Mr. Always & Forever

by Ashlee Price

  My heels rise up again, almost of their own accord, but this time, they dig into his butt. I don’t let him retreat too far from my cunt, wanting him inside me more than I want him out. Because of this, his thrusts are shallow and those untouched parts of me, the ones deep inside my pussy, get all the attention. Within minutes, I can feel myself juddering. Orgasm is near, and I know that it will be epic, more epic than the last one he gave me.

  His pace quickens as his own climax approaches, and the rough panting breaths that gust over my cheek, dusting my face with his need, fill me with an urgency that has me clawing at his back, begging him to go faster. When he obeys, it takes two thrusts to make me explode. And as pleasure rains down on me, as it swells nerve endings, flooding them and drowning me in the ecstasy of the moment, I feel him come.

  Even though every part of me feels like it’s soaring overhead, a single sliver of me is cognizant of something I should have noticed when I looked down at our joined sexes—he didn’t wear a condom. And he has just come inside me.

  While I process that and the wondrous sensations overflowing every part of me, I hear him whisper in my ear, “Mine.”

  The arrogance of the man knows no bounds.

  What else could be expected of a self-made man who has billions in his bank account and all before the age of thirty-five? Still… His. The nerve.

  I want to scream at myself, rail at my stupidity. Why did I sign the damn agreement? Why didn’t I stalk out? Storm off? Why did I let him come in me? Goddammit!

  All I’ll say is that he had me unbalanced from the beginning. It’s no excuse, no excuse at all, but it’s the only thing that makes any sense to me.

  I’m not used to being unbalanced, and the instant he put me on edge, I was a goner.

  The crazy thing is, I have no real regrets. He was right when he asked me to think about the last time I wanted someone. When I craved another’s touch, another’s kiss…

  It seems like a lifetime ago. Maybe it is.

  Trust has always been an issue for me, so on that level, I can understand Marshall’s need to guard himself, to protect his name and his brand for the future. Still, every feminine part of me chafes at the need to sign something that states I won’t utter a peep about the man I’m dating. And that’s what we’ll be doing.

  I’ll be no man’s mistress.

  I know I made that very clear to him.

  My mother was a mistress. I’m the result of that adulterous affair, and my shame knows no bounds about that sordid secret.

  To her, it was a way of life. Accepted among her community, respected even.

  To this day, she sees no wrong in it. She was Gianni DeVecchio’s girlfriend… something that to her, is an honor.

  Can you imagine? The woman thinks it was an honor to be the go-to slut of a mobster’s son. And I’m the granddaughter of that mobster. A heavy hitter, or so I’m told, in the Mafioso world.

  I’ll never forgive her for bringing me into the world the way she did, and I wish to hell I was my half-brother or half-sister. They were born in wedlock, were the rightful children of my stepfather. Ted always treated me like I was one of his own, but I knew the difference. How could I not when all the kids at school would never let me forget I was DeVecchio’s spawn? When the priest looked at me with scorn, no matter how good I was, no matter how often I went to confession, or how much I helped out around the church…

  I discarded my past the instant I left for college. I made a name for myself, a reputation that was tainted by no other. I made friends, sisters from my sorority house. And after, those same sisters helped me create a new life. My events business isn’t my vocation, it isn’t what feeds my soul, but it sure is what pays the bills and enables me to keep hands-on with my sewing and design business.

  My reputation is sterling. My brand is untouchable. I’ve been hired by the city’s most prominent names. I did that, and that’s why I agreed to a relationship with Marshall. I agreed to sign away my rights, as long as he signed away his.

  This will never be unequal. Whatever he asks of me, I’ll ask of him; otherwise, I’ll back the hell away.

  To taste the forbidden fruit that is him, to know him, to touch and taste, I’ll sell my soul to the devil. But on my terms, and only as long as Marshall is along for the ride too. And when his head settles heavily on my breast, his sweat drying on my skin, I know we’re both damned…

  To be continued…

  DESIGNER FOR THE BILLIONAIRE

  A Billionaire Romance Novel

  (Contemporary Romance Novels)

  Book 3

  A CUT ABOVE

  By: Ashlee Price

  Description

  Grazia Fabiola’s affair with Marshall Levitt was always going to be an unusual one, but their clashes over everyday life are nothing in comparison to their clashes in the bedroom.

  Fire meets fire when the two come together, but it’s nothing to the inferno that overtakes Grazia’s life and destroys her world. When Marshall steps up to the plate, it’s up to Grazia to decide if she can let him help her.

  Such a concession is hard for a woman as independent as Grazia, but trust is another matter entirely.

  Does she trust Marshall enough to let him help?

  And if she can’t, is that the end of yet another chapter in her life?

  Chapter One – Marshall

  “Not hungry?”

  The question prods me from my thoughts, and as I stare down at the large plate of gnocchi alla sorrentina—my most favorite dish at Mama Leone’s in Brighton Beach—I have to grimace. “Not really,” I reply, looking up at my PA, Miranda.

  “Any reason?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow at the full dish in front of me. “It’s very unusual for you to leave your food when you come to this…” she sought the appropriate word, “…place.”

  It might sound difficult to construe that as a criticism, but it was.

  Brighton Beach was where I’d been born and raised. In project housing, amid tens of dozens of poverty-stricken families, I’d come to realize I wanted more than my parents had.

  I was one of the ‘lucky’ ones. Both of my parents were together, which made my family a rarity. I, however, would have loved it if they’d split up. Dad had spent half his nights getting drunk and beating on Mom whenever the mood struck, and Mom hadn’t been much better with booze.

  Most nights had been spent with my head under the pillow, trying to drown out the yells. Escape had come in the form of my grandmother buying me a laptop with some money she’d won in the lottery, of all things.

  “Boys Marshall’s age need a computer,” she’d told my father, who’d bitched at the ‘waste’ of money.

  The bitching had grown rather vitriolic when Gran had subsequently refused to pay the rent for us that month.

  I’d lived in fear of my father taking the laptop from me one day, pawning it to pay for one of his many vices. He might even have done that once, because all of a sudden, I’d had to go to Gran’s to use it, and Gran had told me never to take it home.

  By that point, I was hooked, and so I spent nearly all my free time there. By the time I was fourteen, I could hack with the best of them and I was practically living with her.

  College had come a-calling at a younger than average age for me. At sixteen, I’d been on my way to NYIT with a scholarship funding my degree—all thanks to that one investment on my grandmother’s part. Without her, without that laptop, I wouldn’t be where I am today: choosing to return to Brighton Beach out of nostalgia, rather than having to live here out of necessity.

  The thought makes me shudder. There are good people here, as there always are among the bad, but still, this is no longer my world.

  Miranda reaches over and taps my hand. “Marshall? Why do you keep wandering off?”

  I blink at her. “Do I?”

  “That’s the third time I’ve asked you a question, you’ve started to reply, and then you’ve faded into silence.” She spears a piece of ravioli with her for
k, and I get the feeling she wishes she could do the same to me. “What’s going on? You only go this quiet when there’s trouble.”

  My lips twitch because, ordinarily, she’d be right. But things have been complicated since Grazia Fabiola signed the ‘mistress agreement’ I put before her a week ago. Ever since, life has been a little odder than usual.

  “There’s no trouble.” When she cocks an eyebrow at me again, I shake my head. “For once.”

  “Then what’s going on?”

  I shrug. “Nothing. I’m just thinking. No harm in that, is there?”

  “Why invite me for lunch if you were just going to stare off into the distance?”

  It’s my turn to be surprised. “We always eat together.”

  “Maybe I had other plans.”

  “Seriously?”

  She purses her lips. “No, but I might have.”

  There’s a strange cast to her irritation with me. It’s almost like she’s… But no, she couldn’t be. Miranda is like an ice queen. She’s so cold, I practically get chilblains being near her, and she’s never made me feel like she is attracted to me.

  Miranda’s a beautiful woman. I’d be a blind fool if I thought anything else, but her icy blonde beauty does nothing for me. In the four years she’s worked for me, it never has, and I doubt it ever will.

  I shake off the strange supposition, because I’d prefer to think it’s an impossibility rather than deal with it.

  Miranda has been with me since I floated the company. She knows her job inside and out, and the last thing I want to do is have to replace her.

  My gnocchi seems less and less appetizing, so I catch the waiter’s eye and say, “Can you pack this up for me, please?”

  “Is everything all right, sir?” He eyes the untouched plate.

  “I just lost my appetite, that’s all.” The waiter makes to answer but my phone buzzes, saving me from having to explain why I haven’t touched a bite of my usually delicious meal. When I look at the caller ID and see Grazia’s name, everything in me tightens with anticipation. “Excuse me a moment,” I tell Miranda, and seeing her lips tighten, I know she’s aware of who the caller is.

  Let’s face it, she wouldn’t have to be a mind reader to figure it out.

  Stepping out from behind the red-gingham-tablecloth-covered table, I wend my way between the narrow lanes separating the rest, and head to the entrance, where there’s a small reception area. By the time I reach it, the phone has stopped ringing, but I immediately call her back.

  “You rang?”

  There’s a small pause, then a snicker. “Since when did Lurch have a cell phone?”

  I grin, inordinately satisfied that she recognized my impression. I was addicted to the Addams Family as a kid; hell, what brat my age wasn’t?

  “Since… I don’t know when,” I tell her, chuckling. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. It is.” She huffs out a breath. “I called with the intention of raking you over the coals, and now you made me laugh. Damn your hide.”

  My eyebrows rise at that admission, and I make a mental note to remember that in the future. Make the woman laugh and she forgives you your sins… interesting.

  “Well, I’m relieved you liked my impression so much.”

  She snorts. “You know why I’m calling, right?”

  I do. How could I not? It doesn’t do much for my macho image to admit that I’ve been waiting for this call ever since the insurance company called me this morning to say they’d delivered the package at Grazia’s apartment.

  “I can guess,” I hedge. “But you are a rather touchy female, Grazia. There are numerous things I could have done to piss you off.”

  “You mean like calling me a rather touchy female?”

  “Yeah, like that.” My lips twitch again.

  A sigh gusts down the line. “What have you sent this to me for?”

  “It’s a party I need you to attend with me.”

  “I’d gathered as much. ‘Glitter & Gowns’,” she reads, undoubtedly from the invitation I had delivered with the necklace. “What’s it all about?”

  “A charity, of course.”

  She grunts. “There’s no ‘of course’ about it. One thing you learn when you’re in event management: it doesn’t take much for something to call itself a charity.”

  Amused by her cynicism, I chide, “How uncharitable of you.”

  “Like you don’t know exactly what I’m talking about. Laptops for kids in countries that don’t even have reliable electricity… that kind of thing, when really what they need is food and medical care… Doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

  Considering I was visited by a New York operator from that particular charity just this month, I have to laugh. “Okay, I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

  Satisfaction riddles her words. “I’m glad to know you’re not completely crazy.”

  “I don’t think I’d be where I am today if that were the case.”

  “I guess not. And anyway, don’t think I’ve forgotten that you just sent me a necklace that has to be worth a million dollars.”

  “Yeah, it’s on loan. Fear not. I’m not trying to buy you.”

  Silence fills the line. “Oh, well, that’s okay then.”

  “I have better ways to buy a woman like you, Grazia,” I tell her, my tone as silky as can be.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You think I don’t know you’re not interested in diamonds and rubies? There’s a reason I’m a rich man, Grazia. I know how to read a person, and you are not someone who could be bought with jewelry.”

  “I guess I should be grateful you know that. But I can’t be bought. Period.”

  “Everyone has a price.”

  “Yes, and you’re not trying to find mine, are you? That’s why we’re dating and I’m not your mistress.”

  “Ah, yes, I’d forgotten about that. I’m out of the habit of dating. But anyway, you’d hardly be prepared for a ‘Glitter & Gowns’ evening with no glitter, would you? I figured you could handle the gown part yourself.”

  “You figured right.” I can sense her stewing about something, but rather than draw her out, I let her percolate. Eventually, she grumbles, “This event… it’s next week. Is that the next time I’m going to see you?”

  “I was planning to visit you tonight.”

  “Visit?” She makes a groaning sound. “We’re dating, Marshall. I wonder if there’s a dictionary I could buy you… The Rich Man’s Guide To Not Treating All People With Ovaries Like Well-Heeled Prostitutes.”

  I can’t help but chuckle at her caustic retort. “Don’t worry. I’m rusty, not completely covered in spider webs. I’ll figure it out.”

  “You’d better. I’m not your mistress, Marshall. Remember that.”

  Despite myself, I like the fire in her voice. Truth is, the women I’ve chosen as mistresses have been, essentially, employees. Grazia is the first one I’ve ever had to treat as an individual. That makes me sound like such a bastard, and maybe I am, but I wasn’t born that way. The coldness in my nature that stems from a desire to protect myself, my past, and my future, didn’t pop up out of nowhere. Things happened, women happened, and they changed me.

  I’m a product of my environment.

  Grazia might want to change that, and to a certain extent I’ll allow her some leeway, but I’ll only let her go so far…

  Chapter Two – Grazia

  “I can’t believe the size of that diamond.”

  Jessie’s awe adds to my nerves. Sighing, I tell my assistant, “No, I can’t either.” It’s huge. In fact, scrap that. It’s fucking huge. It’s the size of a duck egg and Marshall expects me to wear it like I go around wearing jewels this size all the time. “What’s the event for?”

  At my question, she peers down at the invitation that came with the jewelry box and three security guards who made the Rock look underweight. Christ, two of them are still outside waiting to take it back to whatever vault
it came from.

  The letter alongside the invitation told me that Marshall sent the necklace and earring set along so I could judge which outfit would match it appropriately.

  The fact he had it sent along, with all the pomp of security, tells me he’s trying to impress me.

  Damn him, he has.

  Sort of.

  It also reminds me of the time my father, a mob boss, sent my mother, his mistress, a rather expensive brooch. She oohed and aahed over it for so long that even my four-year-old self felt nauseated over her reaction.

  A part of me is stopping myself from acting like a loon over a bit of pressurized ancient carbon, mostly because I refuse to be like her. But the woman in me has no choice but to appreciate the beauty of the stone, the clarity, and the sheer gorgeousness of the necklace.

  It’s gaudy, sure. It can’t not be, as large as it is, but it’s still a stunning piece regardless. The large duck egg diamond is bracketed by two emerald cut sapphires, and a train of smaller emerald cut diamonds makes up the rest of the piece.

  I know exactly what I’ll wear with it, too; a gown I’ve been intending to take down to one of the boutiques I design dresses for in my spare time. It will be perfect. The sweetheart neckline combined with the high empire waist that will gather the silk at my breast before spreading out into a skirt that drapes over my hips and curls about my legs. Fortuitously, it’s a dark navy blue that will match the sapphires to perfection.

  Jessie makes an ‘A-ha!’ sound and says, “It’s a fundraiser.”

  “I gathered as much, Jessie,” I chide, clucking my tongue at her obvious reply.

  She glowers up at me. “Give me a chance.”

  “Sorry.” I pat her shoulder. “I’m on edge.”

  “Well, it’s not every day you sign a nondisclosure agreement to start dating someone, is it?”

  Her practical response has me tensing. “Shh,” I hiss, clapping a hand to her mouth. “You’re not supposed to know that, are you, dammit?”