The Billionaire's Wife (4 page)

Flames licked over my body, radiating out from where he touched
me. My hands came up, gripping his shoulders. He felt as good as he looked, all
hard planes and firm muscle underneath that white linen shirt. My hands curled
into fists as he let his fingers drift along the hem of my sweater. Then,
slowly, torturously, he slipped them beneath and trailed his fingertips against
my stomach.

I wanted to tell him to stop. I couldn't tell him to stop.

His wrist rotated and he flattened his palm against my belly,
sliding his hand down, under the waistband of my pants, past the elastic of my
panties.

My head lolled and I pushed against his hand. Smoothly he parted
my outer lips and slid his fingers along the outside of my slit, but he didn't
touch my swollen clit, the place where I needed him most.

He curled his fingers, coating them in my juices. Withdrew his
hand, slid his other two fingers along my slit, grazing against sensitive
flesh, but not quite touching.

Mad with need, I tried to maneuver my hips over his hand, trying
to capture him, but he avoided me deftly. His teeth scraped against my
collarbone, and he spoke into my skin.

“Beg me to take you,” he murmured. His voice was rough,
reverberating through my bones. “Beg me to bend you over that couch and fuck
you.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could think about them.
“Oh, yes,” I whispered. “
Please.”

He paused.

Then, to my everlasting dismay, he pulled back, removing his hand
from my pants and leaving a wet, cold trail behind. A deep chuckle rumbled
through his chest, turning my knees to pudding.

“No,” he said.

It took a second to register. “What?” I cried.
“Why?
You
asked me to...
why?”

And he laughed. He
laughed
at me.

“Miss Dare, why on earth would you buy the cow if you could get
the milk for free?” And he brought his fingers up to his lips. Without taking
his eyes from mine, he licked them clean one... by... one.

I turned and fled.

I barely had the presence of mind to grab my purse—and the
contract—as I left my dignity behind. Bursting through the double glass doors,
I didn't even pause to fix my hair. Instead I just made a beeline for one of
the pairs of wooden doors and crashed through them.

I ran past Arthur. I didn't even turn to tell him goodbye. My
gait was awkward as I rubbed my thighs together, rushing to the elevator. I
slammed my hand against the button and, mercifully, the doors opened
immediately. I stumbled inside and they closed behind me, beginning their
descent.

I was so close to coming, I didn't care that I was in an
elevator. I shoved a hand into my jeans, parting my pussy lips and revealing
the nub of my clit to my questing fingers. Desperately I rubbed my fingertip in
tight, quick circles, my other hand snaking its way up under my shabby sweater,
slipping beneath the strap of my bra. I squeezed my breast and pinched my
nipple, sending a stab of need straight down through my belly. My knees buckled
and I staggered against the hand rail circling the small space, my body on fire
with need. My moans filled the elevator, my face numb with heat and my cheeks
burning with shame.

Dipping my fingers into my slick folds, I dragged moisture over
my clit, slipping and sliding, my hips bucking against my hand. In the dark of
my head, I imagined Anton Waters scraping his large, rough fingers over me, and
with a final thrust I dragged myself over the edge. My back arched and I cried
out, my head banging against the wall as I thrashed, waves of pleasure crashing
into me, threatening to drag me out to a deep and hungry ocean I had only begun
to realize was there.

My whole body seemed to contract with the force of my orgasm, my
hungry passage squeezing tight around nothing. It wasn't enough. It couldn't be
enough. Not when I could have been fucking
him.
I almost sobbed with
disappointment, even as I rode it out, my body locked in tight spasms.

The pleasure faded, and I barely had enough time to pull my hand
out of my pants before the elevator doors opened.

A group of business men stood in the foyer, waiting. They pushed
their way inside, and I barely had enough presence of mind to slip by them and
make my escape.

I had just masturbated in an elevator. And I'd come in record
time.

Gulping, I wiped my sticky fingers on the inside of my sweater
and hurried past the receptionist and out the door. The cool air of fall
slapped me across the face, sobering me.

Couldn't have even waited til you got home, huh?
I
thought.
Pathetic.

My mind reeled as I wound my way through the burgeoning lunch
crowd, and I took three wrong turns before I found my way to the subway
station. When I finally boarded the subway car, I buried my face in my hands
and tried to think. The smell of my own juices clung to my fingers, reminding
me of how salaciously I had behaved. I tried to pick through my feelings, but
by the time I got home, the pickings were still slim.

I only knew two things. I hated Anton Waters. And I was going to
fuck him.

Maybe in more ways than one.

Chapter Two:

Bartered Seduction

The next morning found me sitting
in a lawyer's office and nursing a powerful hangover.

...Okay, fine, I was still drunk.
After my encounter with Waters and my subsequent shameful display in his
elevator, I'd knocked around my little studio apartment, feeling dazed and
useless. I even went on a cleaning binge to try to make myself feel better, but
when I realized I'd moved the same dirty plate back and forth from my futon to
the low coffee table where I ate five times without even skirting my tiny
kitchen area, I gave up.

Sitting down, I'd opened up the contract
and begun to read, and made it about ten minutes before I cracked open a beer
to go with it. I'm very mature when it comes to handling my problems. During my
meeting with Anton Waters, my father had left me eight voicemails on my phone
and I'd deleted all of them. I knew what he was going to say. Had I accepted
Waters' proposal? Had I? Had I? Had I?

I'd downed a six pack in short
order—way more than I usually did—and as a consequence I woke up with nacho
cheese in my hair, a new sculpture of a goat tied up and blindfolded, and a
browsing history on my computer full of websites about kinky sex.

Yeah.

That's why I was at a lawyer's
office. I wanted to see if this was actually... well,
binding
. Should I
choose to sign it.

Which I wasn't. Because,
come
on.

Don't get me wrong, I like a little
spanking now and then, but the things codified in Waters' contract—and my god,
he had to have ice water running through his veins to dictate that sort of shit
to a lawyer, and the lawyer who drew it up had to be stone-cold to have typed
it up without renouncing his license and retreating to a mountaintop to seek a
cleansing of his defiled soul—were definitely out of my realms of experience.
I'd had to look a few of them up, just to make sure they were what they sounded
like.

I shifted in my chair, staring at
the contract in my lap and trying not to think about what was in it. There was
no way it was legal. I was, like... ninety-five percent sure. He couldn't
actually take me to court if I didn't "play the submissive" for at
least seventy-five percent of our sexual encounters. Could he? And was he going
to be keeping track? A vision of Waters bending me over a table and fucking me
while entering it into the record or ticking off a bead on the Sex Abacus first
gave me a fit of the giggles, then set my cheeks aflame as I remembered that he
had told me to beg him to fuck me in exactly that way.

And I had.

Shit.

I rubbed my face vigorously. I was
so
glad the lawyer I was consulting was a woman. I needed to come up with some
demands of my own.

Not that I was thinking about doing
this. That would be ridiculous. Haha.

And yet the knowledge that my
mother was now another twenty-four hours without treatment was a rock in my
gut.

Shit.

"Miss Dare?"

My head shot up, and I saw a handsome
young paralegal standing in the doorway. "Yes?" I said.

"Ms. Gray will see you
now."

I stood hastily, throwing my purse
over my shoulder and clutching the contract like a shield. On unsteady feet, I
tottered through the door.

I was never very comfortable around
lawyers. I had friends that had gone to law school, but they weren't
lawyers,
they were friends who had studied law. And most of them weren't lucky
enough to get jobs
in
law and ended up baristas instead of barristers.
My father, however, loved to have lawyers around, provided they were on his
side, of course. I had even liked some of them when I was younger, before most
of them started hitting on me when I turned sixteen. And I knew for a fact that
my father had used the law to screw people over, people who couldn't afford it,
people whose only crime was ignorance or need or just being poor.

So it was with trepidation that I
stepped into Ms. Gray's office, and when the kindly old lady in a tweed
business suit rose from her seat at her desk and strode forward with a warm
smile to shake my hand, I had to make a concerted effort to smile while my
brain screamed at me:
It's a trap!

"Hello, Ms. Dare, how are you
this morning?" she said in a chipper voice. She looked like a librarian
more than a lawyer. Iron-colored hair streaked with white was pulled back into
an elaborate coiffure at the back of her head, and her bright dark eyes shone
in her face.

I paused to think. "Been
better," I said truthfully.

"But have you been
worse?" she asked.

I had to think about that, too.
"Yes."

"Then it's a good day,"
she said. "Now what can I do for you?"

Wordlessly I held out the contract.
"I need you to look over this for me. It's a contract. Or a prenuptial
agreement. I'm not sure."

If she had worn glasses, I'm sure
she would have given me a sharp look over the top of them. "You
don't?"

I shrugged. "That's why you're
the lawyer and I'm not," I said.

"Your fiance didn't tell you
which it was?"

"He's not my fiance yet. He's
just this guy that wants to marry me."

Her eyebrows shot up. "And do
you want to marry him?"

"Not really," I told her.
"But if I did it would solve a lot of problems."

For a long moment she looked at me.
I could practically hear what she was thinking, which was unsurprising because
I had thought many of those things myself.

Finally she gestured for me to sit
down, and I did, sinking gratefully into one of the rich leather chairs in
front of her desk. She sat across from me and began to thumb through the
contract. The pages ruffled loudly in the quiet of the room, though through the
thick windows of her office I could hear the city going about its business. My
father had worked in New York all his life, but commuted from out of state. My
mother currently lived in San Francisco. The sounds of the city were usually
comforting to me, but as the silence between us stretched out longer and longer
I began to wish I'd brought some headphones. I wouldn't even have to plug them
into anything. Just stick one end in my pocket and pretend I didn't care about
how this ridiculous contract made me look. Pretend I didn't care about
anything. I tried to ignore the few times she cleared her throat and looked at
me, opting to study the law tomes lining her walls, which were just as dull as
I thought they would be.

At last she set the contract down
and folded her hands in front of her. She appeared to be searching for words.
My stomach, still on the mend from the abuse I'd put it through last night,
clenched, and I tried to shrink into my clothes.

"Miss Dare," she said at
last, "I haven't ever quite seen a contract like this. I can only assume
your reasons for considering it are good ones, but it is my professional
opinion that this contract is not legally binding."

I sat up. "So... that's like a
loophole, right? I can sign it and get married and then divorce him?"

Her lips twisted, and I knew her
answer wasn't going to be quite that simple. "The problem, you see, is
that it
is
a prenuptial agreement in the strictest sense. If you choose
to divorce Mr. Waters for any reason, you will get nothing. That he wishes you
to, ah, allow him certain liberties and wishes to codify them into a contract,
then he may choose to terminate the marriage if you do not agree." A frown
creased her face, traveling along well-worn lines. "Sexual provisions in
prenuptial agreements cannot be enforced, as the refusal of one spouse would
render said sexual interaction as rape rather than consensual sex, and the law
cannot condone nor enforce rape. This clause would be found invalid in a court
of law, should Mr. Waters choose to sue you."

I felt the last shred of hope
slipping through my fingers. "But... wouldn't that invalidate the whole
contract?" I asked plaintively.

Ms. Gray sighed. "I'm afraid
not. There is a severablity clause included. Should one part of the contract be
rendered invalid, it will be removed, but the contract is still valid.
Therefore, should you choose to sign this contract, Mr. Waters will be able to
terminate your marriage for any reason he desires, and you will be left with
only the assets with which you entered. If
you
terminate the marriage,
the same thing will happen."

I bit my lip. I didn't like this
one bit. "What does it say, exactly?"

She leaned back in her chair and
steepled her fingers. "Well, it's fairly standard outside of the, ah,
sexual provisions. Both parties are expected to be faithful. You will be given
an allowance, both for yourself, your vocation, and for various projects you
choose to pursue. In the event of Mr. Waters' death, you would receive very
little, I'm afraid. He also appears to have included a clause wherein should
his death be suspect, you will receive nothing." She sniffed. "He is
a very... thorough man."