Dirty Billionaire

Dirty Billionaire Page 8

by Meghan March

Creighton’s narrowed eyes turn absolutely molten. “Don’t you fucking call yourself a whore.”

  “Then don’t treat me like one.”

  We stare each other down, and I wait for his response. I’m expecting something along the lines of “I’ll treat you however I want to treat you,” but what I get instead is something completely unexpected.

  “I’m sorry.”

  An apology?

  “That wasn’t well done of me. I may be a demanding asshole, but that’s not exactly my style.”

  “Does that mean you don’t want shower sex?” I’m pretty sure it’s the slutty devil on my shoulder shoving these words into my mouth, because I certainly wasn’t planning to say that.

  Creighton’s smile is lazy, predatory, and his eyes are hot and hard.

  “I didn’t say that, Holly. In fact, right now there’s nothing I’d rather do more than walk you right back into that bathroom, strip you naked, and fuck you against the wall until you beg me to let you come.”

  My mind skips back to our first night together. It isn’t lost on me that the man likes control. The last time we had sex that night, he toyed with me, refusing to let me come until I begged and pleaded—and then he took me. I’ve never had that before, and I was pretty sure I’d never have that again. Which was depressing to think about, because it was . . . amazing. My objection this morning wasn’t to the sex, but to the way he spoke to me.

  And with his apology, maybe there’s hope for us yet.

  I decide to take the first step, a peace offering, per se. I set the ice on the table beside me, stand, and snag the hem of my T-shirt. I pull it up and over my head, and drop it on the floor. Creighton’s lips twitch into that sexy smirk I’m already starting to recognize.

  “Then maybe we should postpone the rest of this conversation indefinitely?” I say.

  “I like the sound of that.”

  I take one step toward the bathroom, and he says, “Stop.”

  I meet his eyes, and he holds out the shirt.

  I look at it in confusion. “What?”

  “Put it back on.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Creighton reaches for my hand, places the shirt in it, and curls my fingers around the soft cotton.

  “I told you I was going to strip you naked and fuck you in the shower. I didn’t say you were going to strip for me.”

  Seriously?

  But I don’t protest. I think it’s the promise of the orgasms looming on the horizon, and the way he’s looking at me with scorching heat in his eyes. Shaking out the shirt, I pull it back over my head and turn to head for the bathroom.

  Creighton stalks me as I make my way back through the master suite into the crazy-nice bathroom. I pause in front of the huge glass shower enclosure and wait.

  The heat radiating from his big body penetrates the thin cotton fabric I’m wearing, and I wait for whatever he’s going to do next. The anticipation is almost a tangible thing.

  His mouth must be only half an inch from my ear, because his breath ghosts along it when he says, “Get inside.”

  I open my mouth to protest, because I’m still wearing the shirt and underwear.

  “Now, Holly.”

  The order sends shivers racing down my spine. Unlike before, his tone is smoothly seductive and commanding rather than condescending. It’s intoxicating and impossible to ignore.

  Stepping into the shower, I await his next command. I don’t have to wait long.

  “Turn on the water.”

  I reach for the fixture and twist. The hot spray hits me from several different angles, and I shut my eyes. Water soaks through the shirt in moments, and I realize that I’m giving Creighton his very own wet T-shirt show. And that knowledge is not unappealing.

  When my nipples harden against the drenched fabric, I wipe the water away from my eyes and turn to face him. I want to see his expression.

  He doesn’t disappoint me. His eyes flash, and I’m treated to a wolfish smile.

  “You like this, you dirty girl. Even though you rebelled against it, you like when I tell you what to do. I seem to remember you asking me to do that very thing in the limo last night.”

  I start to shake my head, but realize there’s no point in denying it.

  “I shouldn’t like it.”

  “Fuck shouldn’t,” Creighton growls as he crosses to the shower, stripping off the lounge pants and boxer briefs. He wastes no time grabbing my soaked T-shirt by the hem and pulling it up over my head. It lands on the shower floor with a soggy smack.

  His mouth drops to my nipple as his thumbs catch the waist of my underwear. Without lifting his head, he drags them down my legs, and I kick them aside. He pulls away from my breast, his attention riveted on my mouth once more. He takes it. Takes me.

  Cupping my butt, he lifts me off my feet. “Wrap your legs around me.”

  His erection presses hot, hard, and heavy between my legs. I shift my hips, loving the pressure of it against my clit.

  He pulls back for only a moment. “Speak now or forever hold your peace, Mrs. Karas. Because otherwise, I’m going to fuck the hell out of you.”

  My nails dig into the solid muscles of his shoulders.

  “Please. Now.” They are the only words I can get out before he shifts and presses into me.

  I’ve never been this turned on in my entire life. Never.

  My eyes flutter shut, but I force them open as my body stretches almost painfully to accommodate Creighton’s size. I want to see the ecstasy twisted in his features.

  His thrusts come fast and hard, and the heat of his body is a delicious contrast to the cool tile at my back. Steam fills the air, mingling with my moans of pleasure.

  At this angle, every thrust hits a perfect spot, and my orgasm builds with each bit of friction against my clit. I fight against the rising tension, knowing that the longer I wait, the more intense it’s going to be.

  Creighton readjusts to hold me up with one arm, and slips a hand between our bodies. The press of his thumb against my clit tears away any resolve I have to wait. I dig my nails into the tanned skin of his shoulders as the climax bursts through me.

  My cry echoes through the enclosed space, and I swear I hear him laugh over the blood rushing in my ears. He continues to thrust, the pace increasing with each plunge, until my second orgasm is barreling down on me. My body clenches around him, greedy for every inch I can get.

  “Fuuuck,” he yells as he pounds home one . . . two . . . three more times.

  His muscles flex and release until we’re both shaking under the hot spray of the shower. His head drops forward, resting on the tile beside mine. My legs are locked around his waist, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to move again. Not sure I ever want to move again. He pulls out before carefully lowering me, and I’m forced to disentangle my limbs from him and let his cock slip from my body.

  “Jesus, woman.” He tilts my face up toward his, both hands holding my cheeks. “You’re fucking incredible.”

  And then his lips descend on mine once more, but they don’t stay on my lips. They slide down to my chin, my neck, my breasts. Each nipple gets the attention of his teeth and tongue before he drops to his knees and worships my belly, and then my pussy.

  I can still feel his cum leaking from my body, but that doesn’t stop him from burying his face between my legs, nipping at my clit and delving inside. His hands clutch my rear, forcing me to use his face for balance. Which I have absolutely no problem with because pleasure is again sparking down my spine, and my knees are dangerously close to giving out.

  But when the fingers of one hand skim down the crack of my ass, approaching my no-go zone, I squirm, trying to move away from him.

  He tightens his grip, and my squirming is completely useless, except for how it moves me another notch toward orgasm. He went there that night, but I was too drunk on whiskey and pleasure to care or protest.

  But now? In the broad and sober light of day? I’m not sure I can handle

it.

  He looks up, lust and confusion written across his features in equal measure.

  “What? You have a problem with me eating your freshly fucked pussy?”

  I shiver under his penetrating stare. It misses nothing. As if testing my reaction, those questing fingers lightly cross over the pucker of my ass again, and I try to pull away.

  A grin curves his mouth into a devastating smile as he circles it with his thumb and adds the slightest pressure.

  I flinch at the nerve endings rocketing to life. “I don’t . . .”

  He leaves that sensitive spot and I relax, but altogether too soon. He brings his fingers forward to dip inside me.

  “You’ve never taken a cock up this gorgeous ass, Holly?”

  My eyes widen, and I stammer, “No . . . no. Never.”

  “That’s going to change.” His flashing brown eyes are wicked when he adds, “Maybe not today—or even tomorrow—but when it does, I’ll make you fucking love it. You’ll beg for it.”

  I swallow as another flood of moisture drips onto his fingers.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t like the idea, because your body has already spoken. Let me show you.”

  Shaking my head doesn’t help because his questing fingers are already drawing my slickness to my back hole. My muscles twitch at the zings of pleasure.

  Staring up at me, he presses one finger against my asshole. I try to remain unaffected, but it’s a losing battle. I bite my lip to hold in my moan, but it escapes anyway.

  “That’s right, baby. I’m going to finger-fuck this tight little virgin asshole, and you’re going to come on my face while I do it.”

  “Oh my God,” I whisper as his touch tests and then breaches the ring of muscle. Tremors rip through me as his finger presses in.

  “That’s a good girl. You take it. You take everything I give you.”

  I don’t remember moving my hands, but they’re cupping my breasts and tugging at my nipples, desperate to spread sensations of pleasure.

  His finger slides deeper and begins to thrust as his mouth lowers to my clit once again. The vibrations of his groans intensify the sensations rioting through my body. When I feel a second finger circling my entrance, I stiffen, but a nip to my clit distracts me from the flaring nerve endings.

  My head thrashes from side to side against the cool tile wall, pain and pleasure mixing and sparking as he thrusts with his fingers and toys with my clit with his tongue, teeth, and lips.

  This man owns every one of my senses, and I lose myself to his forbidden touches as he forces me higher and higher until I shatter.

  When I release Holly, she slides down the wall, her head dropping forward onto my shoulder. We’re both on our knees under the pounding spray of the shower, and I wonder if every time I touch her I’ll feel like I’ve found the goddamn Holy Grail. It’s a little unnerving, and not at all a feeling I’m accustomed to.

  I stand, carefully helping her to her feet. I wash us both and shut off the water before wrapping Holly in a giant fluffy robe. It swallows her small frame, and in her blissed-out postcoital state, she looks like a sated goddess.

  I carry her to the bed and settle her on a mountain of down pillows. My chest tightens strangely at her sleepy smile, and I feel the need to beat on it like fucking King Kong. I am the opposite of sated. I’m revved, ready to fuck her into oblivion, and feeling like I’m the goddamn king of the world. Her orgasms fill me with this insane power trip, like I could tear down buildings with my bare hands and then reassemble them with only my willpower.

  A light snore comes from the bed, and I glance over to her again. Her head lolls to the side in sleep, and her mouth is slightly open. I’m a horny bastard, and I can’t wait to feed my dick between those lips again and watch her swallow everything I give her.

  I think of the way her tight little ass clenched at my fingers, and I love knowing that I’m going to be the first man to sink my cock inside it. These possessive urges surprise the shit out of me. I don’t get possessive, because I don’t get attached. Ever.

  I shove them all down, back to wherever they came from, and head to the shower to jack off.

  When I wake up from my cat nap after the most amazing shower sex I’ve ever had—actually, the only shower sex I’ve ever had—I decide it’s time to deal with the consequences of my New Year’s Eve decision. The label has blown up my phone with calls and messages all day, and when I finally take Morty’s call, I have to hold the phone away from my ear because his words are getting louder and louder, and more and more of them are curses.

  “You fucked up everything, Wix! We had it all planned. We spent fucking money on this proposal to make it media-worthy, and then you were goddamn MIA. What the hell are you thinking marrying some fucking billionaire instead of toeing the line like I told you to? You don’t get to make those decisions. I make the decisions.”

  When Morty finally takes a breath, I open my mouth to speak. But Jim must be on another extension or in the same conference room, because he breaks in.

  “What’s done is done. There’s no going back now, and even if we could undo this Vegas farce, it’d be even worse. JC looks like an ass, but at least a heartbroken ass is sympathetic.”

  “She shouldn’t have done anything in the first place! This is fucking ridiculous. I swear you did this just to piss me off!” Morty’s yelled words are starting to hurt my ears.

  “I told you I wouldn’t fall in line,” I finally say. “You didn’t listen to me.”

  “You don’t get to have an opinion, Wix. Your ass is going back to Kentucky!”

  Jim breaks in again. “Come on, Morty. We talked about this. Sending her back to Kentucky isn’t going to do anyone a damn bit of good.”

  For the first time since I answered the phone, a feeling of relief slides through me.

  Morty grumbles, still unwilling to concede completely. “Well, she better fall in line from here on out.” Finally addressing me again, he says, “You better not miss a show, a practice, a radio spot, a meet and greet, or even a frigging meeting, though, Wix. I will yank you off that tour so fast, your head will spin, and then you can go crawling back to your billionaire husband and remember the career you could’ve had.”

  “I won’t miss anything. You have my word.”

  “I’ll be checking up on every single thing. You see if I don’t.”

  “I got it.”

  “Good. Now quit fucking up everything and go write some goddamn songs for your next record. You still owe me six.”

  “Six? What are you talking about?”

  “We’re doing an exclusive for a big-box retailer. So go write some shit.”

  The relief I was feeling slips away, and I sink down into the chair behind me. “Six songs? By when?”

  “You’ve got three weeks. I’m already setting up time for a songwriter to meet up with you in Dallas to try and knock some out. If you can’t do it, then I’ll pick something for you.”

  The thought of Morty picking songs for me was terrifying.

  I can write, but six songs in three weeks? I try not to panic.

  “Okay,” I mumble. “I guess I better get started then.”

  “Damn right. Hope you weren’t counting on a honeymoon.”

  Reeling, I shake my head, but he obviously can’t see me. I start to reply, but the line goes silent. Glancing down at my phone, I can see he’s ended the call.

  Well, that went better and worse than I expected. I still have a career—unless I miss something, which I will not allow to happen. And I need to write six songs in three weeks. I haven’t written anything in months. On top of the craziness of touring and this new marriage thing, I don’t know how I’m going to get in my zone and find some inspiration. I guess I don’t have a choice, so I’d better get started.

  The door to the villa’s office swings open and Creighton appears. “Do I need to crush them?”

  His automatic support throws me for a loop, and warmth floods my veins. “Excuse me?”