Insatiable: A Dark Billionaire Romance

by Sophia Desmond

  "No. At least, he shouldn't be. At this point, if he dies, it'll be because he had a heart attack. Because of whatever was in his system. I can't control everything, you know, though I might give that impression. If he decided it was a good idea to snort a few balls of cocaine before going out for the evening, well, that really sounds more like a Mario problem than a Boss problem..."

  I was flabbergasted. I knew I should feel bad, but... I didn't.

  "Okay. So, am I supposed to give you a blow job as thanks for putting my ex-boyfriend in the hospital? Is that how this works?"

  "No, Tara. That's not how this works. You and I both know that Mario will blame you, that his family will want to hurt you. I want to protect you. I just needed to demonstrate to you that I can do that. Now, look--I put Mario in the hospital with, let's see, two phone calls and a text message. Three minutes of work. Just how long do you think it would take me to dismantle his family? Fifteen minutes? An hour? Two, at most? I'll have to cancel squash at the Racquet Club, I suppose. Jay-Z's going to be very disappointed."

  I gave him a withering look.

  "You don't play squash with Jay-Z."

  "You're right. Not regularly. He travels quite a bit, while my business keeps me here. But when he's in town, if our schedules match up, we take in a game. He's much better than me, honestly. I've never won a match against him, but each go at it is like a master class."

  I took my seat again.

  "Boss... This is too weird. I'm sorry. I'm out of it tonight. And this just gets weirder and weirder."

  "I'm sorry, hon. Would you like to take a nap? We can discuss things in the morning--I've got a bed made up for you."

  "No, I want to know what it is you want from me before I decide I'm staying over.

  "Right. Well, Tara, here's how it is: I find you absolutely irresistible. I've followed your career, and I think you're exquisite. And I'd like to have you. You'll live here, with me--we'll give it, say, three months at first--and I'll do whatever I want to you."

  "Still sounds like prostitution to me, Boss."

  "I won't be paying you. You'll have whatever you want, but no money is going to exchange hands--well, I might give you a few thousand dollars for a spree at Bergdorf's every now and then. But you're not going to get a regular salary or anything like that. But, there's more."

  He paused and I realized I was supposed to ask what the "more" was.

  "I've got very, very specific tastes."

  I took a deep breath. As if that would calm me down. I was far beyond anything a few nice meditative exercises could help now.

  "This is some Fifty Shades of Gray bullshit, isn't it?"

  I saw his eyes smile and I imagined, beneath the mask, his lips stretching into a smile.

  "It is, Tara. It is."

  "So, like, bondage and other crazy stuff like that?" I had read the books. I always though Anna was kind of a pussy. I had boyfriends who were way rougher with me, and they weren't billionaires either.

  "Yes. That's a good way of phrasing it."

  "And in return, I'm kept here like your pet and you protect me?"

  "That's right."

  I nodded slowly. I wished I hadn't thrown my champagne, because I could really use a drink right about now.

  "Can I get you anything?" he asked, breaking my concentration. My head jerked up.

  "Uh, yeah. Another glass of this stuff would be gangbusters. In case I need to throw it on you again."

  "Your wish, my command," he said, rising and going back inside.

  What the hell was going on? I grabbed my phone and found a string of texts from Nora. Typical.

  "R u dead?!?!?!"

  "Tell me ur not dead"

  "Ive never had a client die on me"

  "U sure ur not dead?"

  "OK he just texted me I no ur fine"

  "Isnt his condo AWESOME?!?!?!"

  And then a string of wine glass and martini emojis.

  "Is this guy for real?" I texted back. She replied almost immediately.

  "Holy shit yes. He is 100% legit."

  "Whats his real name?"

  "Cant tell u. He doesnt want u to no. So dont go snooping. I think itd be good 4 u. Its almost like being married. In fact its better bc it sounds like hes not going to stop sleeping with you after a week."

  And then a skull emoji.

  "Besides u dont have many years left with the agency."

  I scowled and put my phone away.

  Goddamn it, I knew it was true. The horrible thing was that everything you needed to do as a model to keep thin and keep sane destroyed your body all the faster. I had a daily regimen of moisturizers, anti-aging creams, gels, and oriental teas, but in spite of that, I had only barely managed to keep the natural and unnatural ravages of my twenties at bay.

  It's cruel, but I knew that unless I developed a--god, I don't know, a persona--like Twiggy or some other famous model, I wouldn't be getting work after thirty. And I wasn't like that. If I had ever had a chance to do that, I had missed it. I hadn't talked to the right people, gone to the right parties, sucked the right dicks.

  Or, if I did keep getting work, it'd be for Sears ads--posing as a nice, wholesome Midwestern mom with her kids. Old Navy, here I come!

  But was that such a bad thing? I could settle down, move to Brooklyn, marry a nice Jewish boy, go to Rego Park on weekends to see his mother. We'd go on vacation Jamaica and Puerto Rico once a year, or maybe Barcelona, have nice, normal people sex, and have two kids--a boy and a girl, both with my cherry blonde, almost red hair, and we'd give them names that sound more like things you'd find in a Whole Foods: Quinoa and Rutabaga. And then we'd die and everyone would be cool with it.

  But if I wanted that kind of life, I asked myself, why hadn't I just stayed in law school? Didn't I want to do something crazy, something weird? I liked nice things. I liked being beautiful. And I liked being admired, being praised for my beauty. If I were honest with myself, that's what I would say.

  I heard Boss's footsteps and saw him gliding through his gorgeous, baroque apartment. He had the bottle in hand.

  He seemed to have a good physique. He seemed capable of getting up in the middle of the night, putting on a suit, and getting things done. That was pretty sexy to begin with. And, to be perfectly honest, I wasn't at all opposed to bondage. I'm obviously not a prude. I like rough sex. I like being submissive. I like having my boundaries pushed. I'd be bored with having sex with my Brooklyn husband's circumcised cock once a week on Friday after too much Indian food at the local curry house.

  "Here you are, babe," he whispered, champagne spilling out of the bottle and into my glass. I found myself biting my lip as I watched it foam. Was it weird that I was getting kind of... Excited? At the prospect of being his, of being a "kept" woman, at the prospect of being his pampered little toy, if only for a few months while my life calmed down? I could always go back and find a handsome lawyer when we were all done.

  "So, Boss..." I said, after taking a sip of the champagne. I was dizzy and drunk with the possibilities of this new life. "If I were to agree to what you're offering..."

  "I've got a contract you'll sign in the morning. Or, you know, whenever."

  "Just like in Fifty Shades," I said, a note of teasing in my voice. He snorted.

  "Those books didn't invent the idea of a contract. We have, gosh, I don't know, the bloody Phoenicians to thank for that. That and just about every other aspect of human culture, but that's neither here nor there."

  Referencing the Phoenicians with a girl he's about to tie up and fuck senseless? Yeah, he was a total nerd. Mark Zuckerberg-level nerd. I could see that: beneath the suits and the money and the champagne, and everything else, he was a nerd. Part of me found that endearing--he was the kind of guy I would have pitied or made fun of in high school.

  But, oh, how the tables had turned, I supposed. Now, I was subject to his mercy.

  "Until then, though," Boss continued. "Let me show you to your room, Tara."

&nbs
p; The way he said my name carried so much weight, was so sensual, as if he were savoring it. I shuddered at the sound of it as I downed my last glass of champagne.

  He took me by the hand and let me back into the apartment. A massive flatscreen TV was pressed against one wall of the living room, with shelves on either side packed full of books. The furniture aesthetic was distinctly mid-century, a kind of European modernist chic--lots of metal, lots of white and beige leather, minimalist but not cheap--good quality materials, and the occasional nice, austere wooden piece gave the entire, massive room a Zen quality that suggested a kind of intimacy you wouldn't expect in a living room in the middle of the Manhattan sky. Especially one so big.

  We seemed to disappear into the hallways of the apartment, and finally, we came to "my" room. Boss eased the door open. I gasped--it was magnificent.

  A massive, king-sized four poster bed greeted me, with some sort of Japanese scroll painting hanging over it. A gorgeous old dresser of what looked like reclaimed wood. But the most impressive part was my view--the room seemed to join the terrace which the living room had opened up onto, and there was even a private garden--my own little Eden, right outside my window. God, to have green space in New York!

  "Boss, this is too nice."

  "Nothing's too nice for you," he whispered, and I whimpered as I felt his strong hand on my belly. He was behind me, pulling me back into him. I felt his hardness pressing into my bottom and out of habit, I began to rub him with my butt, wiggling it seductively like an animal in heat.

  "Touching you like this..." he growled in my ear, slipping his hand up my midriff to my chest. "It's a dream come true."

  "I'm happy to make all of your dreams come true," I whispered, in something like what I thought a porn star's voice might sound like. I hadn't watched porn in years, but I think anyone who's lived for a while knows how to act like a porn star...

  I reached back to feel his cock. Good god. That was a big package. Bigger than Mario, who already was one of the biggest I had ever had. So big that the first time he put it in me, I had gasped and felt tears well up in my eyes. But this was bigger.

  Oh boy.

  I ran my fingers over his cock, feeling the meat straining at the delicate suit pants. What would he want me to do? Suck him off? Bend over the bed and let him pound me senseless? I'm not a porn star, but I've got a model's willingness to work hard, a willingness to try new positions, to foresee what my photographer or man wants from me and how I can best give it to him...

  His hands slid under my top and onto my breasts. I'm fairly petite there--I'm a B-cup, and I can barely hold onto those, what with my weight and all. The nice part is that I can often get away without a bra, or with just a nice, comfy sports bra. I was wearing one of those now, and he slid his hands beneath it, touching my tender flesh.

  "Oh, Boss..." I cooed, arching my back as he touched my nipples. I whimpered as he pinched them, as he tweaked them and twisted them. They ached wonderfully in his hands.

  "I've wanted to do this for a long, long time," he whispered in my ear, biting my ear lobe.

  "How... How long?" I whispered back, rubbing my thighs together in anticipation.

  "Longer than you'd think. I've followed your career since the beginning, Tara. And I want you to know that I think you're the most exquisite woman in the world."

  I felt myself blushing. I was a professional. I was used to men complimenting me. But something about being called "exquisite" made my walls come down. Usually, men just tell me, in guttural, throaty, drunken whispers while grabbing my ass, how I've got the nicest pair of lips they've ever seen and how they'd like those very lips wrapped around their cocks.

  And that's all well and good. Such talk has a time and place. Any girl will tell you that. Any girl--well, most girls?--want to feel that their lips are gorgeous, that their lips are the most perfect vehicle for oral sex ever devised. But when you're romancing a girl, charm and class goes a long way.

  Charm, class, and a healthy dose of bad.

  And suddenly, just like that, his hands were off me. I whimpered in surprise. I was surprised now by how badly I had wanted it. I hadn't been expecting to, well, lean into our encounter so much.

  "You're very tired," Boss told me, as I turned around in his arms, looked into the face of the mask that I had grown so used to, even grown to like, over the last hour or so. "You need sleep. You've had a crazy day."

  "But you don't want to have some fun and help me fall asleep?" I asked, pouting. I saw his eyes glitter with a smile.

  "I would like nothing more than to tie you to this bed, fuck your throat till you gag, and then make you swallow my cum and beg for more," he whispered huskily, leaning forward. I shivered in his arms. There was the bad. The healthy dose of bad. "And then bend you over and whip that gorgeous little ass of yours until it turns bright red before I spread it wide and make you scream."

  "So, why don't you?"

  "Because you're sick and tired. You're trembling. You don't take care of yourself. If we're going to do this, you'll need to get healthier."

  I rolled my eyes.

  "I'm plenty healthy. Want to guess how much I weigh?"

  "Health isn't just about weight, Tara."

  "One-hundred and six pounds. Can you believe it? At my height?"

  "That's underweight. You bruise easily, don't you? Run into a door knob, and you'll wear that bruise for a month, six weeks. I'd break you in minutes."

  "So, break me. I give you my permission," I purred, my hands drifting down to his crotch again. He took my wrists and I gasped as he held my hands tight, so tight it hurt. God, but he was strong. He knew how to hold you tight. He must have one hell of a hand shake.

  "No. That's not how this works. You don't give me permission for anything. I give you permission."

  I smiled. "So, you like to be in charge?"

  "I don't like to be in charge." He pushed me down on the bed. "I am in charge."

  Those words sent shudders up and down my spine. I reached down, starting to take my skirt off, but he had already turned to leave.

  "Wait! Wait! Are you really going to leave me here, hungry for you? What kind of man are you?"

  He stopped cold.

  "You're going to pay for that comment," he growled. "But only once you're able to withstand your punishment."

  He turned to look at me once more.

  "It's lucky Nora caught me when she did. I'm leaving New York early tomorrow. I'll be in China for ten days."

  "What? What the hell am I supposed to do here? You're not taking me with you?"

  "That's right. You're going to stay here and get healthy. I've got a doctor scheduled to come over at ten this morning--that's in five hours, so you should get some sleep. Then, you'll have a meeting with a dietician, and a personal trainer. I've got a small gym here, and my chef will prepare food for you ever day, per the dietician's orders."

  "What the hell is this?"

  "You're not to leave the apartment at all. It's too dangerous for you out there and, besides, I don't trust you to keep yourself out of trouble. You won't be bored, though: the trainer will exhaust you each day and I've got an extensive library. Plus, any TV channel you want. You won't be allowed to drink, however, or take any pharmaceuticals besides what, if anything, the doctor prescribes you--maybe something for sleep, if anything."

  "Is this like some sort of rehab thing? Am I on camera now?"

  Boss chuckled.

  "No. This is me, saving your life, Tara. And when I get back, you're going to get down on your knees and thank me for it."

  "My life was fine without you in it."

  I saw his shoulders shudder slightly. Good. I'm glad that hurt.

  "I'll see you in ten days," he said coldly. "Try to relax. Try to use your time well. I'll have you plenty busy when I return."

  And with that, he disappeared into the palatial apartment.

  "What the fuck," I scowled. I reached for my phone and began texting Nora furiously.
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br />   "This weirdo has LOCKED me in his apartment 4 like 10 days while hes in china!!!! Wtf. What am I supposed 2 do? Did u no he would do this???? He thinks Im like sick and hes sending doctors and shit to meet with me. Wtf."

  No immediate response from Nora. She had probably gone to sleep. That made sense. It was late and even I was getting tired; the combined effect of my drugs and adrenaline wearing off, and the champagne taking effect.

  I wandered into the bathroom attached to my bedroom. It, too, was massive and magnificent, but by this point, I wasn't even impressed anymore. I wasn't impressed with the heated marble floor, the massive tub with a little bamboo bench built into it and what looked like jacuzzi jets on the side, the various full length mirrors which surrounded me, the enormous, minimalist vanity, or the sink--one of those raised bowls that just as easily could have been an overly artificed fountain or piece of modern art.

  With nothing else to do, I began to get ready for bed. There was, of course, toothpaste and a toothbrush laid out for me. I was beginning to feel like I was at some sort of demented hotel. There was even a fine, silk bathrobe provided for me.

  When I stripped myself naked, I was assaulted with images of my body. I could barely restrain a gasp.

  How had I not seen it before? Here, in the stark light of this gorgeous bathroom, I looked all too skinny, malnourished, like the survivor of some third world famine. He was right--I had bruises all over my thighs and legs from running into things. It wasn't that I was particularly clumsy; it was that the bruises simply didn't go away. They could be airbrushed out of any photograph I was in, so who cared, I had always thought? I had simply ceased to notice how bruised my body was, accepting it as part of my natural state.

  My face and cheeks were drawn and slightly gaunt. I wasn't wearing much make up, and so my eyes looked sunken, with bags. Again, these were all things that could be hidden with make up, with computers, and so I didn't particularly notice how worn I had become.

  I flushed. I hated that he was right. And I hated that even now, I felt wobbly on my feet, another condition that I had simply come to accept. I hadn't always been wobbly. I hadn't always had this permanent feeling of lightheadedness. Back when I lived in Wisconsin, when my mother made me a three egg omelet every morning for breakfast and when I ate granola bars with the other girls on my volleyball team before and after practice, I had never felt like this.