Dirty Billionaire

by Meghan March

  Do I take the safe road? Or do I take the bold one?

  “Sixty! Fifty-nine! Fifty-eight!”

  My belly flops as the countdown to the New Year begins.

  I suck in a deep breath and let it out. And I start to run.

  Heart hammering, I lift my hand to knock, but before my knuckles connect with the surface, the door swings open.

  And there he is.

  Tall and darkly handsome in a black suit, crisp white shirt, and thin black tie. Silver cufflinks pin his French cuffs in place, and a heavy silver watch peeks out from beneath, settling against his thick, tanned wrist. The minute hand on that watch should just be sliding past the mark of the midnight hour. I made it just in time.

  I drag my gaze up the length of his tie until I reach his face. Even in my high-heeled boots, he’s still several inches taller than me.

  He’s not looking at my face, though; he’s making a leisurely study of the rest of me. Even though I just did the same thing, his gaze sends prickles of heat through me as I wait for him to finish. I count to fifteen before he finally meets my eyes.

  His deep brown irises give nothing away, and neither does his expressionless face. A five o’clock shadow darkens his jaw, which makes him even more dangerously gorgeous than I remember.

  “On time like a good girl. You just saved yourself a punishment.”

  The prickling heat spreads at the approval in his tone, although I think I hear a trace of disappointment at the lack of punishment. The memory of his palm connecting with my rear flashes through my brain, and I fight to keep my composure.

  “Come in,” he says before stepping back and holding the door open wide.

  Following his command, I walk inside, attempting to hide the strange combination of anticipation and misgiving racing through me.

  The door shuts with a decisive thud, and the metallic click of the dead bolt seems to echo in the silence of the room. Or maybe that’s just my wildly overactive imagination, which is replaying everything that happened in this room that night. It’s like the reverse walk of shame, or returning to the scene of a crime.

  Stop. Pull it together, Holly.

  I walk to the window and stare down nineteen stories toward Central Park. Christmas lights and people are everywhere, celebrating the New Year. And out there in a studio on Times Square, there’s a very unhappy JC and some livid record executives.

  I had to shut my phone off hours before, turning it on only to call Tana, and powering it down immediately after. I told them I’d show up if I thought I could live with the decision, but it turns out, I can’t.

  And so now I’m here.

  I feel him behind me, even though I didn’t hear him cross the room. I tear my gaze away from the lights and turn to face him.

  Taking a steadying breath, I say the only thing I can think of. “You sure know how to get a girl’s attention.”

  His full lips quirk into a half smile before smoothing back into their expressionless line. Even the serious expression fuels the heat building in my core. I don’t understand this man’s effect on me. It makes no sense.

  “I knew it would work.” He holds out a hand. “I’ll take your jacket.”

  His deep baritone rumbles through me, and my hands automatically reach for the buttons of my pea coat, even though I should be bristling at his certainty that I’d show. How could he know that? He doesn’t know me.

  He waits in silence for me to undo the buttons and hand it over. I focus on his eyes as they flick down to take in my skinny jeans tucked into fringed brown leather boots—my favorite pair and a rare indulgence, which I wore for a boost of confidence—and sheer white top and white cami beneath it. The rhinestones hanging from my ears and circling my wrist are costume jewelry, and this man is clearly used to spending time with women wearing diamonds. I’m obviously underdressed.

  Why didn’t I take something from my stage clothes to wear? A sexy dress, or a short skirt? Something that wouldn’t remind me of my humble upbringing as he surveys me. You can take the girl out of the trailer park . . .

  Pushing the thought away, I straighten my shoulders and hand over my coat. He drapes it over the back of a chair with efficient movements and turns to face me once more. A briefcase sits on the desk, and I wonder if the notorious prenup is inside.

  This is insane, I tell myself. But desperate times . . .

  I try to lighten the mood by gesturing to myself. “I guess this isn’t exactly what you were expecting.”

  “You wore a skirt last time.”

  I’m not sure what to make of that. “Yeah, well, I figured if you’re serious at all about this, you should see something that approaches the real me, which is nothing fancy. The only time I generally go for anything special is when I’m onstage.”

  A flash of surprise spreads across his face, but he locks it away as quickly as it came. His next question surprises the hell out of me.

  “Are you a stripper?”

  I can’t help but laugh. Given where I come from, that’s not really a bad guess. A little devil on my shoulder takes control of my mouth.

  “Is your offer contingent on me not being a stripper?” I automatically reach up to twirl my hair in what I assume is a stripper-like mannerism.

  He considers the question for a moment. “I suppose not.”

  I smile, but I’m shocked by his reply. Really? Creighton Karas would marry a stripper?

  “Why would you—”

  My question is cut off when he says, “You didn’t answer me.”

  I drop the lock of hair and lower my hands to my sides. Not fidgeting under his direct stare takes all my effort.

  “No, Mr. Karas, I’m not a stripper.”

  I could swear he breathes a sigh of relief at my answer, but his expression never changes.

  “You have me at a disadvantage then. You clearly know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

  Here we go. “My name is Holly Wickman, but most people know me as Holly Wix.”

  I’m not a big enough deal that I would expect recognition to light his features, but I’m slightly disappointed at the continued lack of change in his expression.

  Finally, one arrogant eyebrow lifts as if telling me to continue. I stay quiet.

  He fails to keep a slight edge of frustration out of his tone with his next question. “And why do most people know you as a name other than your own?”

  “It’s my stage name. I sing. Country music.” The explanation comes out in a disjointed tumble of words.

  Knowledge flares in his eyes. Has he heard of me? For some reason, that sends a shiver up my spine.

  He frowns and his eyes turn hard. “I have heard of you. My assistant is a fan of yours, and your boyfriend who was . . . supposed to propose tonight?” He turns and reaches for my coat. “I make it a policy not to fuck other men’s women. And I sure as fuck don’t marry them. I would’ve married a stripper, but even I draw the line at a cheating whore.”

  The complete one-eighty in his mood throws me for a loop, and I cringe. “Please don’t call me that.”

  “If the cowboy boot fits . . .” His expression is no longer blank, but filled with ugliness.

  My stomach drops to my toes, and I take my coat from his outstretched hand.

  Well, that was quick. And now I’m screwed.

  “I knew it was a mistake to come here,” I whisper.

  “Then why did you?” he asks. “And why the hell did you leave that bar with me on Christmas Eve if you had a fucking boyfriend?”

  I walk to the door, static buzzing in my head. I just bet it all on him, and lost.

  What am I going to do now?

  I grasp the handle, twist, and tug before I realize the door is still locked. I flip the dead bolt and pull it open an inch before a large tanned hand slaps against the door, slamming it shut.

  “Answer me,” he demands.

  I don’t care if he is a billionaire, I won’t let anyone speak to me that way. Spinning around, I find myself trappe

d in the cage his arms have formed around me.

  “You really want to know why I did what I did on Christmas Eve?”

  “Obviously.”

  He bites the word out, and now that I have nothing to lose, I want to slap the expression off his face. Instead, I go for as much honesty as I can offer.

  “Because sometimes you just need to escape from reality. And what better way than to let someone screw you into oblivion? And it’d been fourteen months since I’d been with anyone. I was overdue, and you were there. I considered you my Christmas present to myself. That’s how I justified it.”

  I turn again and reach for the handle as his arm wraps around my waist. It’s the same move as when I was sitting on a bar stool downstairs. Before I can protest, he hauls me back against his hard, hot chest. I struggle, ready to elbow him to let go.

  A harsh whisper in my ear doesn’t still my movements.

  “Fourteen months? You don’t get to throw out something like that and then not explain yourself.”

  I continue to fight against his hold, and his arm pulls tighter.

  “You’re not leaving this room without giving me an explanation.”

  I can feel the ridge of his erection pressing against my lower back, and I’m battered with memories of Christmas Eve. I need to get out of here and fast, because I’m liable to do whatever he says. There’s something about the man that I just can’t stay immune to for long.

  “I’ll probably get sued if I tell you more,” I say.

  His hand spreads out across my stomach, his thumb sliding up and down beneath my breasts in another move I recognize all too well.

  “I’ve got top-notch lawyers, Holly.” His lips brush my ear, and heat gathers between my legs.

  I have to get out of here. I tug again at his hold—unsuccessfully.

  “Good for you,” I say. “I hope you and your lawyers are very happy together.”

  His tone loses a fraction of its edge when he replies, “They’ll be your lawyers too, if you’d just explain yourself.”

  Those words finally still my struggle because they hit on the exact reason I chose him—my hope that he has enough power, leverage, and blood-sucking lawyers to uncoil the mess I’ve gotten myself into.

  I took one leap of faith tonight, and I have no other alternatives. What is telling him really going to hurt now?

  I suck in a deep breath before I whisper the truth that only the label execs, JC, Tana, and Mick know.

  “My whole relationship with JC is a PR stunt organized by the record label, and I had no choice but to go along with it. JC and I . . . well, let’s just say that we’re both into male equipment.”

  It’s as if I can feel the leashed anger drain out of him. He steps away, turns me back around to face him, and takes my coat from my hands, holding it up and open as if expecting me to slip my arms into it.

  “Now you’re throwing me out?” He really is the complete asshole his competition makes him out to be.

  My thoughts are stolen straight from my head when, for the first time tonight, he smiles. And my panties are a lost cause.

  “No, Holly. We’re going to Vegas.”

  Holy. Shit.

  I look down at the diamond on my left ring finger. You could buy the entire trailer park I grew up in with this thing, and still have money left over to buy a brand-new F-250 to park in front of it.

  I lean against the plush leather of the limo delivering us back to Caesar’s Palace, unable to believe I actually went through with it. I’m officially Mrs. Holly Karas, and tonight is my wedding night—or maybe to be more accurate, my wedding morning, as it’s New Year’s Day in Nevada now too.

  I look at the man seated across from me. Creighton Karas.

  I just married a billionaire. Granted, the prenup I read on the jet during our flight made it very clear that those billions are largely to remain his, regardless of the outcome of our marriage. If things fall apart, I’ll have to refer to Section 39, subsections (a) to (zz), which list possible causes of the “dissolution” and the accompanying formula to calculate what I walk away from this union with.

  Nearly fifty pages, and I read the entire thing. I was screwed by one contract, and I wasn’t looking to get screwed by both this man and his contract. With my community college drop-out status, it isn’t surprising that reading it mostly confused the crap out of me. If my adrenaline wasn’t continually dumping into my system due to the looks Creighton kept giving me, I probably would have fallen asleep. Regardless, I’m guardedly confident that I understand enough to hope that I’m not missing anything obvious.

  Creighton made a call to his lawyers as soon as we walked out of the twenty-four-hour wedding chapel. They now have their hands on a copy of my contract with Homegrown, courtesy of the e-mail I forwarded Creighton, and are going over it with a fine-tooth comb.

  Apparently now that the task is in competent legal hands, he considers the matter handled. And for tonight, I don’t think there is anything more I can do either. My phone has stayed off because I don’t want to face the voice mails that surely wait for me. So instead, I focus on the present.

  It’s my wedding night.

  Oh my God.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Aside from my one night with Creighton, I’ve been with exactly two other guys—my high school boyfriend, and a friend with benefits who was a regular at the bowling alley. With my high school boyfriend, I was lucky that he got it in the right hole on the first try. It hurt the first time, and all the times after that weren’t a heck of a lot better. My friend with benefits was an improvement, but nothing like the night I had with Creighton.

  Because of my prior lack of positive experience in the bedroom department, I’ve never considered myself a very sexual creature. Which is why agreeing to the label’s crazy scheme with JC wasn’t a huge problem in the beginning. But as the months wore on, something changed inside me. It probably has something to do with all the sexy books I read on the road while I’m touring. And the sinfully hot—and taken—man I’m touring with.

  My Christmas Eve one-night stand was supposed to be just that—one night. And now I’m married to him. Every time I think about my current situation, I wonder if I’m crazy.

  “You’re awfully quiet over there, my darling wife,” Creighton drawls.

  “Please don’t call me that if you’re just trying to make fun of me.” My voice sounds small, even to me.

  His eyebrow lifts, and perfectly formed lips lift into a smirk. “Why would I make fun of you?”

  “I don’t know.” I shake my head, trying to throw off his spell. “It’s been a long day, and I’m still trying to catch up with everything that happened.”

  His playful expression fades, and I brace myself for whatever he’s going to say next. Creighton’s behavior hasn’t exactly been warm and fuzzy so far, and his words have been decidedly no-bullshit.

  “You don’t need to catch up with anything except sleep for the rest of the night.”

  Shock courses through me. “We’re not . . . I mean, you’re not planning on . . .”

  Goose bumps prickle my skin at his appraising look.

  “The next time I fuck you, Holly, I want to make sure you’re with me one hundred percent. I will accept nothing less than all of you, and right now your mind is a million miles away.”

  He’s right. My thoughts are on the other side of the country, wondering what kind of hell I’m going to have to pay for this decision. And also a little at home, wondering if I’ll end up on a bus back there if I fail to please my new husband.

  I don’t want to see this look of disappointment on his face. I want to see the heat that brought me almost to the edge of orgasm before I even followed his commands to strip naked. There’s nothing I can do right now to deal with the fallout of the decision I’ve made, but I can try to make whatever we might have here work for both of us.

  “Besides, I have all the time in the world to wring orgasm after orgasm from your body until your legs are so weak you can barely stand.” His expression heats. “And plenty of time to train you to take my cock exactly the way I want—in every way, but first between those fuckable lips of yours.”

  All thoughts of anything but the forbidden things he offers are wiped from my mind. I want to see the approval I saw in his eyes that night, and that I heard in his voice when he opened the door at the Plaza. Something in his dominant nature snapped the pieces of my sexuality into place, and I want to revel in that feeling. Now.

  I slide off the seat and drop to my knees.

  Creighton stares down at me, and that dang eyebrow of his rises. “You praying, Holly?”

  I shake my head. “No, sir. I’m taking your cock exactly the way you want it.”

  He doesn’t miss a beat, just reaches up to press the limo’s intercom button. “Keep driving until I tell you to stop.”

  Anticipation. Nerves. Excitement. And a unique and new sense of power. They’re all flowing through my veins and controlling my actions.

  Creighton settles into the seat and rests his big hands on his spread thighs. He’s unreadable, but his words hide nothing. “I like having a wife who wants to suck my dick in a limo.”

  Shivers race across my skin, and my nipples pucker against the cups of my bra. Even though my body is screaming yes, I’m afraid I’ll lose my nerve and look more ridiculous than I did before I started this.

  “Would you please tell me to?”

  He tilts his head to one side. “You are so fucking perfect.” He reaches out and cups my jaw. “Holly, suck my cock until I come down your throat. Because even if I don’t fuck you tonight, I want my wife sleeping with my cum inside her.”

  My inner muscles clench, and my panties are instantly soaked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good girl.”

  I reach for his belt and unfasten it before sliding down his zipper. He lifts up and adjusts, allowing me to pull his boxer briefs down to free his cock.

  If ever a man’s penis deserved its own entrance music, it would be Creighton Karas’s. It’s long, thick, and perfectly veined. His heavy balls are already rising up to the base of his shaft.

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