The Billionaire's Curvy Submissive (BBW Billionaire Erotica Novel) (2 page)

“Hey! You’ve got a mouth on you! A big, sexy,
pouty mouth...”

“I’ll warn you once to leave me alone, or
I’ll call the po—” but Claire’s words fell out of her mouth and she
felt the man’s appalling grasp on her thigh. She glanced around
wildly, hoping that someone would witness this violation, but in
typical New York fashion, everyone kept to themselves.

“Not so tough now, are you?” the man sneered,
his hand moving closer and closer to her crotch.

“You son of a bitch...” she whispered,
glaring at him and doing her best to keep from crying.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you?” the man
said.

A deep, authoritative voice answered from
somewhere out of Claire’s sight answered, “She called you a son of
a bitch, and she was right.”

The dirty man glared over Claire’s head.
“Butt out, buddy,” he said.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, you filthy
excuse for a man,” replied the angelic voice, “Move to the other
end of the car or I’ll throw you right off this overpass.”

Claire wrenched her head around and caught
sight of her defender. Now, she was really going to have a panic
attack. The man absolutely towered over the rat that was attempting
to molest her—he must have been at least six foot three. He wore an
impeccably tailored pea coat with gloves that looked to be Italian
leather, but Claire could hardly focus on his outfit, she was too
distracted by his face. She’s never seen a jaw that could actually
cut glass if put to the task. She could see his neck stretch taunt
with the agitation of the moment, and a dark glimmer shone in his
steely blue eyes. His jet black hair was cut short and simply—no
elaborate sweeping or waving like some hack politician. He was, by
Claire’s guess, the most beautiful man she had ever seen up close.
And he was coming to her rescue.

“You rich boys,” the little man was pouting,
inching away from Claire, “You think you rule the world or
something.”

As her assailant fled, Claire was filled with
a glowing sense of relief. She took a deep breath and smiled dumbly
at her mysterious protector. He looked deeply into her eyes, as if
checking for trauma, and Claire felt a surprising, hot surge of
attraction sizzle through her every nerve. She was taken aback by
the intensity of her reaction. She’d been attracted to guys in the
past, sure, but never with such visceral immediacy. And never with
such need.

“Are you OK?” the man asked slowly.

Claire, feeling as though her red hot desire
must have been glowing like a neon sign, blushed wildly. “What, me?
Oh, yeah! No. Totally. I’m totally fine. Like, no problem. It’s no
big thing. I, like, totally get groped all the time!”

The man raised an eyebrow at Claire, and she
watched his jaw relax. She had the sudden, overwhelming thought
that those jaws could tear through a pair of her three-for-one
panties like they were butter. Mortified by her dirty thoughts, she
dropped her gaze to his spotless wingtips. What was this guy’s
story? He was handsome enough to be a model, but didn’t look high
maintenance enough for that to be likely.

“Well, be that as it may, I’m glad that
you’re fine,” he said. He didn’t smile, didn’t seem the type, but
Claire could have sworn that the shadow of a grin graced his
gorgeous, full lips.

“Yeah, for sure,” Claire bubbled, hating how
young she must have sounded to him, “I’m totally cool. Thank you
for doing that, though. I’ve lived in the city for more than four
years, but I still never know quite how to handle things like
that.”

“I thought you were doing a good job of it,”
the man said, “I can’t believe how offensive that must be to you.
I’m offended, and I wasn’t even the target. Men who think that
every pretty girl is at their disposal sicken me. I’m sorry that
you had to deal with that.”

Did he just call me pretty? Claire thought
wildly, touched by his concern and impressed by his non-bravado.
Did this carved-from-steel, life-saving, feminist piece of
perfection just call me pretty? I can’t even...

The subway car lurched forward, and Claire
was knocked against the man’s sturdy chest. As if by instinct, he
closed his arms around her, locking them into an unexpected
embrace. As the subway PA system chattered about construction and
delays, Claire’s body pressed against the staggering glory of her
protector. For a brief, unbearably wonderful moment, she could feel
the heat of his chest against her cheek, his breath in her hair,
and his hands around her body.

But it was just for a moment. The man shifted
his weight awkwardly, snapping Claire out of the moment. She
straightened up and smiled nervously. Should she go for it? Did she
dare put herself out there and make the first move of flirtation
with this guy? As she opened her mouth to find out, he grimaced and
began to tug off his gloves.

“It’s a sauna in here,” he grumbled, tearing
the leather from his powerful hands. Claire loved a good pair of
hands on her, and she hungrily feasted her eyes on his. That was
when she saw it, gleaming in the dim florescent lights. A golden
wedding band. Smack dab on that telltale finger. Claire felt a
ripple of disappointment in her belly and was surprised by it. Why
should I matter so much whether this stranger was attached to
someone? He was just some guy on the subway. Some nice, handsome,
honorable, powerful, respectful man... And anyway, she was attached
too. Though when she took a moment to remember Tommy in his
ridiculous PJ’s she admittedly felt a bit ill. What was it that had
her so entranced by the man before her?

He felt her eyes heavy upon him and flashed a
half-second long smile to ease the awkwardness between them. Though
she felt that he was taking pity on her young, inexperienced self,
she was glad for it. Through the thick fog that had descended upon
her the moment she had locked eyes with her benefactor, Claire
heard the subway PA system call out the name of her stop. Feeling
embarrassed by her behavior with a married man, Claire muttered a
quick thanks and darted into the crowd of hurrying bodies. She was
sure to be late to work, now.

***

She stood at her bedroom window, gazing out
across the rooftops and water towers toward the Manhattan Bridge.
It arched gently across the East River like a sighing lover, and
Claire knew that whenever she saw it from that day forward, she
would be unable to think of anything apart from the man who had
come to her rescue in her hour of need.

For the thousandth time that day, she shook
her head, trying to dislodge her mystery man from his residence
there. “Get it together, Claire!” she urged herself, “He was just
some stranger on the subway. He’s probably forgotten all about you
already. And besides, he’s married. And you’ve got Tommy! And
whatever, he’s probably the type that likes skinny little brunettes
anyway.”

She ran her hands along her sides, assuring
herself that the swell of her natural curves was a blessing, not
the curse it could be when met with a twig-loving man. For some
reason, she felt unusually lonely in the apartment. Tommy was out
at practice. She rolled her eyes just thinking about his
“practicing”. He and his two guy buddies had what they called a
“sketch comedy troupe”. The only thing was, they never performed
anywhere, or recorded any sketches, or even came up with original
material. All they did was get stoned and watch YouTube videos of
British comedy teams and get off on how “sophisticated” they
were.

“Christ,” Claire said under her breath, “I
need a real man in my life.”

She made her way to the kitchen and snatched
up the box of Pop Tarts (toaster pastries... whatever, she
thought). Settling down for a long evening of novel-reading and
Craigslist-ing, Claire tore open the foil wrapper of a pastry with
her teeth and settled down onto her nicely made bed. As she ripped
off a chunk of dough, the front doorbell rang. Or, rather, it
hiccupped, being poorly made. But still...

Claire pulled herself to standing and brushed
crumbs from the fabric that stretched tautly over her breasts. It
was probably her super at the door, here to bug her about storing
her bike in the lobby. He was always on her case about something,
and after the day she’d had, she was just about ready to rip
someone a new one.

“George, I told you,” she shouted through the
door, “I don’t have room for Janis in here with all Tommy’s guitar
crap!”

She pulled the door open and promptly dropped
her pastry to the floor. There, framed by her doorway, was the man
from the subway. Her angel. He looked just as ruggedly stunning as
he had that afternoon, but softer somehow. He was leaning against
the threshold, smiling somewhat sheepishly but still clearly in
control of his emotions.

“Who’s Janis?” he asked, coolly.

“Oh...” Claire said, gaping at him, “Janis
is... my bike.”

“That’s adorable,” he said, smiling. She
wasn’t surprised to see that he had a perfect set of teeth. The
better to rip her clothes off with? He laughed as if he had read
her mind. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here...”

“Uh-uh,” Claire said lamely, “I mean, not
that I mind or anything, but—”

“You dropped your scarf,” he said, holding up
the garment for her to see. “I thought that I’d be a good citizen
and return it.”

“Oh.”

“May I come in?” he asked, ever the
gentlemen.

“Yeah...” Claire said, suddenly
self-conscious of her too-small tee shirt and yoga pants ensemble.
“Come on in! Would you... uh... like a Pop Tart?”

He laughed kindly and shook his head. As his
eyes took a quick look around the messy apartment, Claire felt
insanely young and unprepared. She was reeling from proximity to
him. What was he doing here? What could he possibly want? She
tugged at the too-short shirt that barely covered her midriff and
saw his eyes widen. Could he have come here for...?

“It was so nice of you to help me today,”
Claire said quickly, not allowing herself to dream of his hands on
her, “With that creep and all.”

“To tell you the truth, I felt a bit creepy
after that ordeal as well,” he said, letting the front door close
behind him. He slid the lock into place and turned to face her. “I
can’t understand what happened to me when I saw that man try to
touch you. I felt... jealous.”

“What?!” Claire spluttered, “I mean... what
do you...?”

“It’s like... I knew in that moment that I
wanted you to belong to me,” the man said, advancing on Claire, “I
wanted it to be my hands on you. And only mine.”

“...Oh?” Claire said faintly. The man was
inches away from her, towering a foot taller than she. She felt her
breath quicken, and her breasts began to heave before her. The man
registered this and let out a soft moan. He lifted a strong, firm
hand and cupped her quivering chin, tilting her eyes up to meet
his.

“I would never dream of doing anything you
didn’t want me to do,” he said deliberately, absolutely. “Do you
understand that?” Claire nodded, mute. Every fiber of her being
screamed in agony of his being so near and not yet in her, through
her. “May I...” he said, and she felt his finger tips on her arm,
“May I touch you?” She thought she would swoon as she nodded
violently, pressed against the wall of her small apartment’s
hallway.

He let his fingers run down her arm with
excruciating care. As his hand met her waist, he let his arm slide
around her body and pulled her to him. Her breasts pressed firmly
against his chest, and she felt his hot breath on her neck. His
hands found their way to her hips, and she let her own wander along
his chest. She wove her fingers through his pitch black hair and,
on a wave of newborn courage, tugged at the roots of it. He gasped
softly, his fingers digging into the flesh of her back. He clearly
liked a bit of roughhousing, Claire thought. That boded well.

The man threw his weight against Claire’s
body and pinned her to the wall with his hips. She felt a sudden,
urgent need to draw him in, into the deepest parts of her. Her
shoulders smacked against the wall as she steadied herself with her
hands on his shoulders. Their eyes met in the dim twilight.

“I want you to take me,” she whispered,
amazed at her daring, “Take me for yourself.”

He didn’t need any coaching. The man’s
grabbed a handful of Claire’s ass and savored the feel of it in
this grasp. With the other hand, he cupped her breast, marveling at
the size, the resistance, the touch of it. He let his thumb glance
across her nipple, and a rolling wave of pleasure coursed through
her body. She remembered suddenly, thankfully, that she wasn’t
wearing a bra. Her erect nipples rose through the thin cotton of
her shirt, inviting the man. He happily accepted.

His hands crept easily up through Claire’s
shirt and wrapped around her breasts. His hands were smooth but not
soft. They were the hands of a man who knew how to work a woman
over. He tweaked and pinched at her nipples, edging her toward the
peak of pleasure. Hungrily, he drew her shirt over her head and
took in the sight of her breasts, bared before him as if in
offering. She felt him then, pressed against exactly where he
wanted to be: he was hard for her, and she was not going to let
that hardness abate without savoring every inch of it.

As he hurried to undo his button-down, she
slid her hands lightly across his hard cock. He nearly whimpered,
wanting her so badly. She let her hands graze his package, ran her
fingertips across the waist of his slacks. His breathing sped up,
and she took in his beautiful torso. His rippling chest and heaving
shoulders, all of his muscles toned and bared before her. He was
nearly twitching with anticipation and she unbuckled his belt.

Staring into his eyes, she dove into the
front of his pants and found the sweet, sinewy hardness of his dick
with her eager hands. She was shocked at the sheer size of him—he
was a stallion. As she worked her hands up and down his shaft, he
closed his eyes in bliss. His hands found their way to her thighs
and, through the cotton of her pants, her pussy.