The Billionaire's Touch (BDSM Erotic Romance) (His Submissive, Part Two)

by Ava Claire

  The Billionaire's Touch (His Submissive, Part Two)

  Ava Claire

  Copyright 2012 Ava Claire

  Be sure to check out Part One in the His Submissive Series, The Billionaire’s Contract.

  ****

  “You deserve this,” I told myself quietly as I pulled the slinky number over my sweaty skin. I didn’t sound too convincing, so I tried again. “You deserve this.”

  I smoothed the front of the last dress, the chiffon tight in the bodice and the hips until it flared out at the hem. The color reminded me of red wine and when I spun, it swished around my knees.

  Each dress I’d stepped into over the last hour was more beautiful than the one before and every one fit me like sin. But the excitement of wearing dresses I’d only seen in magazines paled in comparison to how I felt when I displayed them for Jacob’s approval. His deep blue eyes drank me up, inch by inch, and in his long stares, I saw myself. I felt beautiful. Desired. I was his.

  We’d shut down Le Magnifique on Fifth street because Jacob Whitmore, the billionaire at the helm of Whitmore and Creighton PR agency, couldn't shop among mere mortals and before we headed to Venice for the film festival, I had to have a new wardrobe.

  I'd stolen glances at the price tags so I knew the tally, but I still couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe there were people out there that could spend hundreds of dollars on a bolt of fabric and I definitely couldn't believe that I had an allowance for such things now. All because I’d tripped in my stupid shoes.

  I brought my chocolate curls off my neck, biting my lip as I remembered the fear bubbling in my gut as he marched me down the stairwell after our run in. Who knew that the guy I’d lusted after since I decided to study public relations was not only tenacious when it came to business but also when it came to needs of the flesh?

  I rocked slowly from side to side to the classical music humming from the overhead speakers, letting the memory of his hands do their work. This dress wasn’t meant for board meetings, after all. It was made to set fire to the dance floor. Jacob would own the moves as we spun and every twirl, dip, and heated gaze would tell me all the ways he would make love to me when we were alone.

  Jesus. Make love?

  I dropped my hair and gave the wide eyed girl staring back at me a stern look. I had to stop thinking like that. It was clear that ‘love’ had nothing to do with our arrangement. I agreed to be his submissive. To submit to him sexually. And hell, two hours ago I could barely do that.

  I heard his deep voice filtering through the door and the area between my thighs immediately came alive. Instead of focusing on the fact that I was being given a prime opportunity to take the fast track as far as my career was concerned, I couldn’t think about anything except the things I wanted him to do to my body when he was near.

  I kept kicking myself for dragging my feet in his office earlier when I saw that look in his eyes. That look said he wanted to fuck me until I couldn’t even walk straight. To possess me. Now I was just biding my time until I got another chance to say yes.

  Snap out of it, I admonished myself. He’s just a guy. A rich, incredibly attractive guy with a sexual appetite that intrigues you, but in the end, he’s just a guy. But there was no explaining away the number he’d done on me. He had me off kilter. Off balance. And I had a feeling that I had to be on my A game with Jacob Whitmore.

  “Miss Montgomery?” The haughty voice of the attendant assisting me, Skye, brought me from the ramblings in my head back to the mirror.

  “Yes?” I said, not even bothering to hide my wariness.

  “Do you need any help? Zipping something up, clipping something together if it’s the wrong size?”

  I rolled my eyes at the last bit before I did a twirl, the dress more beautiful in motion. She wasn’t going to ruin this moment for me--not this dress. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Naturally, she took it as a ‘come on in’ and burst into the dressing room.

  "Just making sure everything fits-” The word hung in the air as the door clicked shut behind her and her heavily mascaraed eyes popped from her head. “-Perfectly."

  Skye had been making backhanded comments about my figure all day, going on and on about how I filled out every inch. She was the kind of woman that looked at anyone who wasn’t a size 0 like they had a predisposition toward laziness.

  She'd also been making googly eyes at Jacob since we’d walked into the door. It made me angrier than I liked to admit, but I took a measure of comfort in the fact that he seemed completely uninterested. Instead of taking the hint, she just bat her eyelashes even harder. It was obvious she wasn’t convinced of the spell he was under.

  Well, I thought deliciously as I stood a little taller, until now.

  She cleared her throat and did a slow circuit around me. She was probably looking for some love handle or thread pulled too tight. "The dress is positively lovely on you, Miss Montgomery!"

  I smiled at the compliment that wasn’t really one, choosing to ignore the utter shock she'd bundled it in. "It's definitely my favorite."

  "And rightfully so," she said with a nod. She stepped up behind me, her eyes burning into mine. "How long did you say you've been working for Mr. Whitmore?"

  "I didn't," I replied cryptically.

  “Oh.” She glanced away, nothing cryptic in the way her face scrunched in concern. “I see.”

  I turned to face her, getting the feeling that she had something on her chest. "Not that it’s really any of your business, but I was promoted a few hours ago."

  "And you're already getting the VIP treatment?" The smile on her lips didn't get near her olive eyes. "You must be something special."

  It was obvious that she meant another word that started with an 's'. Before I could open my mouth to respond, she dropped her volume to a low, confidential level. "If you want a piece of advice, enjoy the perks while they last."

  My nostrils flared as I crossed my arms against my chest, suddenly feeling bare and exposed in spite of my pricey frock. "I don't remember asking for anything from you."

  She held her hands up, feigning innocence. "I'm just trying to help, sweetie. I thought you'd want to know that Mr. Whitmore's assistants don't have a very long shelf life and to stuff your swag bag while you can."

  Now, I'm a simple girl who generally has a 'make love, not war' view as far as violence goes. I've only been in one fight my whole life and it lasted all of ten seconds when I bitch slapped Mindy Kennedy for ripping the head off my Barbie in the second grade. But this woman had me imagining all the ways I could wipe the smug satisfaction right off her face.

  "Get. Out." The words came from behind clenched teeth which I thought should have been a dead giveaway that she was approaching the danger zone. Infuriatingly enough, she just stood there, like she didn’t understand English.

  "Is there a problem, Miss Montgomery?"

  "I said, GET OUT!"

  With an hmph, she finally got the message and turned to exit--but not before Jacob threw open the dressing room door. I was clothed, but my arms still wrapped around the front of my body instinctively. Sleek and composed, only his eyes moved, narrowing in displeasure.

  "What the hell is going on in here?" He looked back and forth between us like a parent scolding naughty children.

  Neither of us said a word.

  “I said, what is going on in here?”

  What could I say without sounding juvenile? That I’d fallen for her ploy to get a rise out of me? That I was screaming like someone with no class because she hurt my feelings? I felt the anger seeping fro
m me like air from a balloon and hung my head.

  When Skye stepped forward, I expected her to throw me under the bus, but instead, she tried to smooth everything over. "Just a small misunderstanding, Mr. Whitmore." She gave me a smile that said, ‘play along’. "Maybe we should give Miss Montgomery some time to-"

  "That'll be all," he snapped, dismissing her without another look. He turned to the side and allowed her to leave before shutting the door and turning his ire back on me.

  "What was this misunderstanding about, Leila?"

  "N-Nothing," I mumbled, still not looking him in the eye.

  He snapped his fingers. "When I talk to you I expect you to look at me. I will have your respect."

  I raised my chin, shooting daggers his way. "Respect? Like you snapping at me like a dog just now? Or how about your revolving door policy?"

  His jaw tightened. "Excuse me?"

  "Skye told me how you change your personal assistants like underwear. I better enjoy all of this before you throw me out like trash, right?"

  His cerulean eyes flashed with something that looked a lot like hurt before they hardened to sea glass. He blazed forward and I gasped as he backed me against the wall, essentially pinning me in place.

  I wanted to say something smart, but my brain couldn’t work with him so close to me. The heat of indignation melted and arousal quickly took its place.

  His tone was harsh but I felt his lust thump from behind its Armani prison. "I don't appreciate being talked to as if I were the one in your employ."

  Staring at him, feeling these powerful, damnable feelings made me want to drop to my knees and submit wholly to him, but the bullheaded part of me wouldn’t let me back down.

  "W-Well, I don't appreciate being treated like being in your employ is tantamount to prostitution.”

  The side of his mouth crept upward. "Prostitution? I never called you a prostitute, Leila."

  "So all of this-” I attempted to move my hand and make a grand gesture, but his hands found my wrists and held them firmly at my side. “-almost two thousand dollars in clothing isn't because I signed your little contract and agreed to be your submissive?"

  Turned on or not, I could tell I was starting to grate on his nerves as he let out an impatient sigh. "All of this is because the woman beside me shouldn't look like something out of the bargain bin."

  "The bargain bin?" I said incredulously, my voice rising. "Just who do you think you’re-"

  "Lower your voice," he said coolly.

  “You think just because I signed some document you own me? That you can just...” My words trailed off as he released my wrists and moved his hand to my hip, finding the zipper and quickly pulling it downward. I wasn't sure what was worse--that he obviously felt entitled to my body, or that I was thoroughly turned on by it.

  It really didn't matter in the end because the feel of his hand on me turned all brain functioning off. There was only the desire that made my breath come in gasps as his fingers spread out inside the front of my underwear. His hands were right against the lips of me and I could've exploded on the spot.

  Ohmygod he's gonna finger me right here. Right in the dressing room.

  Gone was the girl who let her head do the thinking...I just listened to the words of my body. And it was screaming for him.

  "Don’t stop," I whispered.

  I arched into his touch as I felt him skate toward my center. He made a V with his fingers, spreading me wide. He leaned in close, his eyes tearing into me. His lips traced my jawline, soft as a whisper, stopping at my ear.

  "Tread very carefully, Miss Montgomery."

  He removed his hand, leaving me hot and bothered. Without another word, he strode from the room. I gazed at the door, letting his warning sink in.

  I was pretty sure there was a silent ‘Or else’ tacked to the end.

  Or else you really will end up thrown out with the trash.

  ****

  I clutched my overnight bag to my chest as the driver eased onto the exit ramp for the airport. Just the sound of the airplanes whooshing overhead was enough to make me tremble.

  I hated flying. The long lines, the unnecessary gropeage by the security officers, the overpriced food both on and off the plane, and most of all, the seats that forced you to get to know your neighbor whether you wanted to or not. It just seemed like every flying experience in recent memory involved dishing out cash to be made uncomfortable.

  Not that this one was being charged to my credit card. All my expenses were being paid for by Whitmore and Creighton. I should have taken a small bit of relief from that, but the bright terminal signs that hung overhead still made me queasy.

  I pushed my shades from the tip of my nose to the bridge and took a swig of the Perrier beside me. If you can agree to being one of the hottest men on the planet's sub, you can do this.

  "You can do this," I said aloud. "You can do..." My self-affirming confirmation trailed off as I peeked out the window and saw we weren't pulled to the bustling curb of a terminal or some parking deck, but a small parking lot in front of a non-descript building.

  The driver killed the engine, pulled out the keys, and stepped out of the car.

  I frowned up at him with confusion as he pulled open my door. "What-where are we?"

  My question bounced right off him and as dreamlike as recent occurrences were, there was no mistaking the final three words that came out of his mouth: Private aviation terminal.

  “Private aviation terminal?” I clutched my bag tighter. "As in private jet?"

  He cleared his throat. "Yes ma'am. Now, if you'd allow me to attend to your luggage..."

  I let him take my carry-on, threads and seams supporting the fact that it'd seen better days, from my lap and out into the sunshine. I slid out after it, still in a daze. Private jet. I assumed that Jacob would travel in style, but I was just hoping for a first class ticket.

  I wordlessly walked behind him. No, walking wasn’t right. It was more like gliding. I floated through the sliding door and wasn’t bombarded with a cesspool of noise and bustle since there were only a handful of people inside the lobby. A smiling attendant greeted us that seemed far too congenial to work at an airport. Instead of standing in a security line that crawled, having to remove my shoes and getting molested by some woman who wasn’t any happier about it than I was, I flew right through security.

  The driver handed over my bag and I took it gingerly, realizing that I had no cash to tip him. That’s what rich people did, right?

  “Mr. Whitmore has taken care of everything, Miss Montgomery,” he said, reading my mind. “Have a safe flight.”

  I pulled up the bar on my bag and drug it along as I took in the quiet surroundings. There was no strip mall feel here, no walking past endless gates and scouring the place for monitors with flight updates. No bobbing and weaving around people willing to take you down to make their flight.

  I sunk into a leather seat tucked near sliding doors that led to the jets and ruffled in my bag for my itinerary. I scrolled the check-in information along with finding and boarding the plane.

  I still couldn’t believe that Jacob Whitmore thought I was worth the trouble. Not that any of this came free of conditions. They burned in the blue fire of his eyes when he cornered me in the dressing room. Obey. And keep my lips zipped. I wasn't particularly good at either. But with his body against mine, his hands staking claim to me, damn it if I wasn't putty in his hands. Even though I found his type A antics infuriating, everything I learned in feminism 101 went out the window as soon as he touched me.

  "Miss Montgomery?"

  I glanced up in surprise, taking in the woman standing in front of me. She was dressed in a navy blue suit with silver buttons that glimmered like gun metal. Fiery red coils sprung from a doll like face, the one thing that seemed to revolt against her otherwise tailored appearance. I felt an instant connection to her, like we were long lost sisters of the Girls Whose Hair Won't Do Right club.

  "My name is Maggie
Hall. I’ll be servicing your jet today," she said smoothly, extending a pale hand.

  I shook it gingerly and rose to my feet. "Oh! Thanks for servicing me.” Yikes. That came out creepy. “I mean...for attending me...or, uh, the plane.”

  I was grateful when she smiled instead of looking at me like I was an idiot. “Your first time traveling in a private jet?”

  “That obvious?” I said with a nervous chuckle.

  “You’ll be fine,” she said supportively. “Oh! I was given this by Mr. Whitmore...” She reached into her purse and handed me a slender white envelope. "You are to follow the instructions prior to boarding the jet."

  I frowned. "Excuse me?"

  "Mr. Whitmore requests that you read this and follow the instructions before you board." Before I could open my mouth to protest, she held up a hand in defense. "I'm just the messenger."

  I slowly took the envelope and watched as she moved to the exit, sending a wave of heat whooshing into the waiting area when the doors slid open, then closed.

  Sweat exploded at my temple and found company with the bitter taste in my mouth. Follow the instructions before boarding? I had a feeling that ‘Remove all traces of your poor-ness’ was scribbled on the paper. Couldn't contaminate his precious jet, now could I?

  I broke the seal on the envelope and pulled out a crisp piece of paper. "Remove your-" I read the last bit silently, shock moving across my body like wildfire. I had to read it twice and the words still punched all the air from my lungs.

  In brisk curves and fierce lines, his requirements were simple: Remove your bra and panties prior to boarding.

  Remove my underwear? I thought incredulously. Hell no!

  He'd told me to wear the colorblock dress for the flight and I was already breaking into hives thinking about how close I'd been to revolting and wearing the sheer black dress because of the heat.

  “Absolutely not,” I said to myself, my voice hoarse. “I won’t do it.” Who cared if I signed a contract, agreeing to submit myself to his will? Rough, kinky sex, was one thing, but no underwear? Didn’t he know that I wasn’t some A cup waif that could go topless without flopping about?