Because He Takes Me (Because He Owns Me, Book Two) (An Alpha Billionaire Romance)

by Ford, Hannah

  BECAUSE HE TAKES ME (Because He Owns Me, Book Two)

  by Hannah Ford

  Copyright 2015, Hannah Ford, all rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ADRIANA

  “So I don’t get it,” Nessa said, peering into the open suitcase that was lying on my bed. “You’re going away for a whole weekend with him? Is that safe?”

  “It’s not really a whole weekend,” I said, trying to keep my tone light as I flicked through the clothes in my closet. Why oh why hadn’t I bought more things with me from Michigan? Because you didn’t have anything in Michigan, I reminded myself. Certainly nothing suitable for a weekend away in Florida with a gorgeous billionaire. The other problem, besides my lack of suitable attire, was that I had no idea how we would be spending our time. Did I need clothes for going out? Or were we going to stay in the hotel the whole time having sex? What would I do while Callum was attending his business meetings?

  “It’s today and tomorrow,” Nessa pressed. “Saturday and Sunday. That’s the weekend.”

  “But it’s only one night,” I said, cringing as I said the words. They sounded so cheap. My heart constricted at the thought of no-strings-attached, just-for-one-night sex. What if I liked it? What if I wanted to see him again?

  Stop, I chided myself. This is not a romance. You barely know the man. And if you’re going to start getting all worked up about him, then you better not even go on this trip.

  “Still,” Nessa said, playing with the zipper on my suitcase. “I mean, are you… do you even know anything about him? He could be a murderer or a crazed stalker.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, throwing a short black summer dress onto the rumpled pile of clothes in my suitcase and staring critically at the whole, tangled mess. “I googled him.”

  “So?” Nessa said. “You can’t tell everything about someone from googling them. Someone’s LinkedIn profile or facebook page isn’t going to tell you if they have a criminal record.”

  I bit my lip and felt my face start to flush. I crossed the room and pulled a white t-shirt out of my drawer and folded it in half, then placed it carefully in my suitcase.

  “What is it?” Nessa asked. “Why do you have red cheeks and a quiet mouth?”

  “I don’t,” I said quickly, but it was too late.

  “Adriana O’Connor,” she said, jumping up from the bed. “You’re hiding something. And I don’t like it.”

  “I’m not hid –” I started, but then I realized Nessa had a bit of a point. There was a difference between trying to be coy, and staying safe. Someone should know exactly where I was and who I was with. “Okay,” I said, sitting down on the side of the bed. “It’s… I’m going with Callum Wilder.”

  Nessa frowned, confusion passing over her face for a moment before understanding dawned in her green eyes. “Callum Wilder? The billionaire Callum Wilder?” She shifted excitedly on the bed, threatening to send the topsy-turvy pile of clothes in my suitcase tumbling to the floor. “Are you serious? How the hell did you meet him?”

  “At the, um…. I met him the night my date stood me up.”

  “At the BDSM club?” I could hear the thin thread of disapproval laced through her voice.

  “No,” I said, the lie slipping out before I could stop it. “No, I went to another place after that, to console myself with a drink.”

  “Wow,” she said, her eyebrows furrowing into a skeptical V. “It must have been a pretty swanky place.”

  “It was,” I said, standing up and heading back to my dresser so Nessa wouldn’t be able to see my face.

  I began pawing through my underwear drawer just in case there was something I’d missed. It had been two days since my lunch with Callum, and I’d spent some of that time trying to do something about my lingerie collection. I didn’t have the money for the expensive things they sold at Bloomingdales and Nordstrom – La Perla and Rose & Fox and all kinds of other brands that sounded foreign and exotic. But the Frederick’s of Hollywood website seemed a little too trashy, so I’d compromised with a bra and panty set from Victoria’s Secret. That, along with the waxing I’d had at the salon down the street and a pretty maxi dress in a turquoise and cream print I’d purchased at a tiny boutique on the Upper West Side, had put a serious dent in my bank account.

  “So, what, he just came up to you and asked you for your number?” Nessa pressed.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Well, not at first. At first we just, you know, got to talking. And then when I was leaving he asked for my number.”

  “And your address?”

  I knew she was thinking about the flowers Callum had sent, trying to figure out how he’d known where to send them. “Um, well, my name. So he probably just googled me.”

  “Okay.” Nessa looked doubtful, and I didn’t blame her. It was pretty easy to figure out exactly what she was thinking – she was wondering why Callum would go through all that trouble to track down my address just to send me flowers, she was wondering why a gorgeous billionaire like Callum Wilder was interested in me at all.

  I wasn’t mad at her for thinking those things. How could I be? Everything she was thinking had gone through my head at least a million times over the past two days, only it was worse, because I actually knew the whole story. I hadn’t told Callum my last name or my phone number. He’d figured it all out himself, and I had no idea how.

  Not to mention the fact that I’d met him at a BDSM club, that he’d made it perfectly clear that his sexual appetite was whetted by punishing women and God knew what else, and that he’d told me he was only going to be with me for one night.

  “Well, when are you leaving?” Nessa asked.

  I checked my watch. “He’s sending a car for me at nine.”

  “He’s not picking you up himself?”

  “No,” I said, making sure my voice sounded firm, and not offering any other explanation. It was fine for Nessa to have her opinions, but I had to draw the line somewhere. There was nothing she could say to me that I hadn’t already thought of myself.

  “Well, have fun,” she said, giving me a smile. “Make sure you text me when you get there, though, okay? And like, give me updates?”

  “Of course.”

  She gave me a hug before skipping out of my room, leaving me to deal with zipping up my overfull suitcase. Why oh why hadn’t I thought to buy a new bathing suit? All I had was my orange and pink striped one piece I’d had since two years ago when I was a camp counselor. We weren’t going to be swimming were we? He’d said one night. And that he didn’t do dates.

  My cell phone rang, and when I answered it, a professional and polite sounding woman informed me that my car was waiting downstairs.

  I thanked her and swallowed around the lump in my throat.

  I paused for a second to think about whether or not I really wanted to do this. It was so out of character for me. I wasn’t a risk taker, or someone who was reckless with my heart. And this felt very reckless, not just with my heart, but with my body, my soul, everything.

  I considered it, turning it over and over in my head like A Rubik’s cube, examining it from every angle. But just like a Rubik’s cube, none of it made any sense.

  I waited one more beat, and when no answer came, I picked up my suitcase and headed outside to meet the car.

  ***

  I’d never taken a car service before, and I found I quite liked it. The woman driver was sweet and nice, just chatty enough to be friendly without fe
eling like she was being pushy or intruding.

  When she pulled off the FDR and headed for Jersey, I sat up straight.

  “Are we… are we flying out of LaGuardia?” I asked. All I’d gotten from Callum was a text message yesterday telling me that a car would be picking me up at nine am on Saturday morning to take me to the airport. There had been no other information given, and I’d just assumed we’d be leaving from JFK.

  “No, miss,” the woman said. “Teterboro.”

  “Teterboro?” I frowned, turning the unfamiliar name over in my mouth.

  “Yes, miss. Mr. Wilder is taking the jet.”

  Taking the jet! What the hell? I’d hardly ever even been on a plane before, my flying experience limited to a trip to Disney when I was eight and the flight that had taken me to New York from Michigan. And now I was going to be flying on a jet? Was it Callum’s?

  When we got to the airport, we were allowed to pull right onto the runway.

  My heart hammered in my chest as the plane came into view, a gleaming silver and white capsule. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how much a private jet cost.

  The door to the car opened, and I looked up, expecting to see the friendly face of the driver.

  But instead, Callum’s ocean blue eyes stared back at me. “Hello, Adriana,” he said coolly.

  “Hi,” I said, my pulse racing.

  He held his hand out and I took it as he helped me out of the car.

  A rush of wind blew up as I stepped out, blowing my hair across my face, the strands catching in my mouth. Callum reached up and pushed them back, and just the feel of his touch set me on fire.

  “Was the ride satisfactory?” he asked as he began leading me toward the steps of the plane, his hand still wrapped around mine.

  “Oh, um, yes,” I said. “The ride was great, it was…it was, fine, I mean, it was smooth.” I took a deep breath and tried to collect myself. “My bag, though,” I said. “It’s in the trunk.”

  “Samuel will take care of it,” Callum said.

  “Who’s Samuel?” I asked. We were almost at the stairs of the plane now, and Callum’s strides were long, his tall frame able to walk quickly while making it look like he was strolling. I was too short to match my strides to his, and I hurried to keep up.

  He turned to look at me.

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, just held my gaze, and a shot of adrenaline zinged through my body. He was just so freakin’ hot. He was freshly shaven, his dark hair perfectly styled with just the right amount of gel. His long legs were encased in a pair of jeans that hugged his ass and he was wearing a plain black t-shirt that wasn’t even tight and yet somehow still showed off just how rock hard his body was. His blue eyes blazed bright against his dark complexion, his jawline strong and defined.

  “Don’t be nervous, Adriana,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m not nervous.”

  “Don’t lie to me, either.”

  “I’m not!” I lied.

  He shook his head, like he was amused by my protests, then led me up the steps and into the jet.

  As soon as we got inside, I couldn’t play it cool anymore. This was a private jet, and it looked nothing like the cramped quarters of the commercial planes I was used to flying in, the kind of planes where you needed to worry about who was sitting next to you and if you were going to have enough room to move your legs.

  The inside of this plane looked like a media room of someone’s house. Someone’s very expensive media room in someone’s very expensive house. Huge cream-colored leather chairs were set up in two groups of four, each group gathered around a small work table. In the middle of the plane was a larger table, raised onto a platform. It was set for two with square white plates trimmed with a swirling gold design and sparking silverware. Were we going to be eating on the plane? I wasn’t sure I could eat in front of Callum. My stomach was too nervous. I wondered what kind of food they served on a private jet. Probably fancy things like arugula truffles and caviar omelets.

  There was a TV hanging on one wall, with CNBC on the main screen, along with smaller screens that seemed to be hooked up to someone’s laptop, showing different graphs scrolling up and down with red and green lines that appeared to be moving in random patterns.

  “Holy crap,” I breathed before I could stop myself.

  Callum gave me another amused smile.

  “This is insane,” I said, walking over to the table and running my hand over the gleaming wood. I thought of the scuffed up table back at my apartment and realized the table Callum had in his jet was nicer than the one I had there. Forget my apartment, this table was nicer than the one back at my mom’s house in Michigan.

  There was an ice bucket sitting in the middle of the table, filled with a deep blue glass bottle of what looked like champagne.

  But when Callum pulled it out of the ice and uncapped it, I realized it was sparkling water. Of course. I should have known. Water with lemon -- Callum’s drink of choice.

  He poured us each a glass of fizzing water, then reached into a tiny bowl filled with sliced lemons. He dropped one into his glass and then picked up another. He looked at me, his eyebrows questioning. I nodded slightly and he dropped the lemon into my water, a look of approval coming over his face.

  I felt myself flush with pleasure that I’d done something to please him.

  He raised his glass. “To an amazing weekend,” he said.

  “To an amazing weekend,” I said, clinking my glass against his.

  I took a sip, surprised to find that I was starting to like the sour taste of lemon. But from now on, I knew the scent would remind me of Callum, of kissing him, of what we’d done the other night at the club.

  My flush deepened.

  “I told you not to be nervous,” Callum said.

  “I’m not…” I started, but he cut me off.

  He cupped my chin in his hand and grazed my cheek with the pad of his thumb. “You’re blushing, Adriana” he said. “I can see it.”

  I couldn’t speak. I was paralyzed, so I just nodded.

  He took another step toward me, put his other hand on the other side of my face, then pushed even closer so that his chest was right against mine.

  “Hi,” he said, and grinned.

  “Hi,” I said, letting out the breath I was holding.

  “Relax,” he said, and then he leaned down and angled his mouth over mine and kissed me. He tasted familiar, and I felt myself instantly relax, my body melting into a puddle against his. I parted my lips slightly, wanting more, wanting him to take me with his tongue, but he pulled back. “Everything’s fine,” he said softly. “We’re not going to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, okay?”

  I nodded, my heart hammering in my chest.

  I felt hot, and I knew my face must have been beet red.

  His presence was unnerving me, making me so hot and bothered that I couldn’t even think straight. I needed a break.

  “Um, can I… where’s the restroom?” My blush seemed to deepen as I said the words, like it was embarrassing to be talking about going to the bathroom in front of him. “Over there,” he said, pointing to a door toward the back of the plane.

  “Thanks.” I headed for the bathroom, on the way passing another open door, which led to an alcove that had a bed in it. A bed! Callum had a bed on his plane! Was he that horny? He couldn’t even go on a two-hour flight without having sex? Of course not, I told myself. First of all, people slept on planes all the time. And someone like Callum probably took tons of international flights, flights that took hours and sometimes even days. Of course he would want to be comfortable.

  Still.

  It was naïve of me to think I was the first woman he’d brought on this plane, and even more naïve to think that Callum hadn’t used that bed for something other than sleeping. I pictured a gorgeous woman, someone exotic looking with all kinds of curly dark hair and perfect tan skin, imagined her being tied to that bed, her head flung back in ecstasy.

 
Stop, I told myself as I splashed water on my face. I’d been right – my cheeks were rosy red, the color deepening high on my cheeks. I took a couple of breaths and splashed more water on my face, drying my skin with a luxurious hand towel that was sitting next to sink, its fabric monogrammed with Callum’s initials.

  My phone began ringing in my bag, and I lunged for it, a conditioned response ever since I’d been filling out all those applications and sending out all those resumes. I didn’t know why I always got so excited when my phone rang – so far I hadn’t gotten one call back. But it only took one, I reminded myself. Just one person to call me and get me in the door.

  I crossed my fingers for an unfamiliar 212 number to be flashing on my caller ID. But it wasn’t someone calling from a publishing house. It was my mother.

  I hesitated.

  The last thing I wanted to do was talk to my mother while I was on Callum Wilder’s private jet, about to be whisked away for a sex-filled weekend romp. But experience told me that if I didn’t answer, my mom would just keep calling back until I did. And if I still didn’t answer, she might call Nessa to find out where I was.

  Nessa! Oh, God. I’d forgotten to tell her not to tell my mom where I was. Not that she would, I didn’t think, but…

  I answered the call.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said cheerily.

  “Hi, Carrie!” my mom said. My mom insisted on calling me Carrie after Carrie Bradshaw, even though I specifically told her that reference was very outdated, and that I was nothing like Carrie Bradshaw.

  “What’s up, Mom?” I said. “I can’t talk long, I’m, um… I’m getting ready to… I’m at a coffee shop filling out resumes.”

  “Oh, how fancy,” my mother said. “I just wanted to call and say hi, let you know I’m thinking of you. Did you get a chance to read that article I sent you?”

  “What article?” My mother talked a mile a minute and also had a strong southern accent. Even though she lived in Michigan, she’d been born in North Carolina, and when she got excited about something, her accent came through, hard and strong, sometimes making it hard to understand her.