Undisclosed Desire: An Alpha Billionaire Romance: + bonus novel (12 page)

As much as it frightened me at first – right now the thought excites me. I actually hope that there is someone out there whose eyes are glued on me.

Oh, how they jealous they should be!

Nicky

Evan is too good of a lover not to make sure that I find my release as much as he does. Even after emphasizing many times that this second round is for him – and only for him – he reaches between my legs to play with my clit as he rams his massive erection inside of me from behind.

All it takes is a few more shoves, his skillful fingers on my center and his words, his command for me to come. My breath is visible as a steamy imprint on the window in front of me as my orgasm takes control of me.

I arch my back to the limit, taking it all in. Evan, the sheer pleasure of my climax, the view in front of me, my muscles clenching around him and his throbbing cock as he follows me and finally finds his release.

Our heavy panting fills the room as we remain immobile in our post coitus daze. He leans over me, his softening cock still inside me, and grabs my boobs from behind, gently cupping them while he showers my upper back with kisses.

"God Nicky, seeing and hearing you come is the most beautiful thing in the world," he whispers. "I can't get enough of it."

I smile. "I thought this one was just for you?"

"It was," he says. "But that doesn't mean I'd rob you of your climax. Your pleasure only adds to mine."

He bends over to untie my wrists from the window handle. I had almost forgotten about them, but am painfully reminded of their confinement and the pressure that was put on them, now that Evan unties the knots.

"Turn around," he says after my hands are free from the handle, but still bound together.

I do as I am bid and turn around to him, now facing the open window with my naked behind. Something that would have made me shy just a few minutes ago, but now it casts a cheeky smile on my face.

"This might leave some marks," he says as he carefully starts to open the knots around my wrists. He sounds worried, but his face reveals undeniable pride.

I grin at him. "I would like that."

"Me too," he says.

I sigh with relief when my hands are finally free again. Sure enough, the rope has left some dark red stripes around my skinny wrists. Most of it will fade, but I am sure that some of it will be visible even by tomorrow, judging from how sensitive my skin has shown to be in the past.

Evan softly skims along the lines. It doesn't hurt at all. There is something comforting and healing about his soft touch.

He lifts his eyes and looks at me. Loving – but also with a hint of naughtiness. It's easy to tell that there's something on his mind.

"I like marking what is mine," he says, his eyes narrowing as he looks down at me.

I raise my eyebrows, but before I get a chance to ask him what he is talking about, he leaps forward and grabs me, one hand on my back, pushing me closer to him and the other at my neck, tilting my head to the side.

Realization hits me when his teeth sink into my pale skin of my lower neck again just as it happened before, when he punished me interrupting and laughing at him.

I don't see any reason why I deserve punishment now, but this bite might not be about that. I moan as he holds me tight, sucking and biting on my poor skin. He is rather careful at first, but his bite deepens just a little and the pain shoots through me like a knife cutting into my skin, I flinch and start to struggle within his arms.

"Ah, stop! It hurts! Evan, it
hurts
!"

Yet again, this only causes him to bite deeper and tighten his grip around me. He really wants to make sure that this one stays.

I try the opposite way and gather all my strength to allow my body to relax in Evan's arms. And it does the trick.

He withdraws himself, planting a little kiss on my cheek before he lets go of me. He holds my chin with two fingers and gently turns my head from left to right, checking the marks he has left on either side.

"Beautiful," he certifies.

I look up at him like a scared little animal. These bites are new. Marking me. His talk about wanting me to be his is new, too.

I don't know what to make of it, but I cannot shake the feeling that he is right. This is where I belong. I want to be his. Even though I hardly know him. I am torn between confusion and freight – and the desperate desire to be his.

"Let's get clean together," he suggests.

He pulls up his pants, puts his arm around me and leads me back into the room. Still, I am the only one who is completely naked, while he has not taken off even a single piece of clothing.

"Didn't you say you don't have much time today?" I ask when we are inside the bathroom and he starts running the water. "How come we are still here?"

He looks at me with a secretive smile. "Plans can be changed."

"I hope I don't cause you any trouble?"

"Silly girl," he says, pulling his pullover over his head. "You speak as if that was for you to decide."

We wait for the giant bathtub to fill up with hot water and fragrant foam and cuddle up inside it. I am lying in his arms, enjoying the instant relaxation of my sore muscles and the prickling of my tortured skin.

"Your time must be limited though," I argue. "Mr.
big-time-investor-billionaire
."

"Turning sassy again are we?" he whispers behind me, gently cupping my boobs beneath the surface of the water and mountains of foam.

"I have weekends, too," he explains. "And the appointment I had today was not of any importance for me. It was easy to cancel."

"I didn't see you cancel anything?" I ask.

"I didn't cancel with them," he says. "It's enough to settle that with myself."

"Where did you have to go?"

"It doesn't matter."

"I want to know!"

"It doesn't matter," he repeats.

I roll my eyes. Fine, then.

"How come you like working so much?" I ask.

He squeezes my boobs and pulls me in closer while taking my nipples between two of his fingers respectively. He pinches them just enough to send a sweet wave of delicate pain through my chest. Damn, it feels good. I moan and lean into him – but I will not give in this time!

"Are you trying to silence me with sex again?" I breathe.

He laughs. "Did I
silence
you before?"

"Yes!" I insist. "We were having a conversation and then you –"

"Don't blame me if you can't keep your legs together, beautiful," he interrupts. "We can talk now, I'm not doing anything to silence you, I promise. I just like touching you. A lot."

"O-okay," I utter as he continues to massage my breasts. That seductive bastard.

"You wanted to know why I like working so much," he says.

"Yes."

"What makes you think I do?"

"Well," I say. "I mean, you must have worked your ass off during the past years to be where you are. I read the article, you know. Coming from nothing, self-made billionaire and all that... that doesn't happen without giving up your life and –"

"Giving up my life?" he asks. "What exactly do you think I gave up?"

"Well," I try to explain. "There cannot have been much time for you to do anything fun, anything creative. To breathe – to live."

"I didn't stop living or breathing," he says. "I had an idea – and I followed up on that idea. It was a really creative process, actually. I created something. It was tough and you may say I worked hard, because there was a time where I didn't do much else. But it did not feel like work. And it certainly didn't feel like I stopped living. On the contrary."

"But you didn't do much else," I object. "Just work, work, work – and for what? Why do you need so much money?"

"Why do you naturally assume that I did it for the money?" he asks. "I had an idea, a passion, and I wanted my project to succeed. It was like a child to me. And it made me happy to see it grow and succeed and get other people involved. Like I said, it was a process of creation."

He lets go of my breasts and scoops some water with both of hands by lifting them up like a shovel. I realize too late what he is up to and let out an unhappy groan when he lets the water rain down on my face.

"You say I have no time to breathe, to live, to create?" he says. "Then, what have you created lately? What are you doing with your life, young lady?"

I shake my head to get rid of the few drops of water that are still dripping from my forehead and blurring my view.

"Well, I did not start a business," I say. "But there's plenty of things I have time for. And I'm free. I could go anywhere, anytime, because I'm not stuck at an office five days a week –"

"What do you do for a living?" he interrupts.

I clear my throat. I never realized until now that we never talked about these things. The kind of small talk topic that would usually come up at the very beginning of a date. Then again, are we really dating? It's not like we ever had a proper date in that sense. Dinner, movie, late night walks – that sort of thing.

"Oh, I do work," I say, sounding a lot more defensive than I planned to. "I have two jobs actually. One as a waitress at a restaurant –"

"What restaurant?" he wants to know.

"Doesn't matter," I say, partly to tease him by mimicking his reply to many of my questions and partly, because I don't want him to show up at my work place some day, either to intimidate me or to free me by being my rich savior in shining armor. I think, he would be capable of doing something like that.

"All right then," he says. "What's the other job?"

I hesitate for a moment. It might have been a bit too much to say that my few freelancing gigs are some kind of job. It is merely something I tried to see if it could bring me in some extra cash while working from home.

"I erm, write stuff," I vaguely reply. "For other people. Ghostwriting."

"Fiction or non-fiction?" he asks, not showing any kind of reaction to my revelation, even though I feel as if I just stripped naked in front of him all over again. Not many people know that I am doing this, not even Yuka.

"Both," I reply. "Whatever is needed and whatever pays well, actually. I just picked up a few tasks here and there."

"Why?" he asks. "Why are you doing that? It doesn't sound to be a profitable source of income."

I roll my eyes.

"Because it's not only about the money, believe it or not," I say. "I just like writing. And I am good at it. Producing text comes easy to me in certain areas."

"So, you're one of those dreamy wanna-be writer girls?" he asks.

I frown. Exactly what I was afraid of. To be mocked again. Saying that you want to be a writer is probably the most cliché and ridiculous thing people can hear coming from a girl like me. It has been my life since I was twelve.

So I just stopped saying it at a certain point.

It's not true anyways. I am not a writer. And I don't want to be. Not in that sense. Writers are storytellers. Creative minds that come up with all kinds of plots, characters and storylines that capture their readers for whatever reason. Escapism, mostly, I assume.

But I am not a storyteller. I have nothing to tell and no desire to do so. I have never been the kind of person who places her MacBook at a café and starts writing her next 500-page-epic, because she is overflowing with ideas and stories she wants to tell to the world.

Writing just comes easy to me. It is something that I am good at and that I can do in a very efficient way. Taking over freelancing jobs for all kinds of ghostwriting tasks was just a way for me to test the water. To see, if I could actually be good at this on a professional level.

But I have only done a handful of jobs and didn't earn more than a little extra allowance that made my life a little easier, but in no way came to close to financing it.

"No," I reply. "No, I don't have a novel in me. No stories to tell. I feel like everything I could say has already been said before – and a lot better than I ever could."

"You might be right about that," he says in a matter-of-fact tone.

I free myself from his hug and turn around, frowning at him as the unsettled water swashes around us.

"Why would you say that?" I ask.

His words hurt me. I wouldn't admit it to him, but it felt like a stab in the heart. His assumption that I actually am as boring and vacuous as I often feel.

He just shrugs. "All the prejudices you threw at me when we first met – they weren't exactly creative or unheard of, you know. Maybe it's the same when you try to tell a story."

"I never tried," I object. "I just know that there is nothing there."

"Oh," he says, raising his eyebrows. "Now, that is even worse."

"Not necessarily," I say. "I just don't want to waste my time on something that is fruitless."

He gives me that stern look I have seen so often by now. His dominant face that is usually followed by an order of some sort.

And I react just as I always do – with silent anticipation. I wouldn't mind a third round. It would certainly be more fun than this intrusive conversation we are having right now.