The Billionaire's Wife (29 page)

Taking a deep breath, Anton
seemed to steady himself. “So that was my childhood. Nothing special. Lots of
people have it worse. And I was lucky enough to be just smart enough to get
through school without a lot of studying. I don't know. Maybe I did well
because it was the only place where no one was screaming all the time. When I
was sixteen I left and stayed with a friend. His house wasn't that much better,
but...” He trailed off, a faint, humorless smile on his face. “He did have an
older sister.”

He wouldn't look at me. “You can
perhaps infer our relationship. We fucked on the sly, and one day she asked me
to spank her, because she'd heard it was hot. She didn't like it. I did.” He
shrugged, as if that was all there was to say to that. “I liked having control
over things in the bedroom. It was the only thing I felt like I
could
control. You learned to be whatever someone wanted you to be in my house if you
didn't want to get hit, and I could control myself, but controlling other
people... it was like a drug. With domination, you control the environment. No
screaming. No yelling. No hitting.” He smiled again. “Not unless they want you
to, anyway.”

I squirmed, remembering the
spankings Anton had given me. I was glad I enjoyed it. If I hadn't, I wouldn't
have this opportunity.

“Once I was done with school I
left those people behind. I changed my name. You don't want to hear the boring
details, but being a control freak and a charming man gets you pretty far in
the world of business, in case you hadn't figured that out. The problem was
that I wasn't really me anymore. Or perhaps I didn't know who I was to begin
with. When I came to New York, I told myself I would try to build a new
identity. I'd throw myself into the city, and I'd make this place my home. It's
about as far from the backwards redneck part of Florida you can get without
moving to somewhere like Amsterdam. This...” He gestured around us at the art
he had collected. “This is part of that. I wanted New York to be the place
where I was most comfortable. I wanted to be a New Yorker. You can lose
yourself here and become someone completely new. So after I started making
money I started turning myself into a New Yorker, going to clubs and using the
subway even when I didn't have to and drinking coffee in local shops and
patronizing local artists... I just wanted to become Anton Waters, whoever that
was.”

He heaved a sigh. “I don't think
I've done very well. I still feel out of place. But after I started buying up
pieces from local artists, I found I liked them. They are exactly what I need
to see. Different every time I look at them, because I'm different every time I
look at them. Sometimes it's the only way I know that the person I am inside
changes. Sometimes it's the only way I know there's someone in there, choosing
which mask to wear.”

He gave me a sidelong glance.
“So that's it. Fairly boring, I think. Love makes people stupid, and loud.
Getting emotionally involved... it's not safe. Obligation is a terrible thing
when you don't want it. My family taught me that. I was just an obligation they
didn't need.”

My eyes stung. I was the same
for my father, but in a different way. And my mother... I was her crutch. Too
much need was just as bad as too little, in its own way.

“That's why you didn't want the
hassle of finding someone who would just... be a trophy wife?”

He shook his head. “I didn't
want a trophy wife, I wanted a real wife. But falling in love...” He seemed to
shudder. “That's why our contract was so exacting. I didn't want you to feel as
though you owed me anything and start resenting me. But I truly did want a
wife. It's just hard to get a wife when you don't want to fall in love.” That
faint smile crossed his face, and I realized, for the first time, that he was
laughing at himself, at what he thought was his own ridiculousness.

“Didn't... didn't you try
therapy?” I said. “That could help.”

His smile widened. “I'm sure it
could, if I could stop fucking my therapists. Whenever the questions get too
probing I get desperate and out of control. I hate that. So I fuck them.” He
shrugged. “And then they aren't very good therapists any more.”

My heart hurt. “And why did you
want a wife?” I asked him.

He turned and looked at me. His
green eyes were so deep, so intense. Just like the eyes I gave him in my
sculpture. I wanted to fall into them.

“I wanted someone to give a shit
about me, I suppose,” he said. I heard the lump in his throat. It was the most
raw and honest thing I'd ever heard him say.

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to
cry. “
I
give a shit about you,” I said.

His smile turned wry. “I know
you do, Felicia. I give a shit about you, too.”

We're so romantic. They should
make movies about us.

I laughed. I couldn't help it.
Then I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him so fiercely he started to cough.
Only when he tapped my shoulder did I back off.

I pulled back, but not too far.
His face hovered in front of me, warm and full-lipped, beautiful and guarded.
Reaching up, I wove my fingers through his luxurious hair and pulled him down
until our foreheads touched.

“Anton,” I said, “I don't want a
marriage of convenience. I think we're beyond that now, anyway.”

He swallowed. “Yes. Most
likely.” He paused. “Your piece... the piece you just made... that was us,
wasn't it?”

I had to suppress the urge to roll
my eyes. “Yup.”

“It was amazing. Sadie made sure
I saw all the best pictures.” He sighed. “Is that how you truly feel?”

I nodded against him.

“It was amazing,” he said again.
For a long moment, I felt other words hovering at the edge of his tongue. “I
hurt you,” he continued finally. “I didn't mean to. I should have said
something when I realized you had agreed to our marriage under false pretenses.
But I didn't know how to do it. The drama...” He trailed off, but I knew
exactly what he meant.

“Fuck my parents,” I said. “Fuck
that drama. Where's your family?”

He gave a tiny laugh without
humor. “Once I started making a name for myself they recognized me and started
coming around for money. I paid them off, made them sign contracts saying they
would never contact me again, and sent them to live in Mexico.”

Smart. Really smart.
I should
do that,
I thought.
Put that shit on my to-do list.
“Good. Fuck
those guys, too. Fuck it all. I don't care about them, and I don't need to know
your original name. You're Anton to me. You've never been anyone else. And you
weren't the one who told me my mom was dying.”

“I didn't tell you that I knew
she wasn't.” He sounded pained.

He was so dense. It was
adorable. “And why didn't you do that when you found out?” I said.

He seemed to think about this
for a long time. “Because... I suppose because I didn't want you to leave,” he
said, and surprise colored his voice. He pulled me close, his arms around me
tightening.

“Felicia,” he said. “Don't
leave.”

“Ugh. Don't get all sentimental
on me,” I told him, and kissed him.

Our lips met, for the first time
as equals, and yet the fire that had consumed us was undimmed. Even more, it
now had a sharp, sweet edge to it, an edge that sliced right through my heart.
Urgently I kissed Anton, and he responded eagerly. His hands, rough and hungry,
roamed my body, warming me, filling me up even as my heart spilled out. I
parted my lips, and his tongue slipped inside my mouth, tangling with mine. No
longer did we fight for dominance, but together we stroked and licked, dancing.
The desire I had held for him the entire time we were apart flared up, embers
reigniting with his breath.

"Anton," I whispered.
"Anton, please."

I didn't know what I was asking
for, only that it was out of my reach without him. Then he was pulling me into
his lap and we were a jumble, hands and arms and legs, lips falling where they
may in fevered kisses, and his hard, warm chest against mine filled me with
anticipation. My greedy mouth ran over his throat, and his pulse hammered out
of control. My legs hooked around his waist and I moved over him, restless and
starving for him. His cock, already hard as a diamond, pushed up into the soft,
hot hollow of my pussy. We fit together, sweet and hard, and I wanted to sob
with happiness.

Anton lifted me, my legs still
locked around his waist, and carried me out of the gallery and up the stairs as
my teeth found his earlobe and bit down. I wanted to devour him, wanted him to
devour me. I let my tongue wander the folds of his ear and he groaned and
trembled, sagging against the wall of the foyer when at last he reached it. His
hands on my ass gripped me with bruising force, opening my pussy lips and
parting my buttocks, exposing my empty places. I needed to be filled, and
quickly. Pushing away from him, I climbed down and grabbed his hand. Together
we ran up the stairs to his bedroom. Each step rubbed my thighs together, and
my pussy, wet and slick with desire, shivered with the friction.

We barely made it in the door
before Anton fell on me, and we went down to the floor. The hard wood jarred
me, and I was trapped between two hard things. Above me Anton bent his head to
my throat, his hands moving the hem of my sweatshirt up over my stomach, his
thumbs stroking the muscles there, and I moaned and bucked against him. I
needed him inside me. I needed all of him.

His hands found my breasts,
covered them, squeezed, and I cried out. My eyes unfocused with the strength of
my desire, my whole body a clinging, wanting thing, with no reason, no inhibitions
at last. I wanted to love Anton. I wanted to know him. And he had let me in,
just a little bit. The first step.

It was enough for me for now. We
were married, after all. We had the rest of our lives to figure it out.

We wrestled on the floor, Anton
flipping me over onto my stomach. The control that had always been there had
loosened, and he was a man run wild, his hands everywhere, hooking into my
pussy through my jeans, his erection grinding against the swell of my ass. I
groaned and pushed back into him, begging him to take me however he wanted me,
but he couldn't seem to get enough of touching me. As if he had been starving
for a month, lost without being able to hold me, fuck me, do with me as he
pleased. I reveled in it, in the proof of his need for me. He was in deep, and
so was I.

Reaching back, I ripped my shirt
off, leaving it on the floor, and his hands unhooked my bra in record time,
letting my breasts bounce free. His hands were on them in seconds, rough and
possessive, my nipples scraping over his palms as he squeezed, pain and
pleasure mingling inside me. He nudged my ass with his hips, his erection
working its way between my ass cheeks.

"Fuck me," I moaned.
"Please, Anton."

"Felicia." It came out
as a grunt, and then he was hooking his arms around me, between my breasts and
under my thigh, lifting me up from the floor. The world tipped and turned, and
then I was landing on the bed, the softness reaching up to embrace me.

He slipped my shoes and socks
off before his hands fell to my waistband, ripping the button from its hole,
unzipping my jeans. With a quick, sudden tug I was only in my panties.

"I want to tie you
up," he said. "I want to do so many things to you."

"Do them," I said.
"I trust you."

A pained look crossed his face.
"Thank you," he said, and he lowered his face to mine, capturing my
lips in another kiss as his hands wandered to my panties. He moved the fabric
aside, dipping his fingertips past my pussy lips, exploring my slippery cunt.
His skin burned through his clothes, and I reached up, running my hands up over
his hard shoulders, down his chest, crooking my fingers and catching his
nipples through the soft fabric of his sweater. He hissed as I tugged at the
hem of his undershirt, and the hand that wasn't probing my pussy came up and
grabbed my hair. "Felicia," he said, his voice hoarse. "You
don't know what you do to me."

His scent filled my nose--warm
and rich, the smell of fine fabrics and expensive aftershave, and under that
the wild smell of a man who wanted nothing more than to lose control.

He flipped me over onto my
stomach, his hot mouth descending on my spine. Frantically he sucked and nipped
his way down my back, and I writhed under him as his hands squeezed and worked
my ass through the cotton of my panties. When at last he reached my waist, I
felt the scrape of teeth over my skin and he was tugging my panties away with
his mouth.

I lifted my hips to make it
easier for him, and he dipped his tongue into the crack of my ass, making me
gasp. Reaching up he worked my underwear off the rest of the way as he rimmed
my tight asshole, his tongue dipping and probing inside me. Embarrassment
flooded me, but also arousal. He didn't care. He wanted me completely, no
matter what the cost. His fingers found my pussy, and then he was pumping away
at my cunt as he tongued my asshole.

My hands gripped the comforter,
twisting the cool fabric into bunches as he fucked me with his hands and his
mouth. It had been so long, so many nights spent thinking about fucking him,
spent trying to please myself and failing, that I was already quivering around
him, my body galloping toward a violent release. I was no longer in control of
myself. I was completely and utterly his, and I never wanted it to be
otherwise.

"Anton!" I cried into
the comforter. "Anton, please, Anton, Anton, Anton--"

"Fellicia," he
murmured into my skin, and inside me he curled his fingers and pulled.

My orgasm flowed over me in
waves, pulling and tugging like a riptide, sucking me under. I shrieked into
the mattress, my whole body thrashing as his fingers fucked me and his mouth
sucked at the tight ring of nerves between the full mounds of my ass. He held
onto me, his free hand snaking over my thighs, keeping me still under his
ministrations as I came. But even as the pleasure subsided and my orgasm
retreated, I felt unsatisfied. I needed him in me. I needed him to come in me,
to reclaim me.