The Big, Bad Billionaire

by Ashenden, Jackie

  “Hmmm,” he murmured, looking down into her delicate face. “It wasn’t much of a preview, I have to say.”

  “It’s all you’re getting.” She raised one pale brow. “So, what’s it to be? A kiss in return for Paris? Or nothing? Because if you don’t agree, that’s exactly what you’re going to get.”

  Not so much of a bunny girl now, was she? No, she had the upper hand, using what he wanted against him, and Christ . . . all he could do was admire her for it.

  “I could take it anyway,” he warned. “I don’t have to wait until you give it to me.”

  “Yes, you do, and you know it.” Her gray gaze was disturbingly sharp as she studied him. “Because taking it is not what you want, is it?”

  No, of course it wasn’t. Little minx.

  Adrenaline flooded through him, increasing his heart rate and making his cock get hard. This was exciting, he couldn’t deny it. She was giving him the fight he’d wanted right from the moment she’d gotten into his limo.

  “No,” he agreed not taking his eyes off her. “That’s not what I want.”

  She stood there in her white tutu, so pale and golden, with the red cloak over her shoulders bringing out the color in her lips and cheeks, and as he watched, a hint of satisfaction curved her mouth.

  As if she’d won.

  It made him want to smile too. She thought this was a victory, but she hadn’t given him her kiss yet. And he had a feeling that would change everything.

  He almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

  “Do I have your word then?” She lifted her chin, full of defiance and the sense of her own power. It was glorious. “That if I give you this kiss, you’ll pay all my expenses for the summer intensive?”

  He could lie. He could go back on his word. He was, after all, not a good man and hell, he’d done it before in business and no doubt he’d do it again.

  But this . . . this was different. This concerned Ella. And he knew he simply couldn’t give her his word only to break it. He didn’t know how he knew that, he just did.

  So he said, “Yes, I’ll pay them. You have my word.”

  She blinked, as if she hadn’t been expecting him to give in, which satisfied him a bit more than it should have. “Oh, okay. Good.” Her voice sounded calm, but a hint of uncertainty rippled over her features. “You want this kiss now then?”

  Oh no, don’t say she was going to fall at the last hurdle. That would be terribly disappointing after all the concessions she’d won from him.

  “Yes, now.” He held her gaze, challenging her. “And you’d better make it worth my while.”

  Like he’d hoped, the words banished her uncertainty. She lifted her chin and rose up onto the tips of her red satin ballet shoes, her hands coming to rest lightly on his chest for balance, lifting her mouth in preparation once more.

  But this wasn’t going to happen the way she thought it would, not today.

  If she wanted the fight, he’d bring it.

  Before she could move, he took her narrow, delicate hands in his and slowly brought them down to her sides. Then he eased them behind her and crossed her wrists, pinning them in the small of her back with one hand, while he cupped her jaw with the other

  Her eyes widened, her muscles tensing. “What are you doing?”

  He said nothing, glancing instead in the mirror behind her. He liked the picture they made, with him looming over her while she was held on her toes in front of him, her wrists secured behind her. Unable to move.

  No one would mistake that he was the one in control of this now, not her.

  His cock got even harder at the sight, fantasies unreeling in his head, of him spinning her around and pushing her down over the vanity, shoving into her from behind, making her watch as he fucked her hard. Making her watch herself come so that she was in no doubt as to how much she liked it when he touched her.

  Patience. This is a kiss, nothing more.

  A kiss. For Paris.

  In the mirror he could see himself smile, and it was savage. If he was only going to settle for a kiss, he was going to make sure it was one they both would never forget.

  “Rafael,” she said hoarsely, her wrists straining against his hold. “You said it was—”

  He didn’t wait for her to finish, covering her mouth with his, gripping her jaw in his hand so she couldn’t pull away. And the taste of her exploded in his head like a bomb going off.

  Strawberries and champagne. Long, hot summer days. Sweetness and heat, everything delicious. So fucking delicious he almost couldn’t stand it.

  He’d meant to show her that he was the one in control of this, not her, and yet he found his thinking processes were starting to disintegrate, hunger flaring like a torch inside him and burning everything else away.

  She made a soft sound in the back of her throat and he felt her lean into him, her head tipping back, letting him kiss her deeper. And he took full advantage, sliding his tongue into her mouth and taking everything. Everything she wanted to give him and more.

  His fingers around her wrists tightened and he pressed her forward, arching her lithe body into his, feeling her tremble as he did so. Christ, he loved that, loved how all the tension had begun to melt out of her. Out of her arms and out of her jaw, as if she’d already surrendered herself to him.

  He kissed her deeper, harder, relishing the slick glide of his tongue against hers and the hot taste of her. She’d made another sound, like a whimper, and he couldn’t resist taking his hand from her jaw and sliding his fingers down her neck to her throat. Her costume left her shoulders bare and he took full advantage of that too, stroking across the delicate dips and hollows of her collarbones, feeling the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips.

  She shivered in his grip again, pulling against his imprisoning hands, but he didn’t let her go. Instead he kissed her even harder, ravaging her mouth, devouring her, because he was giving up his leverage for this, which meant he was going to take anything and everything.

  He shifted his hold on her and flexed his hips, crushing the tulle of her tutu between them and pushing the hard ridge of his cock against the soft heat between her thighs.

  She gasped, shuddering in response, shifting on the tips of her toes as if she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to get closer or move away, and he felt his hold on reality begin to fade, hunger taking over.

  Now, he wanted her now. Fuck waiting. Fuck patience.

  He curled his fingers into the neckline of her bodice, pulling it down and off one shoulder before sliding his hand inside, cupping the softness of one small, round breast.

  She jerked in his grip, making another sound, and then her back arched even more as she pressed herself into his hand.

  Christ, yes. If he didn’t break the kiss, then she couldn’t claim he’d overstepped the mark, which meant that if he kept kissing her, he could keep touching her. Maybe he could even lift her onto the vanity, spread her legs and get inside her.

  A kiss, you fucking idiot. Don’t take everything all at once.

  But it was so very difficult to remember that when her silky, soft skin filled his palm and she gasped and trembled whenever he rubbed a thumb over the hard point of her nipple. Teasing her, pinching her.

  She swayed on the points of her shoes, her slight weight coming to rest against him, her mouth open and hot under his. He could smell the faint, intoxicating scent of feminine arousal, making him want to snarl against her skin, bite her.

  You wanted her to give it to you.

  Yes, he did.

  Gripping her hard, he lifted his mouth from hers a couple of millimeters. “More,” he growled in a voice that didn’t sound like his. “Give me more.”

  She was shaking, her breath coming in ragged bursts. Her body was arched up into his, the heat of her pressed against him, tantalizing him, taunting him. The softness of her breast filled his palm and he couldn’t think, couldn’t get enough air. He needed her. He had to have her.

  Without consciously hav
ing made a decision, he crushed her mouth under his again, desperation winding tight inside him. Then he shoved the chair out of his way with one foot before walking her backward until her spine was pressed up against the vanity, bending her back, devouring her utterly.

  She made a frantic sound, her hands straining against his grip, then suddenly her teeth closed on his bottom lip. Hard.

  The hurt was slight, but years of conditioning to pain cleared his head enough that he jerked back, staring down at her in shock.

  Her cheeks were deeply flushed, her gray eyes dark, her chest heaving. The flush had crept down her neck and over her shoulders too, in stark contrast to the white of her costume. She didn’t look distressed only . . . pissed. “I said a kiss, Rafael,” she said, the words thick and hoarse. “One kiss.”

  She was going to deny him, wasn’t she? She wasn’t going to give him what he wanted after all.

  Christ, he couldn’t bear it. How could he? He’d waited so long and she definitely wasn’t scared now, he could see it in her eyes. She looked defiant.

  So sexy. So fucking sexy. And he was so sick of waiting.

  “Paris is expensive.” His voice was as cracked and broken as the pavements outside the theater. “I want more than a kiss.” And because he was a predator through and through, he pinched her nipple, watching the expression of agonized desire that crossed her face in response.

  But she was so strong. She was stronger than he was.

  She shook her head. “I’m not having s-sex with you in here.”

  “What about elsewhere?”

  “Rafael . . .”

  He wanted to laugh, play with her, tell her that he didn’t want sex either and he wasn’t talking about that, but somehow he couldn’t find his usual mockery. It was gone. All he had left was honesty.

  If you beg her, you will have lost every advantage you had.

  Oh Jesus. Was he really at that point? Had he really fallen so far?

  “Always keep yourself hidden,” his grandfather used to tell him. “Never let them see who you really are.” And he’d followed the advice to the letter. But, fuck, he was perilously close to revealing himself now.

  He needed pain, that’s what he had to have to stay in control. But he couldn’t do that, not here, not with her. Perhaps there was something else he could do? Something that involved focusing his attention on her and not about the intense desire that had him in its grip. Something meticulous, that needed restraint and care.

  “Let me undress you,” he said raggedly, staring down into her eyes, the gray as dark as thunderstorms. “I promise I won’t do anything but touch you.” All the little fastenings on her costume . . . He’d have to be careful not to tear the fabric. Very, very careful.

  She blinked, her breathing still fast and hard. “U-Undress me? Why?”

  “Because Paris is fucking expensive and I want something else.” It came out as a growl, but he was in no position to make it sound any less demanding. “I need to touch you, Ella. Just . . . let me.” He couldn’t bring himself to say “please.” That would be tantamount to begging, and he couldn’t do that.

  She squirmed in his hold, the movements she made brushing against his aching groin, and he nearly bent his head and closed his teeth around her neck. “Ella.” He couldn’t hide the note of desperation. “Stop.”

  And she clearly heard it because she went still, staring at up at him, a crease between her brows. He didn’t like the way she was looking at him because it felt too sharp, as if she was seeing something he didn’t want her to. But he didn’t let her go and he didn’t move away. He wasn’t quite strong enough for that.

  There was a long moment of silence, the look in her eyes almost unbearable. Then, unexpectedly, she said, “Okay. I’ll let you undress me.”

  * * *

  Ella couldn’t stop shaking. Her lips felt swollen and bruised, her skin too hot and far, far too tight. Her legs were trembling with the strain of keeping herself up on her toes, with the need to press herself against the hard length of his body. She could feel all the densely packed muscle and tightly leashed power beneath the civilized veneer of his suit and there was a part of her that wanted to get rid of that veneer. That wanted to strip it away entirely and lay bare the hungry wolf beneath it.

  But she wasn’t ready for that and she knew it. This was all too new, this feeling inside her too raw. She’d thought a kiss would be fine, that she could deal with it, but the moment he’d pinned her wrists behind her back and taken her mouth like he owned it, she understood that there would be nothing “fine” about a kiss.

  It had ravaged her, destroyed her. Made her realize how unprepared she was for a man like him and for all the feelings that had overwhelmed her the second he touched her. Everything felt over-sensitized, every single nerve ending, and she had no idea where she’d gotten the courage to bite him the way she had, only that it had to stop, to give her time to breathe.

  The lines of his face were drawn tight, the blue of his eyes deep and dark. He didn’t look like the mocking, taunting man who’d come into her dressing room and started trying to bargain with her. He looked like a man on the edge of a cliff and who was desperate not to fall off.

  And you were the one who led him there.

  The thought crossed her mind, bright and fleeting, but only for a moment because then the punishing grip on her wrists released and his hands were on her hips, lifting her as effortlessly as one of her male dance partners and depositing her on the makeup chair he’d kicked aside earlier.

  She still didn’t quite understand why she’d agreed to let him undress her, because she’d told him a kiss was all she’d been prepared to give. But the way he’d looked at her, like he was starving, and the note of harsh desperation in his voice as he’d demanded more had rocked her. Had made her feel as if the balance of power between them had somehow changed, and not in his favor.

  It was probably a mistake. No, she knew it was a mistake. But how bad could it be? She’d gotten used to stripping in a room full of people as a dancer, to seeing her body as a well-oiled machine, a collection of muscle and bone that, when controlled correctly, allowed her the freedom to express herself. There was nothing sexual in it, not even when she was pretending to be in love while she was in character.

  This was different though. She would be naked in front of a man who wanted to look at her, possibly touch her. Even then though, it wouldn’t have been a problem. Not when the real issue was that she had no idea how she was going to react to him when he did either of those things.

  Do you really not know?

  Ella leaned back in the chair and put her hands on the arms, trying not to think about that.

  You know exactly how you’re going to react. And that’s the scary part, isn’t it? That he’ll know how badly you want him to touch you.

  She swallowed, shoving the thought away. Her calf muscles ached and, even though she was sitting down, she was shaking like a leaf.

  Rafael dropped to his knees in front of her and one large, warm hand closed around her foot. She tensed as he gently guided it to rest on his hard thigh, then he leaned forward and began to undo the ties of her ballet shoes.

  She stiffened, the sensation of his fingers brushing against her stockinged calves almost too much for her. He didn’t look at her, keeping his attention on what he was doing, his movements measured and calm, which somehow made it worse.

  Trying to slow her breathing, she watched him pull at the silk ribbons and slowly unwind them from around her calves. Oh God, if he took her shoes off, he’d see her messy dancer feet—all blistered toes and blackened nails from hours of staying en pointe.

  She shifted restlessly in the chair, wanting to pull away, but his strong fingers circled her ankle, preventing her. Then he slowly drew off her ballet shoe, letting it fall to the floor before moving to repeat the process with her other foot.

  “Why do you want to do this?” she asked. Then, hearing the unsteadiness in her voice, she wished she hadn�
��t.

  “Don’t talk.” The words were soft but an order nonetheless. “Stay quiet.”

  She wanted to ask him why, then decided that maybe being quiet wasn’t such a bad idea after all, especially when she didn’t think she’d be able to trust herself not to sound like a nervous wreck.

  He drew her second shoe off and, before she had a chance even to draw a breath, he slid his hands up the backs of her calves and behind her knees, up her thighs, and beneath her tutu to the waistband of her tights.

  All the breath escaped her and she shivered helplessly as his fingers curled into the nylon then began slowly tugging it down. Automatically she lifted her butt so he could pull her tights down around her thighs and down further still. His fingers brushed over her bare skin, and she had to bite her lip hard to stop the gasp of response that escaped her.

  He knew though—she could see in the way his jaw hardened, in the muscle that jumped in the side of it.

  She swallowed as he drew her tights off her and then inhaled sharply as he took one bare foot in his hand, his palm hot against her instep, his fingers pressing lightly across the bridge of her foot. Then he spread his fingers out, stroking her foot, massaging it gently and she couldn’t quite stifle the soft groan of relief that escaped her. Her muscles were so tight and his touch felt . . . Oh God. So good.

  He moved higher, his wonderful, clever fingers finding the tight, hard knots in her calves and pressing down firmly, encouraging her exhausted, aching muscles to relax. She found herself relaxing too, forgetting her fear and her uncertainty. Forgetting everything but sheer physical relief as he coaxed the tension out of her legs.

  “You work very hard,” he murmured. “Do you ever let yourself rest?”

  Somehow her lashes had fallen closed, and she kept them like that, too tired to open them again. “Dance is my life. I can’t afford to rest.”

  “That’s some dedication.”

  “I love it. It’s that simple.”

  “What do you love about it?”

  It was such an innocuous question and she couldn’t help but answer. “Losing myself in the music. It’s a challenge too, plus it makes me feel . . . free, I guess.”