Billionaire Romance Boxed Set (9 Book Bundle)

by Julia Kent

  Then, a frantic late-night phone call changes everything.

  Daniel has been accused of illegal insider trading. His assets frozen, he suddenly finds himself at the center of a media circus and a trial under a merciless judge with no way out. Maddy wants to support him, but it seems all Daniel wants to do is crawl back into his shell. In the midst of the chaos, Maddy receives an offer to display her drawings at one of the most influential galleries in the city. Pulled in two directions even as her life crashes down around her, will Maddy allow Daniel to keep pushing her away, or will she find a way to pull him back?

  THE EXHIBITIONIST

  By Starla Cole

  1: The Bondage Exhibition

  The wind whipped between the crumbling facades of the abandoned buildings of the Warehouse District as Syria and her friend Mia followed the long block from where they’d been instructed to park their car.

  Syria shivered, not sure if it was entirely from the cold. She was nervous as hell. When her Japanese bondage instructor, only known as “The Madam,” had invited her and Mia to participate in a shibari exhibition, she hadn’t realized they’d be treated like help rather than talent. All they had been told was to park well away from the building where the exhibition would be held and to enter by the back door.

  They really had no idea what they’d gotten into.

  “I don’t see why we had to park so far away. It’s not like we’re robbing the place.” Mia hugged herself as she slogged through wet leaves.

  Syria peered down the street, looking for any signs of life. Neither of them had dressed properly for the cold, which had come on suddenly that afternoon. “We should have reconsidered our outfits,” she said.

  Mia’s stiletto boots teetered on the uneven pavement. “Stupid, stupid. We don’t even know what they’re going to do to us.” Her teeth chattered, and Syria wondered if she was nervous too. She was the one getting tied up in front of strangers. Syria was just the moral support.

  “You don’t have to do it, you know. We can go back to the car and forget the whole thing. It’s not like we’ll run into Madam at the grocery.” Syria had been thinking ahead herself, wondering how warm the warehouse could possibly be, and if they would keep Mia naked. She was glad she was only a silent spectator.

  And a sneaky one. Madam had told her not to photograph anything, but Syria couldn’t bear it. She was a photographer! This was way too amazing of an opportunity to pass up, so she’d modified her bag to allow her lens to peek out. She set the focus to manual and would have to hope things were in range. With the low light and a bit of distance between her and the bondage suspensions, she might get nothing, but she had to try. The camera was in silent mode, no beeps or clicks. She’d get away with it. No one would be paying any attention to her.

  The wind whipped right up her short skirt and chilled her thighs. She’d worn proper panties today, no g-string, but under the cute leather jacket she only had on a sheer white halter, tied behind her neck and so thin as to be almost invisible. Mia’s idea, in hopes that Syria would interest another of the bondage experts to tie her up too.

  Syria wasn’t sure about that, but wearing something so bare out in public had sent such a hard-core thrill through her, she’d had to do it. Mia snapped an image of her to send to her boyfriend Tyson up in Seattle, although he was working a gig and hadn’t responded yet.

  Mia at least had a proper jacket. Her legs were bare too, but under her trench coat she wore spandex boy shorts and a tight fuzzy sweater. Unlike Syria, she’d put on a bra in case they would let her keep on underwear. Not that she was shy, obviously, having done a pirate sex show for years. But even her experience couldn’t keep her hands from shaking as she tied her belt back at Syria’s house. They were both out of their element.

  The warehouse loomed in front of them, three stories and larger than any of the other small metal buildings that lined the street. No cars had passed during their walk and the street lights were dim. The whole atmosphere felt like a movie, two young girls entering to their doom. Syria’s belly quivered, imagining the doors opening wide and both of them getting swept into a room to be stripped, tortured, and kept prisoner.

  “That looks like the door.” Mia pointed to a small back entry, painted red, the only bit of color in the dreary metal and concrete. They turned off the street and headed for it. As they approached, another tiny figure arrived from the opposite street, huddling in a blue pea coat. As they all arrived at the door, Syria saw she was Asian, her black hair twisted in a tight bun, her face painted white with red lips and heavily lined eyes, like a traditional Geisha.

  “It’s our first time,” Mia said to her.

  The girl shook her head and brought her finger to her lips.

  “What, we can’t talk?” Mia asked.

  The girl shook her head again, then whispered, “We are submissives. This is our door. Do not speak upon entering.”

  “I’m just a spectator,” Syria said, but fell silent at the glare from the kohl-lined eyes, surprised at the strength coming from someone so tiny.

  The presence of another girl, one who had clearly done this before and lived to tell about it, and even come back for more, soothed Syria’s nerves. It would be like the video she’d seen, she guessed, lots of ropes and strung-up girls and men sitting around. Nothing to fear.

  The heat that washed over them when the door opened was another relief. Mia glanced back at Syria and smiled. “This is going to rock!”

  The other girl shook her head, rushing forward, probably to distance herself from the noncompliant submissive. The whole silent domination was a lot of rot. They were just people. So what if some of the people tied up the others?

  They walked down a dimly lit corridor, metal doors at regular intervals all tightly shut. Syria pushed a little faster, trying to follow the tiny figure ahead of them. Madam had not given them any instruction beyond entering the red door.

  The hallway turned sharply and now they could make out a bright light at the end. A man stood there, resplendent in a three-piece suit, and he pointed the first girl to a door. Syria slowed down, as did Mia. The man watched them approach. He, too, was Asian, with thick black hair and sly eyes. He missed nothing, Syria could tell, appraising the women much as she might when considering an angle to photograph. She tightened the bag against her body. He turned to Mia. “You must be Madam’s new submissive.”

  Mia nodded. The man pointed to another door in the corridor, but when Syria tried to follow, he caught her arm. “Submissives only. She will be prepped.”

  Mia halted. “Oh no, she’s coming with me.”

  “Madam will not be pleased.” The man’s brows furrowed together, his eyes dark.

  “Madam can shove it up her back door.” Mia’s eyes flashed, her cheeks pink. She linked her arm through Syria’s. “We’re doing this as a favor.”

  They pushed through the door and immediately stopped. The room didn’t match the rest of the warehouse at all, plush carpeting on the floor, a massage chair, gold fabric draped on the walls, a bright makeup table. And people. Several people.

  A woman in a red kimono, hair piled high above a bright friendly face, reached for Mia’s hand. “You are just as the Madam described.” Her movements were fluid and graceful, leading Mia to the makeup table with gentle firmness even though she was petite.

  Syria hung back at the door. Two women began removing Mia’s coat and brushing her hair. Red Kimono turned to her. “You must be Mia’s friend, the photographer.” She glanced down at the oversized bag, and Syria felt unmasked. “I am sure she is so glad you are here. The first time can be unnerving.”

  She gestured to a chaise lounge. “Rest here. I am Kana, the Madam’s assistant. You may remain with us until the time of the exhibition.”

  Syria sank into the plush chaise, carefully setting her bag beside her. The women were intricately braiding Mia’s long black hair. A third woman began powdering her face.

  “Shall I take your coat?” Kana asked.
/>
  Syria’s face flushed, remembering the sheer halter. “No, no. I’m a bit chilled.” The room, actually, was quite warm, but she couldn’t bear to wear such a slinky outfit among their gorgeous Japanese formality. All the women were in ceremonial dress, glimmering kimonos with the funny socks that allowed their sandals to go between the toes. Syria tucked her knees tightly together, glad for sensible boots and not the tramp heels Mia wore.

  But the women quickly removed the shoes, setting them carefully on a cart. Mia faced a mirror in her sweater and boy shorts. The makeup girl stepped back and with a nod, the other women pulled the sweater over Mia’s head. Her black bra stood out sharply in the soft room, like a blight. With a quick snap, it fell away.

  Mia caught her eye in the mirror, and Syria attempted a smile. The women pulled Mia to standing and tugged down the shorts. Now she was naked, but only a moment before Kana covered her in a shimmery gold robe.

  The makeup girl returned to her position and Mia was given an artful look, dark lashes and deep color on her lids. The lips were brushed plum and her cheekbones stood out. She looked beautiful, exactly right for her hair and skin, like a goddess with the braids.

  A side door opened and a larger bustling woman in a plain white kimono entered with a tray of bottles. She waved the others aside and untied Mia’s robe, pressing her hands against her thighs and arms and waist. Mia caught Syria’s expression yet again, amused.

  The women pulled Mia up and the robe came off and now the woman rubbed something along Mia’s rib cage, her upper arms, and then along her thighs and ankles.

  Pressure points, Syria realized, and probably something to assist with the places the ropes might chafe her. She bumped her bag in just the right spot. She couldn’t hear the click but sensed the camera had taken the shot. She had no idea if she was getting anything, but the image was amazing, Mia, naked, surrounded by the women in their resplendent costume, anxious and bemused.

  The woman stood, satisfied and the gold robe went back on.

  Kana waved to Syria. “It is time. You will go with me to sit with the audience. Because you are a woman, you will have to sit in the back. I understand if this does not fit with your idea of how you would be treated, but this group, while not strictly Japanese, likes to abide by certain rules. We hope you will obey them so that you might come again.” She smiled, and Syria was reminded of a butterfly, her face was so open and kind, the color from her kimono reflecting on her face.

  “Okay.” Syria didn’t know what else to say but picked up her bag and followed Kana out through the door. The other women led Mia another way. “See you soon!” she called out.

  The corridor continued another several yards then opened into a large space bordered by a stage lit with soft white towers of light. Three rows of chairs were filled with men of many ethnicities, all in suits, laughing and talking amongst themselves.

  When she entered, they quieted, turning to look as though they had smelled a woman. Kana held her tightly. “Madam has brought a new submissive, and this is her escort. She will watch the proceedings from the back.”

  The men nodded and were turning back to their conversations when Kana, trying to be helpful, slid the bag off Syria’s arm and tugged the jacket from her.

  The light lit the white halter and the sudden cooling in the room made her nipples tighten painfully. Syria wanted to grab the coat back, but she was stuck and Kana was handing her things to an attendant. She didn’t know which to panic more about — her camera going away or the attention her outfit had drawn.

  She pulled at the hem of the skirt as the men silently appraised her, twisted in their seats. Why had she and Mia thought this was a good idea? Kana, thankfully, made no mention of her clothing and led her to a cushioned chair in the corner. A boy dressed all in black came onstage, leading a metal hook on several ropes along a metal bar until it rested in the center. The men turned their attention to this, and Syria relaxed. Hopefully they would forget about her now. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  A man in silky black pants and a ceremonial jacket came on stage and bowed to the audience. Music began, full of flutes and strange instruments Syria didn’t recognize, flighty and light.

  The girl they’d met at the door came out in a sky blue kimono, her makeup slightly altered, the white face accented with silvery blue shadow and kissed pink lips. The man took her by the hand and led her to the center of the stage, turning her in a circle for everyone to admire.

  She kept her eyes downcast, demure, so small as to almost appear to be a girl, although Syria knew she had to be plenty old enough. Her glossy hair was swept up with two crossing bamboo spears.

  The man came behind her and embraced her, one hand on her belly, another cupping her chin, bringing her face up to his. He smiled at her, rapt and loving, and ran his fingers along her jaw, her neck, her collarbone, and just inside the fold of the kimono.

  Syria stirred and could not pull her eyes away, but became aware that his hand was loosening the girl’s robe. Then he spun her, hand tight on the blue fabric, and as the little wisp whirled, she broke free of the kimono, pale and naked, turning more and more slowly across the stage.

  Her body had been rouged at the thighs and breasts. She was trimmed but not shaven, the dark hair a deep triangle below the white belly. The man tossed the kimono away and reached for the hook, pulling it lower. Only then did Syria realize he had a coil of white rope in his hand. The girl turned back to him in slow circles, and he quickly twisted the first tie, pressing her arms lightly so that she lifted them. And he caught her again, running a hand along her body, across the tiny breasts, and wrapped the rope around her waist, cinching it tight.

  Syria’s brain whirled as he whipped through the steps of creating a cinch on her waist, another above and below her breasts, smashing them tightly between, and then one on her thigh. He attached her to the hook then, letting one leg dangle, spreading the other straight and high and lashing it into place. Now she hung straight down, one leg up, arms in a double column over her head. He bent the free leg and tied it down, then stepped away, observing her with admiration and something akin to love. He grasped her knee to spin her, and now the work was complete. The girl whirled, a blur of rope, breast, white skin and rosy spots, her lightly furred mound the center point of attention, open and ready.

  But this exhibition was not about sex, not like the Madam had done with Mia during her lesson, and after a moment, he quickly released her, pulling her down with the loving care of a parent, stroking the red whelps as the girl curled into him.

  Syria was blown away by the sheer emotion of the experience. The men in the audience were silent, appreciative. She imagined the same scene with other people, hooting and clapping. But here, only the lyrical cascade of the music filled the room in the aftermath of what felt and looked sexual, but had actually had almost no contact you would normally consider to be sex.

  Her body throbbed in key places, and she knew she was slick. Maybe Mia would be the same way afterward and they could go home together. Tyson had introduced her to video chat, and a whole new set of possibilities had opened up. She wished she had her phone and could show him where she was, but judging by the silent deference of the audiences, pulling out an electronic gizmo to shoot video probably wouldn’t go over too well. Once more, Syria wished they had a real relationship and lived in the same town.

  Another man came on stage, this one dressed more normally in jeans and a white turtleneck. His submissive strutted on stage, completely different from the childlike deference of the first girl. She was deeply tan with long blond hair falling over the thin straps of a formfitting black dress. She cocked a hip, elbow out, and tossed her hair over one shoulder. The man laughed, chin high, then rubbed the stubble on his jaw as if trying to decide how to manage his charge.

  The audience had visibly relaxed, and the tone of this pair was completely different from the first. The girl walked in a tight circle around him, as if appraising his appeal. He grabbed her
and twisted her in front of him, but still held her in the same pose as the first man had held the first girl, hand on the belly and holding her chin. Maybe it was some element of the ritual. The first girl was innocent and had to be taught. This one was to be tamed.

  He kissed her deeply, his hand moving to clamp a breast. When the woman relaxed, he moved to a tender stroke of the back of his hand along her arm, just grazing a nipple with his thumb.

  The tension in the room grew and Syria felt it within herself. He was about to strike, like a lion coiled unseen to his prey.

  They stayed in that position another moment, then the man grabbed the straps of her dress and jerked it down in one swift movement.

  Syria inhaled so sharply that a few of the men turned around. She covered her mouth. She couldn’t get thrown out before Mia’s turn.

  Like the first man, this one worked swiftly, but the differences were monumental. He blindfolded his girl and used a spreader bar to maker her knees go wide. His touch was much more sexual, lingering on her popped-out breasts and sliding through her folds. His touch on his submissive made Syria writhe in her seat, much hotter and wondering if she touched herself, if anyone would notice. She longed for her coat to place in her lap.

  The men were impassive, smoking or sipping drinks, but otherwise seemingly unmoved. Syria didn’t know how they weren’t going crazy. Maybe they saw this all the time.

  The girl spun slowly in a lying position, anchor ropes at her head, shoulders, waist, and thighs. The spreader bar made it easy to see the glistening sex as it passed by. Now the man lit red candles and held her still, heating the soles of her feet until she flinched. He dripped red wax along her legs, across her belly, and dribbled it on her breasts. The room grew more tense, the men shifting in their seats, and Syria saw they were not as unaffected as they had first appeared.