Billionaires in Paris: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (7 page)

What I get is a grim visage the moment he enters the room. His eyes are instantly drawn to me.
Devouring
me.

Great. Greaaaat.

“When did you get back?” Ian asks, tossing his wallet onto the nightstand next to the bed. “I was waiting for you downstairs.”

I finally relent on my cuticle. With both legs drawn up on the couch, I can’t easily turn to see what he’s doing, but I can sense him coming closer. I’ve felt this aura many times in my life, let alone our relationship.

This is not the sweet, wisecracking boyfriend I want right now.

This is, however, probably the boyfriend I
need
right now.

His hands are on my shoulders, swiftly moving down my chest, skirting past my breasts and teasing my stomach. His chin rests upon my shoulder, lips touching my skin. His grip is possessive, and in a way… comforting.

Not until Ian had I encountered a possessive streak that didn’t send me running for my father’s protection. (Because what better way to keep the patriarchy soundly standing?) He’s the man who taught me that wanting to feel coddled once in a while isn’t a bad thing. Nor does it make me weak. For so long I had convinced myself that being tough and emotionally impenetrable was the only way I could morally live with myself. Yet, as most of us women discover, there’s that one person out there who makes you exactly what you need to be.

Who knew that what I needed was a man who knows how to help me escape reality. What even I didn’t know is that such men exist who don’t also make you feel like shit for it.

“I got back about half an hour ago.” I accept a kiss to my cheek. Heavy, hard. His hand eases my sweater open and caresses the V-neck of my T-shirt. “Was decompressing before I asked where you were.” He bites my ear. Oh, boy. “Thought about taking a bath. Apparently you can see the Eiffel Tower from the bathroom.”

My head leans back, and I’m looking into his hazel eyes. Dark today. Whenever they look this sharp yet dark, I know something is afoot. My body is already preparing with a flood of warmth and adrenaline of anticipation. But, boy. Am I
not
sure this is what I really want right now. Can I at least get five minutes with him without the alpha male coming out?

“You smell like alcohol,” I say.

He relents his seduction. “Just cognac. I’m not even tipsy.”

“You’re not tipsy, but you’re brazen.”

“Says the woman guzzling wine over here.”

Ian takes my glass and finishes the last few sips. The moment the glass taps the table, he’s back on me, and I swear that if it weren’t for the sofa between us I’d be flat on my back making rough love.

My body is saying great, let’s do that! My mind, however, is still adjusting.

“You’ve got something you want to share?” Besides his breath, anyway.

“You.”

“What happened between this afternoon and now? You weren’t like this earlier.”

“
You
happened. Endless thoughts of you and what I want to do to you. It’s been going ever since last night. The longer we put off relief, the antsier I get.” His wandering hand ends up in my shirt. “Don’t tell me you’re not the same way. I’d have to call you a dirty liar.”

Even if I am the same way, it doesn’t mean an explanation isn’t lacking from this situation. Something has happened. Ian doesn’t turn possessive alpha male on me like this unless
something
causes it. Yet no matter how much I want to question it, there’s one thing I can’t control.

The fact I’m already getting into it.

“Why don’t you change into that sexy thing you bought today?” He’s not in my bra yet, but his fingertip smoothes over the bump that’s my nipple. This woman can’t control her shuddering. “Katie.”

Uh huh. Hoo boy. There’s a Dom in my bedroom, and he only has hands and eyes for me.

Does he want me meek and submissive? Sometimes that’s what I deliver, but only on my terms. Does he want a petulant brat who makes him work for my respect? That’s what I throw down when I’m in a playful mood and he wants to dominate me. When I’m suffering through a tailspin of emotions that fuck with my head?

This is the most natural I get in my submissive role.

“Why should I do that?” I whisper. Kisses descend my cheek and neck. “What’s in it for me?”

“You know.” That vibration in my ear sends a million sparks through my body. “You know
exactly
what’s in it for you.”

Do I ever! A blank consciousness. The ability to escape from this stressful world where image is everything – more important than my own damned accomplishments. Oh, and endless pleasure, I guess. There
is
that. Ian can be a total cad in everyday life, but when he puts his mind – and cock – to dominating me, I’m usually screaming and writhing within ten minutes.

He caresses me. Not sure if it’s my face, arm, or collarbone, because my brain doesn’t want to think about anything. I know what he’s doing. Ian’s giving me a taste of his fantasy. Our scenes are about passion and pleasure, of course, but they’re also about catharsis. I don’t know how many times I’ve had mental breakthroughs when I’m bent over getting spanked and told to serve.

You’re probably wondering if it ever goes the other way around. After all, I’m coming from my own background of domination. Yes, being a Domme is cathartic in its own way. Men who used to submit to me were definitely experiencing catharsis through fantasy. I have a feeling, though, that male Doms are coming from a completely different headspace from beta males and Dommes.

I don’t pretend to know what Ian is thinking when he’s pulling my hair, immobilizing me, or making me drown in his seed. Sometimes I don’t want to know.

“You mean the black lingerie?” I ask sweetly. My head turns for a kiss to the lips. I’m not disappointed.

“I wouldn’t mind you naked, but tantalizing is good too.”

A surge of energy overtakes me. I turn on the couch, grasping his hand and looking up into those determined eyes. “Can you do that thing?”

His façade chips. “Depends. What are you talking about?”

For some reason I can’t hold his gaze, even though his eyes are following mine wherever they look. “Feels weird asking when you’re already like this.”

“I want to give you what you want.”

I’m taken aback at the finality of those words. “I want to feel like I have nothing to worry about and nothing to fear.”

All I can do is hope that he knows what I’m talking about. Thankfully, he cups my chin and softly smiles. “That’s all I ever want to do, my love.”

***

The moment I emerge from the bathroom, dressed in the black negligee I bought today, our scene will officially begin. Knowing this, I change my hair multiple times, wanting to live up to Ian’s perfect vision of me. I may not know exactly what that entails, but I know I want to find a balance between who I really am and the opposite end of my own spectrum. “Sweet Vixen,” is what I will call it.

The negligee accentuates every inch of my body, including the inches not covered by any fabric. The cups boost my breasts up, the lace so sheer that there’s no mistaking my nipples, already hardening. From the bust flows satin as sultry as my attitude. It covers my mound and brushes against my thighs. I’m wearing a black thong that I know will be ripped off my body within ten minutes.

I hope it lasts longer than that.

Only thing I don’t know what to do with is my hair. I go from leaving it down to pulling it back into a tight ponytail. The ponytail is too innocent. Sometimes we play at me being the innocent virgin and him the man who does more than soil me – because, excuse me, sometimes a girl wants to pretend that the man she loves is the only one she’s ever known – but that’s not what I’m going for tonight. Leaving it down is too messy. I put it back up in a twist, but this time it’s loose.

I don’t touch up my makeup, not that I wore much today. Just some concealer and nude lipstick. One thing about being with a man who thinks the world begins and ends with your ass is that you could be stung by bees and he’s still going on about how gorgeous you are.

I slowly open the door. The main room is empty… save for Ian standing in one corner on the phone. He’s speaking his nearly unintelligible French.

He puts the phone down as soon as he sees me. “Look at you. What have I done in this life to have the honor of calling you my girlfriend?”

Normally I don’t blush when he flirts like this, but I’m already entering that confounded headspace that allows me to be vulnerable, so I become as bashful as an innocent lamb at her first boy-girl dance.

Ian extends his hand. He’s taken off his watch and rolled up his sleeves. Even so, I can see every strong line of his arm and hand, like a roadmap of his body. My eyes travel along one of them as I approach, lifting my own hand to take his.

He twirls me. The skirt of my negligee flares out, showing more skin than is appropriate even in this situation. Or maybe that’s me feeling bashful again.

The moment I stop twirling, he snatches me into his backward embrace, hands on every part of my body seemingly at once. I’m speechless. Even if weren’t starting a scene, I would be at a loss for words for how much he wants me.

Not merely wants me. Possesses me.

“You’re the most exquisite woman in Paris.” His murmurs against my skin are only matched by the way his thumbs press into my skin. “Do you know that? French girls aren’t half as beautiful as you, and this is supposedly the birthplace of beautiful women.”

“I’m told I’m part French on my father’s side.” Where does he think the name Alison comes from? The Swedes?

“That explains it.” Has being felt up ever been so good? I want to bottle the way he worships my body and save it for rainy days when I’m alone and in need of the man who is currently away on business. “Now, what can I do for you,
ma belle fille?
” Oh, he would choose this moment to suddenly have a perfect accent. Where was this when we were asking directions at noon today?

I’m squirming, but not because I want out of this hold. My body is reacting to how he touches me. “You can start by spoiling me,” I say.

“Hm? I didn’t hear you.”

Damnit. I’ve started to forget that we’re playing roles. “Please make me feel good, sir.”

The words are suspended in the air. Ian buries his nose in my twist, teeth nipping at the roots of my hair. Shudders tear through my scalp. I want him to ravage me
right now.
Is that truly too much to ask? What’s keeping him from throwing me down on the bed and fucking me until I scream for mercy? That’s where we were last night when we were interrupted.

No. This isn’t sex because we’re driven to have it. This goes beyond that. This is what lured me into this relationship to begin with.

“What exactly is going to make you feel good?” The hem of my negligee ascends my thigh. “I want to make sure I give you exactly what you need.”

We’re moving toward the bed. I envision myself collapsing on it with him on top of me, tearing away my clothes and inhaling the most sensitive parts of my skin. I want to lose myself to every motion of sexual therapy.

My knees hit the edge of the bed. The force almost knocks me over, but Ian’s hold is so strong that I can’t go anywhere. Once I have my bearings, my senses also return. Ian’s cock is hardening behind my ass. How badly does he want me, exactly? Enough to bury himself so deep within me that I don’t know where I end and he begins? Please, please,
please.

“I need you to remind me of who I am.”

“How am I going to do that?”

“You tell me.”

“I want to hear
you
say it.”

A lump the size of my heart goes down my throat. “You’re going to dominate me.”

“Is that what you want? For me to dominate you, Katie?”

Rocket science isn’t needed to know why he’s asking me these questions. It’s not for foreplay. It’s a way for us to make clear what we want from a scene. A play on consent, I suppose you could say. Something that’s always mattered to me. Ian has never been intimidated by it. Guess it plays right into his style as a Dom… he likes it when women beg and plead for him. I heard him with other women before we started dating. I
know.

My whimper shakes the whole room. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s going to make you happy, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

He releases me. I fall, hands first, onto the bed. This must be how he wants me, because he doesn’t say or do anything to make me move. And he could do so many things… tie me to the headboard, flip me onto my back…

My negligee bunches up my back and dangles from my stomach. My bare toes wiggle against the floor. A tender yet firm touch rounds my ass, playing with my thong. Ian knows how hard to pull so the fabric rubs against my slit, pushing past my folds and discovering my swelling clit. The only thing keeping me from gasping is the fact my Dom hasn’t told me I can make sounds.

“Do you want to confess?”

Tears threaten to appear. I’m not scared, or sad. I’m bitterly relieved that I don’t have to initiate this. By now Ian can read me so well that he knows what I desire from the way I move and speak. Did he latch on to my mood from my text earlier? Or did it take until he entered the room, already determined to dominate me tonight? He often makes the decision to have a scene sooner rather than later. Yet I’m the one who decides what kind of scene we have. As my Dom, it is his responsibility to respect my needs and, well,
deliver.