made me quiver in my boots when I was hanging out in those groups a lot. I don’t hang out as much with them anymore, unless we were already good friends. I’m a lot busier now. And, well, a good half of them don’t like the fact that I’m with Ian. Things get awkward when you go from identifying as a full-time Domme to a switch who mostly subs for her Dom boyfriend.