The Billionaire's Wife

by Ava Lore

  His breathing became faster and faster, the muscles of his thighs tensing and releasing as I worked his erection. The sweet taste of precum curled in my mouth as I ran my lips over the soft head. Reaching down, I cupped his balls in my hand, weighing them, feeling them tighten as I put his cock in my mouth.

  “God, Felicia,” he ground out, “if you don't stop that this is going to be over quickly.”

  I glanced at him and gave him a coy smile. “Did you miss me so badly you didn't even touch yourself?” I asked him. “Jacking off just couldn't compare?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You got it bad,” I said, impressed. I have never known a guy who could go more than a few days without jacking it.

  “Probably,” he said, the word ending in a groan when I sucked his balls into my mouth. Not wanting to waste a good hard cock, I abandoned my oral practice and moved up, dragging my wet pussy up his leg. His breath was ragged when I finally angled the lips of my cunt over his erection and soaked him with my juices in preparation.

  “Are you ready?” I asked him as I braced my hands on his hips.

  “Yes,” he said.

  I pushed him inside.

  Oh, god, it felt good. Amazing. Better than amazing. The tension in my body immediately released as he slipped inside me with a stretching sensation that bordered on pain. My head lolled on my limp neck as I sank down onto his cock, my heart hammering in my chest, my pussy already clenching around him in anticipation of my next orgasm. Moving a hand from his hip, I stroked it over my clit in small, tight circles, my slippery fingertip sending waves of pleasure out over my body, spiraling through my loosening thighs. Just having him inside me was almost enough to make me come.

  For a long moment I sat impaled upon him and shuddered. He overwhelmed me, flooded my senses until I couldn't think any more. “Anton,” I said at last. “Anton, please. Please, just fuck me. I can't take it.”

  He didn't need a second invitation. As soon as the words were out of my mouth he had me flipped over on my back, hiking my legs up over his shoulders as he grabbed the sheets and wound them around my upper body, trapping me as though I were in a straightjacket. I shrieked as he pulled out and thrust his cock deep into my pussy, pushing hard. Fireworks exploded in my head, and I caught fire like a barren field too long without rain. “Fuck!” I cried. “Oh, Anton, please, please, please—”

  “Felicia,” he grunted, his iron control fraying at the edges, a sure sign I was getting to him. I moaned and writhed, bucking against him as he pounded into me. My pussy gripped his cock, the tight waves of my release already building inside my belly. I needed him to come in me. I had to have him, all of him, I had to be his again.

  “Fill me up,” I begged. “Fill me up. I need you.”

  “Jesus,” he said, a prayer or a curse, it didn't matter, only that he shuddered with pleasure, rocking back on his heels and bringing my legs together as he pumped his hips, his cock sliding in and out of my slick pussy. Reaching down he snaked a finger between my thighs and rubbed my clit, quick and sharp, and I came with a howl. My back arched and I rolled where I lay, my entire being rocked with the strength of my release.

  His cock pumped in and out of my pussy as I came, his fingers digging into my flesh. His teeth found my calf and he bit me, drawing my pleasure out until I thought I would die.

  “Come in me,” I said. “Please.”

  He dragged his fingers over my clit again and my body locked down on his cock, and then he came, pumping hard into me, filling me up. It leaked out of my pussy, the scent filling my nose, filling my head, and when he was spent he withdrew and went down on me, licking up his own cum, painting it onto my thighs and pussy lips and clit with his own tongue.

  We fucked long and hard. Anton made me come over and over, until I was so exhausted I fell asleep.

  I awoke to him kissing me in the dark, the night having descended. Sleepily I responded, enjoying the hedonistic feel of his skin against mine. He stopped kissing me for a moment.

  “Your work of art was a success,” he murmured. “Just so you know.”

  I grinned at him. “I know that. I'm here, aren't I? That means it worked.”

  Running a hand over my face, he returned the smile. “I guess it did,” he said. “But everyone is talking about it. I checked while you were asleep. You'll have the run of every gallery in the city after today.”

  I flushed with pride. “You think so?”

  “The pictures are everywhere. I don't think there's a single person who doesn't like it. Though some did have something to say about where you put it...”

  A giggle escaped me. “How else was I supposed to get your attention?”

  “Call?”

  “Oh, please.”

  “You're right. It was... a grand gesture. And I must say you make a magnificent tiger.”

  I blinked, then leaned back, frowning at him. “You mean I sculpt a good tiger?” I asked him.

  “No, I mean you look wonderful as a tiger.”

  For a long moment, I was utterly speechless. “What are you talking about?”

  In the dim light I could practically feel the puzzlement radiating from him. “You said the sculpture was us, remember? Was that wrong?”

  “Noooo,” I said slowly. “But I'm not the tiger. You are.”

  Surprise touched his features. “Me?” he said. “I thought I was the rabbit.”

  An extremely ugly snort burst out of me. “Oh yeah? How could you possibly be the rabbit?”

  He shook his head. “There's so much to you. I thought...” For the first time, I saw a blush tinge his cheeks. It must have been a powerful one for me to see in the dark. He was embarrassed. “I thought you wanted me to free you. From...” He shrugged. “From all those things in your past that keeps you weighed down. Your parents. Your distrust. Your fears... Didn't you?”

  If I hadn't known just how thick he was when it came to understanding people already, I would have slapped him. “No, you idiot, I want to free you.”

  “I'm the tiger?” He looked astonished. “That's how you see me?”

  “Of course.”

  “But... I'm so...” He swallowed hard. His hands began to move, smoothing over my back, up and down my arms, warm and sweet and shivery. “I'm a coward. When it comes to you, I'm a coward.”

  I smiled and closed my eyes. “You don't have to be afraid,” I said. “Don't be afraid of me. I'm only a rabbit. The worst I'll do is hump your foot to death.”

  “Which one?”

  “The right.”

  “That's only my second favorite foot,” he said. “It's probably worth it to keep you around.” He kissed me and I laughed into his mouth, and then we were tangled together again, striving and straining, and we fucked like rabbits, fucked like tigers, made love like wild things until at last we fell asleep, entwined in the early gray light as the world turned toward a new day.

  One Month Later

  My shoes were hurting. My back was cramping. My legs were exhausted. My head ached. And I couldn't breath. My wedding corset? Had been great when we got married and then immediately retired to the limo to screw our brains out. When you have to stand around at a reception afterward, smiling and nodding at a bunch of people whose names have passed you like ships in the night? Not ideal.

  In fact, pretty much the opposite of ideal. The Platonic ideal of unideal.

  Haha, I thought to myself. I'm so clever. I really needed air.

  Actually, I really needed to sit down. And I really needed to not be listening to this old guy with the inscrutable accent talk about hedge funds. Or was he talking about actual hedges? I couldn't even tell. Or was that care? I couldn't even care? Yeah. That was probably it.

  With great effort, I drew a breath. The stays of my corset creaked as I struggled to suck air into my lungs, but in the end they held and I had to content myself with taking a light-headed gulp of champagne and smiling politely.

  “Felicia!” My mother bustled up to me and grabbe
d my arm. “Have you met Mr. and Mrs. Mordon from the Mordon Foundational Trust? I'm sorry, Mr. Steinbeck, but I simply must steal my daughter for a moment.”

  Out of the frying pan and into the suicidally boring fire, as they say. I gave Mr. Steinbeck an apologetic smile as my mother herded me off to meet yet another rich person I couldn't care less about. She, of course, was in heaven, so I couldn't very well throw myself on the floor and have a screaming tantrum like I used to when I was four, but the urge was still very much there. All my friends were busy hobnobbing and trying to suck up to all the rich potential patrons of the arts, Sadie was off somewhere making sure things ran smoothly, and my husband was nowhere to be found. There was no one to rescue me. I could really use a sledgehammer right about now. Smash up the bar, perhaps. Or one of the ice sculptures, even though each of them was a replica of one of my works.

  It was a nice touch. Sadie really outdid herself. But a girl's got her limits, and I was fast approaching mine.

  My mother's hand on my arm propelled me toward a couple in their fifties, laughing about something with another bland couple in their fifties, and I wanted to shoot myself. When I'd envisioned my wedding reception when I was slightly younger, I'd always imagined something like an Irish wake, but without the dead body. Or hell, bring a dead body. As long as it wasn't anyone I, personally, had known.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Mordon!” my mother called. “Let me introduce you to my daughter...”

  One half of the couples turned toward me, all smiles, and I smiled back automatically. Mr. Mordon, a pleasant man who looked like he'd eaten one too many Valium, held out his hand, and I automatically put my white-gloved fingers in his.

  “A pleasure,” he said, bringing my hand to his lips. My god. What century was this?

  But the second his mouth pressed to my fingertips, a jolt of electricity shot through me.

  I gasped and staggered, the vibrator in my pussy suddenly roaring to life. My knees turned to jelly and I couldn't get enough air. I was going to faint—

  A strong arm circled my shoulders, and I sighed with relief.

  “Pardon me,” Anton said to the startled group, “but I must borrow my wife for a moment.” He guided me away, the vibrator ratcheting up in intensity.

  “It'd better be longer than a moment,” I muttered to him under my breath, and he laughed at me as he gently pointed me through a door onto the balcony. It was cold out here, but there were still fellow revelers. To my immense satisfaction, they all took notice of us and discreetly dispersed, leaving us alone on the small side terrace.

  I sagged into Anton, and he put his arms around me as I moaned. “Jesus,” I panted. “You really know how to keep a girl waiting.”

  “Well, a number of business associates are here,” he said. “I find it a bit crass to mix business and pleasure.”

  “Oh?” I raised an eyebrow. “Is that it?”

  He had the good grace to cough as he produced the vibrator's remote and began adjusting the strength of it, until it pulsed in my slick, tight passage and I started to tremble. “Perhaps that is not entirely it,” he said, though I could hardly hear him over the sound of my heart in my ears. “I'm starting to want to be the only one to see your face as you come.”

  I would have laughed at that, but I was too busy trying to stay conscious. The corset was so tight I thought I could feel my ribs cracking as he drove me higher and higher. My fingers tangled in his fine tuxedo jacket and I clung to him for dear life. The slender, beautiful wedding dress I wore was too narrow, and I had to reach down to hike it up over my hips so I could hook my leg over Anton's. In sexual agony, I rubbed my clit over his hard thigh, the little vibe in my cunt buzzing me straight to heaven. He stood stock still and watched me with satisfaction as I moaned and ground against him.

  “Guys?” The sound of the door opening cut through my pleasure, but I was too far gone to stop. “We're about to do the toasts, so if you could—good shitting God, you two, wait til you're on the honeymoon!”

  In a haze, I turned my head to see Sadie, her cheeks flame red, retreating with her hands over her eyes. “Hurry up out here!” she commanded. “There's only so much alcohol in the world and these rich fucks are going to drink it all if you don't wrap it up!”

  “No... no problem!” I called to her, breathlessly, and then Anton reached up and pinched one nipple through the satin of my wedding dress, and I came for him. He held me tight and I felt him smile against my temple as Sadie ran back inside.

  “I... I thought you wanted to be the only one to see my face...” I panted as I came down from the high.

  He smiled at me, almost insolent. “I said starting.” I poked him in the shoulder and he laughed. “Come, my dear. Our audience awaits.”

  “Was that double entendre intentional?” I demanded. “I'm not sure I want to come with my mom watching.”

  He laughed again. “Maybe. Do you trust me?”

  I answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

  He held out his arm. “Then allow me, Mrs. Waters.”

  The little vibe's buzzing subsided, but not entirely. I sighed at him, exasperated. “With pleasure, Mr. Waters,” I said, placing my hand on his arm.

  “I know,” he said, and together we walked back to our wedding, side by side.

  Author’s Notes

  Felicia's art is based on the beautiful and amazing sculpture of Beth Cavener Stichter. You can visit her website here or view parts of her amazing “Come Undone” exhibition here. Felicia's paean to her relationship with Anton takes heavy inspiration from both The Question that Devours (detail) and The Sentimental Question (detail).

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  Don’t miss Sadie’s story in His Acquisition (The Billionaire’s Muse, Book #1)!

  After about five minutes, I realized Malcolm had no idea what the hell he was doing.

  What was going on here?

  “Do you need some help?” I asked him without thinking. It came out sharp and kind of snide, and immediately I remembered Felicia's admonition to be less of a surly jackass. Oh well, already screwed the pooch on that one, I guess.

  “Oh yes, if you could. I've never worked with these lights before.”

  I sighed and walked toward him. “Then what are you doing with them? I thought you were an amateur photographer.”

  “Amateur artist,” he said. “And I figured that if I was going to do photography I might as well have a studio.”

  “A studio you've never used?”

  He shrugged at me as I arrived by his side. He smelled the same as he did last night, but it was a riper scent now, as though he had been sweating slightly. The smell, rather than repulsing me, did weird things to my thoughts. I couldn't help but wonder what his sweat would taste like, if it would bead on his brow and run down his face as he strained and worked, doing... something.

  Swallowing hard, I reached up to adjust the light for him. “This isn't that hard,” I said after a moment. “Are you just pretending to never have used this to get me to come over here?”

  “No, of course not. It was installed just this morning.”

  I paused, processing this. “Excuse me?” I said at last. “You had this studio installed... this morning?”

  “Yes. I did.”

  Taking a deep breath, I tried to control my irritation. “So you aren't an amateur photographer?”

  He laughed, a rich, deep sound, as he leaned around me to see what I was doing with the various knobs on the back of the light. The heat of his body rolled into mine. “Of course I am. I'm a very new amateur.”

  Don't think about how close he is, I commanded myself. “So you draw, then?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Paint? Sculpt?”

  “Nope. Not yet.”

  “So last night, when you told me you were an amateur artist, you were lyi
ng.” My voice was flat and angry. I hate being lied to.

  I heard him breathe in sharply, and he moved back slightly. “No, I didn't lie,” he said. “The moment I saw you from across the room, I decided I wanted to be an artist so I could capture you in whatever way I could. I have decided to become a brilliant and tortured artist, inspired by you.”

  I am not falling for this. I am not.

  “Really,” I said flatly. “You just decided to be brilliant and tortured?”

  “Yes. I am going to be a madman in touch with the pulse of the universe through my art, and you are my inspiration.”

  My lips thinned down into a line. “Yeah, well, I guess it's easy to be a starving artist when you have billions of dollars.”

  “Only one point four billion,” he said. “There are far more cells in the human body than I have dollars. It's all relative if you think about it.”

  Only a rich shithead would say something like that. Anger rose in me, and I whirled around, meaning to confront him. But the sight of him stopped me in my tracks.

  He was looking down at me, his expression open and curious, as if he really didn't understand why what he had just said had infuriated me. In the bright light of the studio, his beauty shone, probably far better than my paltry looks ever would. His clear skin, tinged with the hint of a tan, glowed with health and vigor, and the sandy locks of his hair spilled over his forehead in golden waves. The brown of his eyes startled me, deep and intense, with hidden depths, like well-polished cherrywood, and his mouth, full and soft, quirked at my dumb, wide-eyed staring.

  I couldn't help the sudden picking up of the pace of my heart in my chest. He was near, too near to me, but even though this room had to be over a thousand square feet, I couldn't move an inch. I wouldn't give an inch. I absolutely could not let this guy know how much he affected me.