The Rake_Billionaire Seeking a Bride

by Melanie Marchande

  I think I’m the only customer in the place, until the bathroom door swings open.

  Oh, fuck.

  No.

  Anyone but him.

  Freddy saunters over to me, chewing on a toothpick. “Oh, what a nice surprise. Where did you materialize from?”

  “Fuck off,” I mutter.

  "Oh, I don't think so. Say - who's that lovely girl you were with the other night? I've seen the tabloids." He smirks.

  "You'll have to be more specific."

  "You know. The one you're with for her personality, I guess."

  "You'd better watch yourself, Peterson.”

  "Relax. I'm just assuming, based on your track record. She's not exactly your type, is she?"

  "I wasn't aware that I had a type. I also wasn't aware it was any of your business,” I snarl.

  "Wakefield, you know I'm just looking out for you. I want to make sure she's not wasting your time. I mean, what do you see in her exactly? Whatever it is, I'm sure you can get it somewhere else. In a more...you know, premium package." He chuckles, swirling his drink.

  I’m seeing red. “I don't appreciate you talking about my friend that way."

  "Oh, she's your friend now, is she? I'm sorry. I had no idea. I just assumed...but I should've known better. Although..."

  "Fuck off, Peterson.”

  "Eloquent as usual. I'll be seeing you, Wakefield." He stands up and walks towards the door, then suddenly stops. “Wait. I forgot. There’s a reason I wanted to talk to you.”

  His eyes go suddenly dark and cold as he pulls out the barstool again and plops down next to me. “I think I’ve given you plenty of opportunities to come clean. I warned you a year ago, if you don’t announce your plans to dissolve Fine People, I’m blowing the lid off of everything. I think you’ll find your ‘friend’ will lose interest in you, once you’re no longer a meal ticket. Once the world sees you for who you really are.”

  And that’s it, like a dagger in an old wound. He’s hit my weakness, the knowledge that a woman like Cassie won’t want anything to do with a failed businessman. It’s not enough that I had to be a degenerate, I’m a failure too. She can do so much better.

  It’s not about being a gold-digger, it’s about being sensible. Nobody wants to marry a bankrupt billionaire. You’d be better off with a hardworking, honest man who will be poor until the day he dies.

  “You don’t know half of what you think you know,” I growl. “And if you try to take me down, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

  He just laughs and laughs, as he stands up and walks away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cassie

  Every time I close my eyes, I see his face.

  His shaking hand. The gun.

  I keep picking up the pamphlet the police chief gave me, advertising a support group for survivors of gun violence. Unfolding and refolding it, sliding my fingers over the words, reading them without reading them. I would feel like a hypocrite there. I didn’t get shot. For all I know, he never would have shot me at all. I can’t imagine standing there in a church basement and telling my story to people who’ve actually suffered.

  I don’t know why the chief has taken such a personal interest in this, but I’m grateful for it. He called me yesterday and told me about some of the stuff they found on Pizelle’s computer. Hundreds of thousands of words of unpublished blog articles, posts on forums for men who felt wronged by the world in general, and women in particular.

  “They get radicalized,” the chief said. “One of them starts talking about violent fantasies, and the rest get fired up. I’ve seen it before. They want to take power back. They want to feel important. Shooting someone seems like an easy way to get the respect and attention they think they deserve.”

  It all makes sense, in a twisted way. I’ve heard of guys like that before. Mass shooters, often times - so I guess we’re all lucky he started small.

  It’s a tiny comfort. I still can’t sleep.

  Becca is curled up on my sofa, snoring. She insisted. I don’t know what she plans on doing to protect me, but I guess it’s nice not to be alone.

  Devon never answered my text. I know it’s ridiculous to care about something like that at a time like this, but at least it’s something else to think about.

  I don’t get it. I don’t get him. Thinking about him makes my head hurt - his mixed signals, the stranger at the bar, his rocky past, his uncertain future. I really need to let go of him. But fuck, I don’t want to.

  ***

  Two days later, he finally calls.

  I still haven’t slept. Not really. Forty minutes at a time, at the absolute most. I can’t remember ever taking this much time off work. I tried going in to the office, to distract myself, but I just stared at the wall, jumping out of my skin at every little sound.

  I stare at my phone for a second before I pick up.

  “Hi,” I say, softly.

  “Hi,” he replies. “Sorry I haven’t been in touch. How have you been?”

  Oh, fuck. He doesn’t even know. It’s been dominating my life so much, I almost forgot. I can’t help but laugh a little.

  “Fine,” I tell him. “Just…fine.”

  “Are you sure?” he asks.

  “No,” I admit. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “That’s fine,” he says. “I stopped by the office to see you. Becca said you were taking the afternoon off. Didn’t sound like you. I was…concerned.”

  “Yeah, I’m at home. I had a headache.”

  “Oh, well, in that case. Never mind,” he says. “I was going to ask if I could stop by. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “You can stop by,” I tell him, before I have the chance to rethink it. “I’m feeling better.”

  “Good,” he says. “I’ll see you in twenty.”

  I do a few laps around the apartment, picking up stray trash and making sure I haven’t left a bra hanging on any of the doorknobs. Everything looks good, so I run a brush through my hair and pull on some halfway presentable lounging clothes well before he rings the doorbell.

  I have to take a few deep breaths before I open the door.

  He ducks his head down when I say hello, like he doesn’t want to look me in the eye. I’m okay with that. The less he looks at me, the less he’ll question why I look like I haven’t slept in a week.

  I offer him a drink, but he shakes his head.

  “You wanted to talk to me about something?” I prompt him, after he’s been hovering awkwardly in the doorway between the kitchen and living room for about five minutes.

  “I did,” he says, his gaze drifting from my chest, down my torso, and lingering somewhere around my hips. “It doesn’t seem so important, now.”

  I smirk, folding my arms across my chest. I forgot to put on a bra, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “You’re so transparent, Wakefield.”

  “I’ve never seen you dressed for a casual day at home,” he says, softly, taking a step towards me. “I rather like it.”

  I should push his hand away when he reaches out to run his fingers through my hair. Instead, I let my eyes flutter closed and tilt my face up to his, because I know he’s about to kiss me.

  And he does.

  It’s soft and sweet at first, but with a growing lust that slowly takes over, until he’s asking me in a husky voice where my bedroom is and I’m leading him there by the hand. I’ve forgotten all about the mussed sheets and the pile of laundry in the corner, because none of that matters now. All that matters is that he wants me, and I want him, and nothing else in the world is as important as that.

  His hands are sliding up my back, under my shirt, when she suddenly pauses, chuckling slightly. He’s staring at something over my shoulder. I disentangle myself so I can twist my head around and see what’s so funny.

  Oh.

  Oh.

  “What is that?” he asks, grinning.

  “A riding crop,” I reply, calmly, even as my face goes brig
ht red. “It was a gift from a client. It’s for horses.”

  “Right,” he says. “All the horses you keep in your apartment.”

  “A gift,” I repeat. “I told him I wouldn’t have much use for it, so he told me to hang it up for decoration. And I thought that was funny, so I did.”

  “In your bedroom.” Devon is still laughing. “Right. A likely story.”

  “A true story,” I insist.

  “Really? You’ve never been the least bit curious? How it might feel?” He reaches out and grabs the crop from its perch on the shelf, caressing it in his hands.

  “I never said that,” I murmur, watching him stroke the leather.

  “Would you like to find out?” he asks me.

  Breathless, I just nod.

  “Undress,” he says.

  I strip off my clothes, never breaking eye contact. He licks his lips.

  “Get on the bed,” he says. “All fours.”

  I do.

  The first little slap is gentle, oh so gentle, on the softest part of my ass. He lets the little strip of leather trail along my skin, and a shudder of arousal goes through me.

  The next few smacks are a little harder, a little sharper, and I moan.

  “Is there something you want?” he whispers, punctuating with another smack.

  “Yes,” I hiss.

  “Tell me,” he murmurs.

  “Let me taste your cock.” I’m blushing furiously, but the words roll off my tongue a little too easily.

  He chuckles, deep in his chest. “No. Not yet.”

  The leather, now warmed from my skin, glides across my bared back. I can feel my nipples pucker and tighten, another tendril of arousal making its way through my body, slow, but sharp.

  Moaning softly, I squirm under his touch. Or rather the lack of it.

  “Control yourself,” he says, sternly. “Don’t make me tie you down.”

  To my embarrassment, that just makes me moan louder. What the hell? When did I become that girl? He must think I’m faking it, putting on a show, but I’m not. The only thing that’s changed is that I’m no longer holding myself back. And despite my ever-rising frustration, it feels damn good.

  There’s a giddy freedom in letting go.

  “Good girl,” he almost purrs, petting me with the flogger in the same long, languorous figure eight along my back. I realize I must’ve given some outward sign of whatever feeling just flooded my chest.

  The flogger dips lower, lower, and I feel the leather tails tickle their way down my ass. He pauses. Without thinking, I part my legs, and gasp as it brushes against my swollen pussy.

  “Good girl,” he breathes again, a little bit of the pretense falling away. I can hear it in his voice, how badly he wants me. It makes my head swim. The next thing I know, he’s gripping me by the hips, hoisting me up - but just when I think I know what’s coming, instead of feeling the head of his cock pressing into me, I feel his teeth graze the back of my thigh. A gust of breath, cool against the wet, tingling flesh between my legs.

  Oh, God.

  He’s dropped to his knees behind me. My heart’s pounding in my throat. It’s so intimate like this, I’m so exposed and vulnerable, but I’m such a quivering mess at this point that I don’t care.

  “You want it?” he rasps. “You want me to eat you until you scream?”

  I whine. It might be words, it might not be, but it seems to convey the message.

  “Tell me how much.” He smacks my ass, lightly, just enough to make me shudder a little. “Tell me what you’ll do for me.”

  “Anything,” I whimper, clutching the sheets. “Fuck, Devon, I need you.”

  “For what?” He licks his lips - I can hear it. Like he can’t wait to taste me.

  “I need your tongue,” I whisper, desperately. “Please.”

  “Do you have any idea how wet you are?” He’s so close now, I swear my clit twitches at the feel of his hot breath. “It’s dripping down your thighs. It’ll feel so good when I fuck you, Cassie. After I make you come with my tongue, you’ll be so tight and slippery, gripping my cock.”

  One quick swipe, the broad flat of his tongue rubbing me just right, the firm tip landing a little too high for comfort, making me wonder exactly how adventurous he’s going to get with this. And then realizing, a moment later, to my utter surprise - I don’t care.

  That’s the effect he has on me. I’m beyond shame, beyond worrying about anything but pure animal desire and satisfying the overwhelming desire to devour and be devoured.

  Again, he licks me, and he goes a little higher this time, close to the tight pucker of muscle that’s never been touched by any other man. I wonder if he knows. I wonder if he cares. I wonder if he’d like the idea of being my first there.

  He’s testing my reaction. When I realize that, I freeze at first, panicking. What if he takes it further than this? I’m not ready. But I do want his tongue there, since he’s clearly willing, since I’m so turned on I can’t see straight, and most importantly, I’ve just had a shower.

  Right. It’s good to know there’s still one practical corner of my brain functioning, no matter how small.

  I arch my back, making what I hope is an inviting noise. And then I hear him chuckle.

  He continues the long, broad strokes of his tongue, from bottom to top, occasionally stopping to caress the quivering ring of muscle. I can’t decide if I’m disappointed or relieved when he finally settles on my clit, but that conflict is quickly resolved for me.

  “Devon,” I gasp, my body pitching forward.

  He grips my hips tighter and jerks me back.

  “Come for me,” he growls.

  I couldn’t stop if I tried.

  I’m still twitching with aftershocks when he slams into me. Howling, I scrabble at the sheets, like a tighter grasp on them could somehow hold me down against the onslaught of sensation. He’s never taken me like this before. He’s so deep inside me, but it feels like there’s more to spare.

  That probably shouldn’t turn me on as much as it does. My mouth actually waters at the thought of him being so big I can’t even take it all in. I risk a glance at the mirror on the wall next to us, because I have to know.

  Yes.

  Yes.

  God, what the hell’s wrong with me?

  Nothing. You’re allowed to enjoy this.

  That’s what he’s saying, with every jerk of his hips, every panting breath, the way his eyes meet mine in the mirror, stormy-dark with lust. He bares his teeth when he notices where I’m looking - it’s a feral smile, but a smile nonetheless.

  The force and depth of his thrusts is breathtaking, literally, but it’s still not enough to tear away my fascinated gaze from the mirror. His fingers are making deep valleys in the soft flesh of my thighs. And then - at first I think I’m imagining it, but no, he’s sinking a little deeper with every stroke, my body slowly accepting more of him, adjusting to accommodate his length.

  With a soft grunt, he quickens his pace, and I let out one more hoarse moan before I collapse onto my forearms, my face in the pillows, conveniently muffling the ridiculous sounds that are still coming out of my throat. I can’t hold myself up anymore. I can’t do anything except feel and breathe and take.

  My climax hits me with the force of an earthquake, and I don’t recognize the sound of my own screams.

  We collapse in bed together, a tangle of arms and legs, and nothing has ever felt so right.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I never imagined I would wake up in bed with a billionaire snoring next to me.

  Yes, apparently, Devon Wakefield snores. You’d think someone with his means could afford some kind of miracle sleep apnea treatment, but apparently not.

  The guilt starts to creep in as the grogginess fades. I can’t believe I did this. I can’t believe I’ve let this go on for so long. I should have fired him as a client the first moment I felt myself losing my objectivity.

  After a few moments, he stirs awake, like he can f
eel me watching him.

  “Did I really fall asleep in the middle of the day?” he mumbles, peering at me through one opened eye.

  “I did too,” I reply. “So, I guess I’ll allow it.”

  “I suppose I needed a nap,” he says, with a smile.

  Not a hint of the guilt that plagues me every time I do something “irresponsible.” Like take a nap, or sleep with a client. Not that I make a habit of sleeping with clients. Or taking naps, for that matter. There’s always something else to do.

  “Don’t look so forlorn,” he says. “What’s the matter?”

  “I just hate wasting time,” I reply. “Sleeping the day away. I shouldn’t have stayed home in the first place, but if I had to, I could’ve at least worked on a couple client files.”

  “You really need to learn how to enjoy yourself.”

  “You’ve never feel guilty for stuff like that?”

  “No,” he says, without hesitating. A slow smile spreads across his face as he looks at me. “Not even for seducing you. I know that was going to be your next question.”

  “Bullshit. I seduced you,” I remind him.

  “I don’t like the fact that you feel guilty,” he says his fingers running slowly through my hair. “But that’s the closest I come to feeling bad about it. We need pleasure to live. At the simplest level, that’s all it is. Whatever that means. Whether it’s sex, or food, or some kind of adrenaline rush. Whatever. We need it. A life without any joy is just a slow death.”

  He’s not wrong. So why do I have such a guilt complex over it? Broken Machine, chocolate donuts coated in crushed peanuts, sex with Devon…if anything makes me happy, I’m guaranteed to feel ashamed about it.

  But Broken Machine is just stupid, empty pop music. Chocolate donuts have too many unwholesome calories. Sex with Devon is…well, sex with Devon. Of course I feel bad.

  “I can tell you’re trying to find a way to argue with me,” he says, after I’ve been silent for a while. “Go on - spit it out.”

  I smile a little. “There’s plenty of legitimate reasons to feel guilty about the things we do to distract ourselves. Most of them don’t have any real quality, they’re just…fluff.”