by Cynthia Sax
“Was this my decision?” I muse. “Did I have a choice?” Or was this inevitable, our fate, our destiny?
“No, you didn’t have a choice.” Logan’s lips lift into one of his rare smiles. “Dance with me.” This is a command, not a request. He leads me onto the floor. “It’s expected.” He swings me into position, his maneuvering graceful and sure.
It is expected. In the past, he has arrived at events, sought me out for a dance, and then departed immediately after our exchange.
His focus on me means nothing. If I say this statement enough times, I might believe it. I bend my left arm, layering my limb over his. Logan clasps my right hand tightly. Our bodies come together and we move as one.
This isn’t the rigid proper waltz I learned at ballroom dance class. It is rolling and sensuous, like the undulation of muscle under skin. One, two, three. One, two, three. There’s no thinking, no talking, only feeling, reacting. Logan steps forward. I step back. He turns. I follow.
Our hips brush together, my skirt swirling around his black pants. I gaze at his sharp chin, firm lips, feeling delicate, womanly, trusting him to guide me, to keep me safe.
Logan dips me and I fall back, confident he’ll catch me. “You’re exquisite.” His eyes gleam and he draws me upright, twirls me across the floor. If dancing is a sign of companionship, we’re ideally suited. I’ve never had a partner know me like he does, reading my abilities, fulfilling my wishes.
The music fades and he sweeps me toward the edge of the dance floor. Before the song ends, he’s concealed us in the crowd. “Escort me from the room.” He covers my hand with his. “As you’ve been instructed.”
My gaze darts upward. How does he know I’ve been given that order? “I can’t climb into the limousine with you,” I murmur, aware that we’re being watched. “People will gossip.”
“People already gossip.” Logan leans into me. “They see how we dance, speculate that we fuck as passionately.” His crudeness stimulates, rather than shocks me. “They suspect your sweet pussy is filled with my cum, that my love bites decorate the curve of your ass and my scent is on your skin,” he breathes into my hair and I warm, all over. “Everyone here knows you’re mine.”
I stare at him, my thoughts obliterated by his words.
“Looking at me with your fuck-me face won’t stop the gossip.” He chuckles softly and I blush. “No one will see you enter my limousine.” Logan steers me across the crowded ballroom, his stride shortened to match mine, his hold on me steady. “We’ll leave through the gardens.”
“Someone will follow us,” I express my worry, unaccustomed to giving another person control.
“No, someone won’t. I’ve taken precautions.” His certainty eases some of my concerns. “People will speculate, they already are, but no one will know.”
Speculation has been dogging me since birth. Heads turn and people whisper as we pass them. This isn’t a new phenomenon. I’m always being observed.
Except tonight, the murmurs aren’t as loud. The disdainful looks aren’t as direct. I glance up at Logan, knowing he’s the cause. The billionaire investor scares the shit out of everyone, and, by being with him, I’m protected. I’m no longer alone.
Logan opens the balcony door and we step onto the terrace, the structure overlooking the gardens. The cool night breeze sweeps over my flushed cheeks, a thousand ghostly fingers stroking my bare skin, fluttering my knee-length skirt.
I shiver.
“You’re cold.” He shrugs out of his jacket, his shirt stark white against the darkness, and he drapes the garment over my shoulders.
I draw the tuxedo jacket closer to me, savoring his body heat, his cologne, a mixture of spice, musk, and him, clinging to the fabric. “Thank you, Mr. Ross.” Wearing his clothing feels decadently intimate, the act arousing me.
“Thank you, Logan.” His tone is stern. “When we’re alone, you’ll call me by my first name. When we’re in a scene, you’ll address me as sir.”
He knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to demand it. My body hums with appreciation. I can please a man like him. “How will I know when we’re in a scene?” The BDSM websites he directed me to never explained that detail.
“You’ll know.” Logan grazes his fingertips over my cheeks, his touch agonizingly gentle. “It’s like dancing. I’ll lead and you’ll follow.” He traces my lips, I open to him, thirsting to taste him, and he smiles. “Your body already knows what I want.” He pulls his fingers away from my mouth, the loss of his caresses reverberating throughout my body, amplifying my loneliness. “It accepts that you’re mine.”
“I’m yours.” I am breathless with need. “For tonight.”
“Tonight is merely one more step in our relationship.” He opens the tuxedo jacket and brazenly brushes his knuckles over my taut nipples. I shudder, his touch felt through the thin fabric, and his dark eyes sparkle. “We’ll both want more.”
Chapter Two
A woman laughs loudly. This sound pierces my erotic haze, drawing my attention to my surroundings, to the danger of discovery. Oh, shit. We’re standing too close to the building, in view of the windows. I reluctantly pull away from Logan, missing his warmth immediately.
“You won’t want more than one night.” I strive to sound more casual than I feel. My father’s passion for my mom was sated with one fuck. My billionaire’s lust for me will be appeased as quickly, and then I’ll be back to being alone, always alone.
“You have no idea what I want, Arianna.” Logan’s voice is decadently deep.
“You’re a man, and I know what men want.” I descend the stairs into the gardens, placing one foot in front of the other, swaying my hips seductively. “I’m the St. James slut, remember?” I play the role I’ve always rejected. “According to rumors, I don’t sleep in the same bed twice.”
My billionaire follows me closely, his form tall and broad, his presence protective, stimulating, exciting. “According to my observations, the St. James slut has slept in her own bed for seven months and five days.”
I stumble over nothing, shocked, surprised, secretively pleased. We met seven months and five days ago. I thought I was the only one who noted that date. “How do you know where I’ve been sleeping?” I ask. “Are you having me followed?” Why does this thrill me?
“Yes, I am.” Logan flicks his fingers. A massive man with a scarred face separates from the shadows. They talk, their voices too low to hear. The man nods, looks at me, and fades back into the night.
I widen my eyes, silently asking my billionaire for more information.
“My team will ensure we’re not disturbed.” He guides me into the gardens, his left palm pressed against the small of my back, his touch comforting me. “No one else will know about tonight.”
My heels sink into the grass-covered earth as I stride forward. Logan has put a lot of thought into tonight, into this one-time fuck. This both reassures and worries me.
“Why do you want me?” I walk between the high hedges, the greenery concealing us. “There are easier women to be with.” He’s a billionaire, attractive, intelligent. He could have any woman he wanted.
“None of those women are you.” Logan trails behind me, his tread soundless, a predator tracking his prey.
I’m not an idiot. I recognize an evasive answer when I hear one.
He has a reason for wanting me. The billionaire wouldn’t exert himself unless there was a payoff.
I drift my fingers over a perfect rose, the petals sinfully soft and deliciously fragrant. “If tonight is about my shares, walk away from me now.” I raise an eyebrow. “Because I won’t sell them to you, ever.” I release the gorgeous bloom. “I won’t betray my father.”
“You told me that the day we met. I believed you and adjusted my plans.” Logan stops to smell the same flower, bending his dark head over the rose, his nostrils flaring, the contrast between his hard, angular face and the delicate blossom captivating me. “I no longer need your shares.”
He
no longer needs my shares. Is his new plan to control me? “I won’t vote with you either,” I inform my ruthless billionaire, hovering by his side, yearning to touch him, to stroke his shirt-clad arms, follow the curve of his biceps, the strength in his forearms. “I’ll always support my father’s decisions.”
“You’re loyal. You’ll never betray your father.” Logan straightens to his full height, appearing almost proud of my stance. “And I’ll never ask you to. Tonight is about us, not St. James Communications.”
I want to believe him, but I can’t. “My father thinks you want to destroy the company.” I push for the motive behind his pursuit.
“I would never destroy anything or anyone I owned.” The billionaire’s words are weighted with meaning, promising me the permanence I crave, yet will never have.
“You own me for one night only.” Passion fades. I have to remember this.
“Don’t lie to yourself or to me, Arianna.” Logan cups my chin and raises my gaze to his, his fingers rough, his grip sure. “I’ve owned you for months.” Gold sparks burn in his dark eyes. “As you’ve owned me.”
He has owned me from that first day we met. I stare at him, enthralled by the desire reflected in his countenance, held spellbound by his touch. “I own you too?” Could I have some power over this compelling man?
“Yes.” His gaze drops to my mouth and my lips part, issuing a silent invitation. “You do.” His confession is barely audible, his voice soft.
“Logan,” I whisper, his name sounding right on my lips.
He dips his head and captures my mouth, surging inside. Our tongues waltz, an intimate dance he leads, tugging, releasing, tugging, releasing, the tempo rising and falling. Logan holds me with a mind-numbing reverence, his coarse palms bracketing my face, his thumbs rubbing circles on my skin.
I place my hands on his chest, his shirt silky under my fingertips. My touch pleases him. A rumble rolls up his torso, the sound exciting me. He strokes into my mouth, coaxing more heat from my already molten core, and I caress him, savoring how solid, how firm his body is, under the layer of cloth. There isn’t an inch of give in his form, just as there isn’t a morsel of lenience in his dominant soul.
I lose myself in his embrace, curling my right hand around his nape, his black hair decadently soft against my fingertips. Logan is a man of contrasts, his eyes hard, his face angular, his hair lush. He can rumble the dirtiest suggestions into my ear and, mere minutes later, speak with elegance to a room filled with businessmen. He destroys his enemies with a few flicks of his pen, yet he would never hurt me.
Not intentionally. He’ll hurt me when he walks away. I suck on his tongue. Because as much as my brain tells me not to care, I do. Seeing him with another woman after he’s kissed me like this, will tear my heart into pieces.
I’m fucked, in more than one way.
Logan breaks our liplock and leans his forehead against mine, both of us panting, our need a wild living creature. I cling to him and he allows this for a couple of heartbeats. Then he removes my hands from his neck and steps backward, folding his arms in front of him, bracing his feet apart.
“Logan?”
“Sir,” he corrects, his tone stern and his eyes hard. Strength and power radiate from him.
I gulp. “Sir.” I fight the urge to drop my gaze, to lower to my knees and beg his forgiveness. He’s right. I do know when we’re in a scene, the air around him changing.
His eyes shine with approval, a heady response I want more of, approval rare in my life. “Tell me your safe word.”
Tomato, the lame safe word I’d decided upon, is discarded, a part of me knowing he wouldn’t appreciate something generic. I search my brain for words he’d never use during a scene with me. Love, diamonds, commitment. “Marriage, sir.”
“That’s an interesting choice.” My new master nods as though this says something about me. It doesn’t. Any woman would prefer marriage to a meaningless affair. “If you say that word, the scene will stop immediately. Our night will be over. You’ll dress and I’ll take you home.”
I don’t want that and I’m surprised he’d allow it. “You’ll be angry with me, sir.”
He pushes his jacket off my shoulders. The night breeze isn’t cool enough to douse my need. “I’ll be disappointed.”
Shit. Disappointed is worse than angry.
I turn my head, pretending to examine the marble sculpture positioned next to us, the table-like form oddly appealing, and I nibble on my bottom lip, worrying. He thinks I’m experienced, a woman of the world, a slut like my mom, and I’m not. I have no fuckin’ clue what I’m doing, how to make him happy.
“In the future, I expect you to kneel and present yourself to me.”
“Yes, sir.” I gaze up at him, his statement reassuring me. If he shares all of his expectations, I might have a shot at pleasing him.
“Kneeling on the grass now would dirty your pretty dress, and I don’t want a dirty pet.” He pulls on his bowtie, removing the strip of black fabric. “Fold your arms behind your back.”
I obey him. Before I realize what I’ve done, he’s tied my wrists. I tug on my restraints. They don’t loosen. This should freak me out. Instead, it calms me. I now know he doesn’t expect me to use my hands, though I don’t know why. “Logan?”
He tilts his head.
“Sir?” I amend.
“Touching your master is a privilege.” He unzips the back of my sleeveless dress, running his fingers along my spine. “One you haven’t yet earned.” The bodice falls open, leaving my breasts bare, the bra built into the garment.
I gasp, the chill in the air tightening my nipples even more. “Your men will see me, sir.” My plans never included an audience.
“Are you questioning your master?” His words are sharp.
My pussy drips, my need for him escalating. “No, sir.”
“Good, because you shouldn’t. Unlike my doubting sub, my men have been well-trained.” He glares at me and I bow my head, my cheeks heating with shame. “They can be trusted.”
He doesn’t deny that they’re looking at me.
“Show me your big blue eyes, pet.”
I lift my chin. Logan gives me a curt nod of approval and then peruses me slowly, gazing intently at my bared chest, my white skin, pink nipples.
I stand before him, helpless, unable to cover myself. My hands are tied, my shoulders pulled back, thrusting my breasts upward.
This might be a one-night stand but these memories will linger. My face blaze. Years from now, when Logan passes me in the street, attends the same society events, sits across from me in the boardroom, he’ll remember me like this, my body brazenly displayed to him in a semi-public garden. He’ll have this piece of me forever.
“I can’t do this, sir,” I whisper.
His eyes narrow. “Are you using your safe word already?” His disapproval tears at me.
If I walk away now, I’ll regret it. I know this in my soul. “No, sir.” I shift my weight from my right foot to my left.
“These are my tits, pet.” Logan cups my breasts with his big hands. “I’ll look at them when I want to.”
He rubs his thumbs over my nipples and I wiggle, unable to stop him from touching me. I’m at his mercy. He could leave me like this, invite others to view my shame, humiliate me in front of the world.
Yet he won’t. I gaze at him, knowing this about my billionaire. He’s too damn possessive to share me, has vowed to protect me. I force myself to relax, to breathe deeply. He’d never break that promise.
Logan plays with my breasts, lifting and weighing them in his hands, exploring their shape and softness. He strokes and squeezes, strokes and squeezes, applying all of his renowned concentration, to drive me crazy. Desire destroys any lingering inhibitions and I sway into his palms, needing more.
He chuckles. “Greedy pet.” He pinches the tips of my breasts and I jerk, the pain opening a door within me I’d never realized existed, heightening my senses.
“
You like that, don’t you?” He twists my captured flesh, escalating the sensation, and I moan with pleasure, unable to remain silent. “Pain excites you.” My new master pulls on my nipples, elongating them, and I vibrate in his hands. “You’re so responsive,” he murmurs his approval, and I glow.
I please him, his appreciation reflecting in his eyes, the fabric of his black tuxedo pants tented around an impressive erection. That long thick cock will fill my pussy tonight, stretching me, changing my body forever. I wiggle in anticipation.
Logan slaps my right breast hard and I shriek, more surprised than hurt. “Did I give you permission to move?”
I know I’m not supposed to move, all of the BDSM websites having relayed this rule. Subs are to be still and silent, following their masters’ commands. “No, sir.”
He slips his hands into the front pockets of his pants, pulling the fabric even tighter across his huge hard-on. I see the outline of his cock head and a wave of wanting sweeps over me. “You’re not focused, pet.” He extracts a set of nipple clamps. “These will help.” They’re a work of art, sparkling diamonds set in intricately engraved gold.
He believes I deserve diamonds. No one has ever valued me this much. I blink back tears, gratitude added to the vortex of emotion whirling inside my chest. “Thank you, sir.”
My ruthless billionaire’s face softens for a heartbeat. “Don’t thank me yet.” He tugs on my left nipple and applies the jewelry.
Pain shoots over my skin and I press my lips together, stifling my howl.
“You can do this, pet.” Logan outlines the handprint tattooing my skin, caressing my right breast, calming, comforting me. He’s here, in charge, and he would never hurt me more than I wanted, needed, to be hurt. “You’re strong, one of the strongest women I know.”
Men often call me beautiful, as though I was responsible for this miracle of genetics. No one has ever called me strong, not before tonight, before Logan. I straighten, determined to prove him right. “I can do this, sir.”