Billionaire's Matchmaker (Titans)

by Sierra Cartwright

  His bedroom seemed a little more intimidating without him in it, as if she were encroaching on his private retreat. Sounds of him moving around downstairs reached her. Not knowing how much time she had and nervous that he’d catch her not being obedient, she hurried into his closet.

  Unaccountably, her hands were shaking as she pulled out the vibrator, then the oversize blindfold and the gloves. Except for a snap at the wrist, they appeared to be ordinary driving gloves. As she carried the load to the bedroom, one of the gloves fell to the floor. She bent to grab it, and something sharp stabbed her. “Ow. Damn it.” Out of instinct, she studied her palm. There was no scratch, and she picked up the glove. When it poked her again, she turned it over. Blood drained from her face. The glove was studded with pointed metal spikes. Oh God, no. There was no way she could tolerate that kind of pain.

  Mouth dry, she continued to the bedroom. No matter how hard she tried to keep her focus, her gaze continued to stray to the metal spikes.

  Downstairs, Rafe turned on classical music, soothing and seductive. But it also disguised what he was doing and would make it impossible for her to discern his footfall on the stairs. A sense of urgency drove her onward.

  She laid the gloves on the nightstand, the spikes facing one another so she didn’t have to see them. Then she placed the butterfly. Surely its fluttering couldn’t be as bad as she remembered. But since she was so aroused, the barest brush of the silicone against her clit made her jerk.

  Making her way into the middle of the bed, she dropped the remote control near her hand before picking up the blindfold. The soft black satin was lined with a thin strip of something pliable that snugged her face, making it impossible to peek.

  Hope slid the lever on the remote control. The vibrator leaped to life, making her yelp. She frantically fought to turn it to pulse, and when the pressure let off, she heaved a sigh.

  Once she’d settled down, she moved her body into the position he’d ordered. That made the vibrator move a bit, and it was more irritating now. Not knowing how much time she had or whether he was inside the room watching her, she forced herself to endure the sensual assault he’d dreamed up.

  The thing pulsed, enough to get her attention. Then it faded away. It stayed off long enough for her mind to drift. Then it gave another quick jolt.

  Hope moved her hips, seeking more, wanting it to last longer. Her legs ached from the fight to keep them apart rather than draw them together in an attempt to find some relief for the sensations crashing through her.

  Her earlier guess had been wrong. The butterfly wasn’t as bad as she remembered. It was worse.

  She had no idea how long he left her in position, but as the minutes passed, she started to twitch, then gyrate her hips, lifting them, trying to satiate herself every bit as much as she was trying to escape. The music faded, and the darkness of the blindfold was her companion. Nothing existed but her and the damnable sex toy.

  Hope whimpered. There was no way this thing had the power to create such a harsh reaction in her. It was the most awful thing she’d ever endured.

  “Beautiful.”

  At the sound of Rafe’s voice, she froze. It sounded as if he stood at the foot of the bed, where he would have a view of her exposed, raised pussy. She should have been aware of a shift in the room when he entered, should have known from his scent that he was there. The haunting music, coupled with the fact that she couldn’t see, left her trapped in a world where nothing existed but the next dreaded pulse against her pussy.

  Rafe was driving her mad.

  The thing vibrated again, and she cried out.

  “Awful, isn’t it?”

  Imagining how she must look to him, she lowered her buttocks to the mattress, then writhed when the butterfly pulsed once more.

  “Would you like it faster?” he asked. “Like a hum? Or at full speed?”

  “No! Please, Rafe. No.”

  “You’ve done an excellent job of keeping yourself in position. Thank you. Since the next part will be much more difficult, I’m going to tie you so that you remain still.”

  He removed her blindfold. “I want to see you suffer.”

  A chill—fear, dread, desire—lanced her. She flashed back to that first day in his office. “Her tears are like dripping nectar from the gods.” Hope had talked to other submissives about sadism. There were various interpretations of the word. Rafe wasn’t a strict sadist, in that he didn’t seek to hurt her, but there was no doubt that he experienced joy when she was like this, overwrought with need.

  “You have a safe word that I will always honor.”

  She nodded.

  “And a slow word. You remember them both?”

  Her mouth dried, leaving her unable to speak, so she nodded.

  Rafe’s eyes were a softer shade of blue than she’d ever seen, and he’d cloaked himself fully in his role as a Dominant. With his words and expressions, he didn’t ask for her trust—he guaranteed it.

  He notched the slider bar up a fraction, giving her more frequent pulses but with no more intensity.

  “Ankles first,” he said.

  He’d placed four long straps on the bed, the black a startling contrast to the snow-white duvet cover. Rafe caught her right ankle just as her pussy was jolted, making her freeze. She whimpered.

  In short order, he cuffed her, attached the metal clasp to one of the strips of leather, then affixed it to the frame of the bed.

  Each time the vibrator moved, he nodded in satisfaction. He was a master at what he was doing. The sensation never lasted long enough for her to get off. Instead, it frustrated her. Ignoring her small cries, he secured her other ankle in place.

  Then he tugged the vibrator back a couple of inches.

  She sighed as relief shot through her. “Thank you, Rafe.”

  “Don’t thank me. I’m making sure the fit is correct.” He dampened his first finger and teased her clit with it.

  Since she was so sensitized, the pressure made her yelp. “Oh!”

  “You must have done a nice job in placing it. Your clit is so red and swollen.” He replaced his finger with the jumping little bit of silicone. Then he adjusted the straps around her thighs and waist so that the annoying vibrator snugged against her privates. “Your wrists next.”

  When he was finished attaching her in place, his straps had forced her into a position so much wider, much more vulnerable. Being stretched so far was uncomfortable, but just the right side of tolerable.

  “Better,” he said with approval.

  Frightened, she stared as he pulled on the gloves. Hope tugged a little against her restraints, but she was held firm.

  “You won’t hate this.” He trailed the tiny spikes over her right foot.

  It didn’t hurt. Instead, the sensation was light, more than a tickle, which she would have hated, but less than a prick. When he pressed against the arch of her foot, awareness rocked through her.

  He moved on to her other foot and repeated the process. “What do you think of the vampire’s bite, sweet Hope? Will you bring the gloves to me when I let you choose the toys for a scene?”

  She pulled and twisted, liking what he was doing to her.

  Next, he drew the spikes up the outsides of her thighs. The metal didn’t even leave a scratch. When he moved between her thighs, her breath caught. He used more pressure, digging in to her flesh a little. Rather than being in pain, she was turned on. She shook her legs, trying to get a more contact with the vibrator. Of course she couldn’t.

  He pressed a palm against her cunt. Wide-eyed, she held her breath.

  “How hard do you want it?”

  Her heart raced.

  “Tell me.”

  She swallowed. “More.”

  He squeezed her pussy, then released it before she could even ask. Flames burst through her.

  “Pain and pleasure. Same side of the coin, aren’t they? Not opposites, but the same?”

  She nodded.

  He grabbed her again, digg
ing in more, knocking the vibrator to one side, catching the inside of one of her labia. She screamed, so damn close to coming.

  “You have permission to orgasm at any time.” He moved the silicone so that it once again pressed against her clit.

  She lifted her head to watch him, and tears overwhelmed her. He formed a fist and used the smooth side of the leather to turn up the vibrator speed, then pulled back her pussy lips with the spikes and held her apart while the vibrator ravished her.

  “Cry, Hope. Spill those beautiful tears.”

  Hope sobbed. Unrelenting, he turned up the device to high.

  The orgasm grabbed her womb, and she screamed as she spiraled. Over and over she came, crying, shaking, her body and mind consumed by him.

  When it was finally over, he turned off the vibrator and she gasped, dropping her head back onto the pillow. She couldn’t imagine a life where she didn’t have the opportunity to experience this.

  “You are so fucking amazing. So sweet. So trusting.” Pulling off the gloves, he kissed away her tears.

  Shattered, she sighed. She was certain it was over, but he said, “I’m not done with you.”

  “I can’t take much more.”

  “No? Safe word?”

  She was too curious for that. He picked up something from the nightstand. How had she missed the whipped cream?

  “Well?”

  Even though she might rue her words, she said, “Do your worst.”

  He chuckled and dabbed a bit on the end of her nose, just enough to drive her vision bonkers. Then he topped her nipples with small artistic swirls before licking and nibbling off the sweet cream.

  Instead of letting her come, he released each of her bonds and took a few seconds to rub feeling back into her limbs before stripping and putting on a condom. “I need to be inside you.”

  “I need it too.”

  He maneuvered them both until she was atop him. His cock slid into her hot cunt, and when she was astride him, she winced.

  “You okay?”

  She wouldn’t change anything, even if she could. She liked it all. Realizing he was waiting for her answer, she said, “Yes, Rafe.”

  He held her hips to control how fast she rode him. That was fine for a few minutes, but soon, restlessness gnawed at her. “Please?”

  Rafe tightened his grip. “Arch your back so I can see your beautiful breasts better.”

  “Yes.” The moment she complied, he moved her faster, pounding her deep, feeding a part of her psyche that she hadn’t known was hungry. Rafe seemed to know what she needed, and he gave it to her.

  Hope cried out her happiness. And in that moment, she knew she was going to Louisiana with him. She was going to swallow her reservations, her fears, and do what everyone had suggested—go and make her own decisions, even if the biggest cost was her heart.

  Rafe’s glance across the car’s passenger compartment warmed Hope’s insides. It was part promise, part invitation, and all sexy, underlying threat. She stared out the side window at the passing scenery, needing something to distract her so she could breathe again.

  Everything about this trip had been surreal. From the moment she agreed to come, she’d been swept up in the whirlwind that was Rafe Sterling.

  Tony had volunteered to go with Skyler to the fundraising event. Caroline had caved and agreed to watch the Colonel when Rafe offered a spa day. Rafe had made his all-out assault on Hope all the more lethal when he arrived to pick her up. The Colonel, after a few seconds of making a sound more like a growl than a hiss, had wound herself in a figure eight around his ankles. He’d crouched to give her a gift. A catnip toy.

  Who the hell bought the devil’s-spawn Somali a peace offering?

  Then he’d topped it off by ordering his company’s airplane to be stocked with the champagne Hope loved.

  Although he worked during most of the flight, she’d sat back in the butterscotch-colored leather seat and sipped a couple of glasses of bubbly. From time to time, she’d taken in the view and watched the big fluffy clouds.

  For a moment she’d considered that maybe, just maybe, if forced, she could get accustomed to housekeepers and jet-setting.

  The drive from the airport to the Titans’ estate was taking far longer than she’d anticipated. She supposed the distance gave the society a measure of privacy.

  “Almost there,” he said, turning onto a road that was lined with the lushness of spring.

  Magnolia trees bore blossoms as big as dinner plates. Native vegetation was a bright, verdant green. The pavement meandered, appearing to lead to nowhere, inviting people to turn back. No doubt that was on purpose.

  A few miles later, a right-hand turn led to a much narrower road. There were no signs, and the vegetation was thicker, more swamplike.

  After several minutes, they arrived at a sturdy metal gate with no name on it. A call box stood off to the side. Rafe opened an app in his phone and placed some sort of picture against a screen on the stand.

  “High tech,” she said.

  “Biometrics at the next one.”

  He wasn’t kidding.

  They entered the grounds. “Is that sugar cane?”

  He nodded. “Since the costs of sustaining the compound are significant, we grow sugar and pecans as cash crops.”

  They continued on until they reached an enormous arch that contained spiked wrought-iron gates adorned with the Zeta Society crest.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Sterling.” A disembodied voice greeted them.

  Rafe turned his head, and light beams danced outside the car. Measuring his face?

  “You’re cleared through to the Grand House, sir.”

  “Thank you, Fitzgerald.”

  The gates swung inward and he accelerated through the opening. “We’ll need to get you a guest pass while we’re here.”

  “Do I need to do all that fancy stuff?”

  “No.” He grinned. “That’s for members. Without me, you wouldn’t have gotten this far. You’ll need to get a microchip implanted.”

  Her jaw dropped.

  “That was a joke.”

  “Mean.” She glared at him. “I didn’t realize you had an evil streak.”

  “Yes, Ms. Malloy. I do believe we’d already settled that.” The lazy reminder in his tone sent flares up and down her spine.

  The road ahead was canopied by dozens and dozens of Southern live oak trees, blocking the sun and sky, making it dark. Judging by their size, they had to be hundreds of years old. It created privacy and mystique, a separation from her ordinary world.

  The asphalt twisted and turned, and not long after they emerged into the cloudless daylight, a magnificent plantation home stood in the distance. “Oh my God.”

  “It’s spectacular, isn’t it?”

  The white home was a mansion, with contrasting black shutters, a porch across the front with tall white rocking chairs. The second-floor gallery was adorned with black wrought-iron railing. The home appeared to have wings on each side. The most breathtaking feature, though, were the ten Grecian-style columns, complete with curlicues at the top of each. “Easy to see why it’s called the Parthenon.”

  “The plantation was once called One Hundred Oaks. The original owner was Ian, a second-generation British gentleman. He spared no expense with the architecture. Construction took over eight years because his wife, Julie, continually asked for changes from the architect. Her husband wanted a happy wife, so he indulged her every whim.”

  “Smart man.”

  He grinned in response. “Agreed. I think history has proven her intuition correct. The home is timeless. She had many innovations in the house. After Mr. and Mrs. Kirby passed, none of their children had an interest in the property, so they sold it off. Forty or fifty years later, it changed hands again. When the owner could no longer afford the upkeep, the Zetas purchased the house and lands. Descendants of members who contributed more than ten thousand dollars now pay substantially reduced dues.”

  “When was that?”
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  “Around eighteen seventy.”

  That was a lot of money back then. “So, your great-great-however-many-greats-grandfather voted to save One Hundred Oaks?”

  “And contributed around fifty thousand dollars, yes. My family has always had an interest in preservation.”

  The grounds in front of the house were perfectly manicured. The lawn was bright green and larger than any she’d ever seen. To one side was an arched trellis covered with bougainvillea. The center of the lawn was dominated by a seven-tier water fountain and an attached oblong reflecting pond. A white-painted swing hung from a branch of a live oak. “It’s postcard perfect.” She reached for her cell phone. “Do you mind stopping so I can take a picture?”

  “I’m afraid that’s not permitted.”

  “Are you serious?” Was that his rule? Or a Titans rule?

  “We’re a secret society, remember?” His voice held traces of humor, mixed with a droll obviousness.

  “Oh.” The reminder left her feeling a bit foolish. In the article she’d read, the descriptions of the house had been vague, and the accompanying picture, perhaps from a drone, showed the flat roof and not much else. She dropped her phone back into her purse.

  Rafe pulled to a stop beneath the porte cochère attached to the side of the house.

  Valets in crisp white shirts, black bow ties, and black slacks opened the car doors, and the gentleman on Rafe’s side greeted him. “Welcome back, Mr. Sterling. May we take your car and luggage?”

  He thanked the man before coming around the hood of the vehicle to claim her elbow. “After we get your pass, we’ll settle in. I think I’ll take Ms. Malloy through the front door. We’ll see ourselves in.”

  “Excellent, sir,” the valet responded, and he keyed a microphone attached to his shirt front.

  “You’ll see why,” Rafe told her. He guided her up the outside steps and around the corner.

  Heat and humidity clung to her, making her glad she’d taken Rafe’s suggestion to wear a sleeveless dress. Though it shouldn’t be possible, the air hung heavier than it had in Houston. She associated this kind of oppressiveness with midsummer rather than spring, and she wished for an old-fashioned fan to wave in front of her face.