Billionaires in Paris: An Alpha Billionaire Romance

by Dane, Cynthia

  Kathryn talks with rejected French food in her mouth. “Please don’t act like that. It’s unbecoming.”

  “You hang out with my mother too much.”

  She chuckles, stabbing more food with my dirty fork. “What’s crawled up your ass? Did he reject your deal and then start talking about Princeton?”

  “All right, enough with being coy. I thought Monroe would be a big nemesis of yours. Didn’t his family tear down those low-income housing blocks to gentrify the neighborhood with expensive condos?” I know how to push her buttons, okay? Remind her of the poor and helpless, while she inhales French food in her brand new couture dress. I can admit she’s a hypocrite.

  “You need to relax.”

  She won’t look me in the eye.

  She won’t look me in the eye.

  “You slept with him!”

  My fork clatters on Monroe’s plate. Kathryn chokes on a piece of fish as the waiter returns with her iced tea. He offers to help her, but she brushes him away and sucks enough tea through a straw to drown that damned fish.

  The fabric of her dress crinkles beneath my fingers. “It all makes sense now,” I grunt. “You were doe-eyed the moment you walked in here and saw him. When did it happen? How soon before we started dating?”

  “You’re acting like a pig,” she reprimands me. Her chair scoots farther away, and I’m forced to let go of her.

  “So you’re not denying it?”

  “Why would I deny it?”

  My face must be absolutely priceless, because she’s dithering between laughing and hastily explaining herself.

  “Yes, Ian, I slept with him. Before we started dating. A few months, at least. We had a one-night stand after bumping into each other at The Dark Hour. It’s not a big deal. Get over it.”

  “You must’ve bumped into him so hard you fell on his dick…” My mumbles are otherworldly. “Last I checked, he’s not your type.”

  “You’re jealous because he’s a Dom.”

  This is France, so I imagine a guillotine sliding down from the ceiling and attempting to decapitate me. It misses and grazes my dick instead.

  Kathryn has touched on something beyond my comprehension. See, when we started going out, she was a legendary, ball-busting Domme who ate subs alive and regurgitated their souls. Okay, so she’s still a Domme, even if she doesn’t go out as such that often. Turns out she’s a natural switch, even if she had a lot of apprehension associated with it. Those first few months of our relationship was exploring how far she wanted to go. Now she’s regularly tied up in bed begging her Master to take his sexual aggression out on her. (That’s me, by the way.)

  It took a long, long time and a shitton of patience on my part to help her reach the point where she could confidently ask for what she wants with me. She’s made it clear that she would never be comfortable doing it with another man. While she’s told me that she’s slept with other Doms before me, there’s no way it was kinky. No way.

  I’m aghast because Damon Monroe is 24/7 kink with his sex life. This is a guy who will show up at the opera with his latest pet wearing nothing but a negligee and sporting a crystal collar around her throat – and a leash attached to his hand. So not only have I believed that Kathryn would greatly dislike this guy for many reasons, but the thought of them… having sex…

  I’m not just jealous. I’m really, really confused.

  “Excuse me for thinking I know you so well that a fuckfest between you and that bastard is beyond my comprehension.”

  Kathryn dabs her mouth with my napkin but does not look at me. “I was having an exceptionally pissy night full of blustering hormones and he offered to buy me a drink. I went from thinking that I wanted to make a guy call me Mistress to full-blown get my cunt pounded until I couldn’t walk for a week. Guess who offered that to me?”

  “Thank you so much for those images.” I need a lobotomy. Instead of me screwing my girlfriend on this table, I’m seeing Monroe shove aside his submissive assistants and tossing a moaning Kathryn Alison this way and that as he splits her in two. Which is my job.

  No, no, no, I am not seeing that ball-busting Domme grin on her face. “He was fantastic, by the way.” She nips more food, eyes never breaking contact from mine. “Thought I had died and been blasted through time to the Garden of Eden. Didn’t stay the night though, don’t worry.”

  Don’t. Worry. She. Says.

  “Oh my God, you’re so pissed.”

  “I’m not pissed,” I say through gritted teeth. “Surprised, that’s all, sweetie.”

  Why the fuck is she laughing?

  “You’re ridiculous. Do you need me to say that we have way more fulfilling sex?”

  ‘No.” What I need her to say is that I have the biggest dick in the universe and nobody has fucked her like I have. That I am the best lover she has taken to bed, and even if I died today, there would never be another man who could satisfy her like I can. That’s what I need. Not exactly something I can ask for, now is it? “What was he talking about… seeing us at The Dark Hour…”

  “Oh, Lord.” Kathryn shoves aside the plate and buries her face in her hand. “He owns half of it! Of course he wants to see us there. That means money in his pocket.”

  “We’re never going there again.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Ian, you’re such a guy sometimes.”

  I don’t deny it.

  “Forget about him.” She leans against me, her hand snaking its French-tipped way toward my insulted friend. I take out my phone and pretend to be far more interested in it than her. Two can play this game. “I came to Paris with you. I want to spend these next few days doing absolutely nothing but hanging out in this beautiful city and making love to you. I hadn’t even thought of that guy in months.”

  “Just months, huh?”

  “I can’t tell if you’re this jealous or being a dick.”

  “You underestimate my ability to be both.”

  “Typical. You find out that some other alpha male got to me before you and now act like a petulant teenager. Now I know what I missed out on in school.”

  Have I mentioned yet that we went to Winchester together? That we had crushes on one another that culminated in a botched attempt at sex, ending with me all over her before I could even see her pussy? It was years before we tried again, and by then we had drastically changed anyway. Imagine that. People are different between 17 and 29.

  Kathryn has drastically changed in the past year alone. She’s turning thirty next year, and by then she might be yet another person I don’t know. Me? I’m ignoring the fact I have turned thirty already.

  “You didn’t think of him, but you remembered him the moment you saw him.”

  Still smirking as if she’s got some big secret to share, Kathryn leans in and grazes her teeth against my earlobe. So much for being insulted – now my cock is acting like we’re getting some in the French restaurant. I pull a napkin over my lap even though we’re the only ones in here. “To be fair,” she hisses in my ear, “I instantly compared him to you. You know who I would rather be with?”

  “His name better start with I.”

  Her fingers pry away the napkin and push against my straining member. I’m not flustered. Never. “Of course it does. Now are we going to enjoy the rest of our day, or do I have to give you a blowjob beneath the table first?”

  I’m not saying she has to give me a blowjob, but I’m not saying she doesn’t either. Depends on if she’s asking me or my way too-easy-to-forgive companion between my legs. I’m the mouth, but he’s the one in control around here.

  Chapter 3

  KATHRYN

  Men rarely surprise me anymore. I could show up naked instead of in couture, and Ian would still strut around with the biggest bruised ego in France.

  What I should have done, apparently, was give Damon my classic cold shoulder and pretend my shit was too hot for him to handle. Excuse me, however, if Damon Monroe is a bigger charmer than my own boyfriend. That’s not a knock aga
inst Ian. He’s charming, sure, but Damon takes it to another level. He makes you feel like the most important, most stunning woman in the room, and all he has to do is glance at you with those burning brown eyes…

  “I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t want to leave this bed until I say so.”

  Oh, right, we’re doing this.

  My hands are above my head, touching the soft cotton of the pillowcase. Beneath me, the large bed sinks, and not just from my weight. My boyfriend has me pinned down, his legs straddling my waist and his eager erection digging into my stomach. Wow. He usually doesn’t get this stiff this quickly.

  I must be that hot in this dress!

  “I’m not going to say you can leave until I’m sure you know who I am.”

  I play with his collar and the top two buttons already left undone. The more I feel, smell, and gaze at my man, the more I want him to make good on his promises. What were we quibbling about earlier, again?

  “Why, you’re my boyfriend, of course.” My arms loop around his shoulders. His lip-biting tells me he wants to kiss me until we both suffocate. How much self-control is he practicing right now? More than I deserve. “You know what my boyfriend gets to do to me?” Nails tease his skin. He’s going to lose it, and I’m going to get it.

  Ian whispers exactly what I’m thinking. I don’t think I have to tell you what my boyfriend gets to do to me.

  “I’m not just your boyfriend.” His teeth touch my cheek, hot breath doing crazy things to my ear.

  “That’s right.” My legs coax his hips to come closer to mine. Although layers of clothes exist between us, Ian has no problem riling me up with that hard cock rubbing against me. “You’re my Master, aren’t you, sir?”

  Ohoho, he really loves it when I talk kinky. This man loses his mind when you relinquish all control to him. I admit, I love giving him that control. He’s the only man I’ve ever trusted to do that. If he thinks I did anything even remotely kinky – rough vanilla sex doesn’t count – with Damon, then he’s an idiot. Ian Mathers is the only man who gets to spank my ass, come on my tits, and call me deliciously filthy things.

  I’m really open to those ideas tonight. Not only would I like to see him prove something, but we’re in Paris. Even I’m warm at the thought of giving up who I am while the early summer scents tickle my nose and views of the clear night sky spread beyond our hotel window. I don’t even care if some perv can see us. Hope they enjoy the show.

  “Damn straight I am,” he groans into the crook of my neck. “Say it again.”

  I draw out the word as if it’s my last breath. “Master.”

  Before I know it, he’s surging against me, stealing away that very breath. Ian wants this dress off my body. Good luck, is all I can say. It’s so tight and there’s no zipper in the back. Just a million tiny eyelets and the glass buttons to go with them.

  At least he doesn’t rip my dress off. He’s done that before, but I probably made enough noise about this acquisition earlier that he knows better, even with all the blood in his system rushing to his cock.

  As the frustration mounts, he mumbles the hottest things. “Open your fucking legs.” “Don’t close your eyes. I want to see them.” “Fuck these blasted buttons. I’ve seen your tits a thousand times. Let me have your cunt.” “How can you be so wet already?” He calls me one of the dirtiest names in the book we wrote together. In everyday life, I’d kick his ass for calling me that. In bed, however, when he’s asserting himself all over my body and getting deep in my head (and other places,) I can’t wait for him to unload every nasty word he’s biting back in polite situations.

  When I thought of making love with my boyfriend in Paris for the first time, I thought the usual: champagne and city views, massages, slow, sensual love… or at least a hardcore kink scene that lasts half the night and ends with me completely blacking out. Yet here we are, falling asses first into bed and on the brink of a dirty quickie without our clothes bothering to come off.

  I love it.

  “Get inside me,” I whimper, grabbing his clothes, searching for his cock beneath too many layers of fabric. “Fuck me like you own me.”

  No silly jokes. No witty comebacks. We are on the same wavelength tonight. In fact, he’s probably been waiting for me to give the go ahead to pound me until my rambles sound like fluent French.

  Everything’s raising to meet him as the tip of his cock grazes the inside of my thigh. You know that moment when everything goes blank in your brain? When all you can think about is having sex until you feed that starving hunger within you? The anticipation is killing you: you know that in one more second you’re going to be experiencing some of the greatest pleasure of your life, or so you want to convince yourself. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. All I know is that I want to become one with him.

  Thump thump thump.

  I’m ignoring it. Ian’s ignoring it. We’re gonna do this and not even Satan himself could crawl out from beneath the bed and light us on fire to make us stop fucking.

  Thump thump thump.

  “Madam Alison!” Some thickly accented English is floating in here, and for some damn reason I hear it over the heavy breaths of my boyfriend and the creaking bed beneath us. For a moment I’m distracted, head moving out of the way as Ian tries to plant a kiss on me. Instead, he makes out with my pillow.

  “Ignore it.” He turns my head back toward his and kisses me. “This is more important.”

  I’m not saying I disagree. The whole lower half of my body is screaming for sex.

  “Madam Alison, there is a missive!”

  “Slide it under the door!” I bark. Someone has his thick erection pushed against my thigh and I’m calling bullshit that it’s not inside me right now.

  A pause. I think we’re in the clear and go back to having sex.

  THUMP THUMP THUMP.

  It’s so loud and disruptive that I leap out from beneath Ian’s body and snatch the end of the hotel bed. He rolls off me and, with the heaviest sigh, pulls a pillow over his lap. I get up and stumble to the door. I don’t realize my skirt is pushed up too high until my hand hits the knob.

  “What is it?” The poor messenger on the other side of my suite door yelps as she faces the wrath of Kathryn Margaret Alison, a horny woman who wants to fuck her boyfriend. I must look like a rabid animal, for the young maid shoves a folded note at me, unable to make eye contact.

  “Un message, Madam! Please excuse me.”

  I snatch the note and curtly thank her. Her light footsteps scurry away the moment I latch the door shut again. When I turn around, note crumpling in my hand, I see my boyfriend twiddling his thumbs on top of the pillow protecting his second erection of the day.

  “Well?” he asks. “What was so important?”

  My eyes stay locked on his as I unfold the note. “Probably nothing. Let me…”

  There are no more words. The moment I see the elegant handwriting covering the letter, everything comes crashing down. My mood. My hormones. My ability to rationalize with the world.

  “What’s wrong?”

  The letter trembles in my hand. “It’s from my mother.”

  Chapter 4

  KATHRYN

  Eight in the morning in Paris. The city is waking up and going about its day. Then again, I’m in a hotel café, so there are a lot of tourists milling around, practicing their French and pretending to be more sophisticated than they really are. I see it a lot back in America too. Other parts of Europe. Even East Asia. But there’s something about Paris that really brings out the pretentious assheel from people.

  I couldn’t sleep last night. Tired, but not sleepy, I sip my coffee and go through my emails on my phone. I’m wearing a big baggy white sweater even though it’s supposed to be 25 degrees Celsius today. I wasn’t thinking when I snuck out of my hotel room with Ian still fast asleep in our bed.

  Ever since I read my mother’s letter, I’ve been in this trance. Funk, really. It was a short letter. “Dearest Kathryn. I have hea
rd that you are also in Paris this week. Let’s meet up for dinner if you’re not too busy.” Sounds innocuous enough until you realize my mother is a manic depressive piece of work who skipped out of my life the moment I was sent off to college. She had mentally checked out long before that.

  So to have my mother not only be in the same European city as me… but go out of her way to contact me for a meet up… something is wrong, and it’s making me uneasy.

  At least the coffee here is amazing. I need some waking up. I didn’t sleep, but that doesn’t mean I still don’t have some jetlag to contend with. Don’t even get me started on how my body is still crying because we didn’t get any last night.

  I tried. As soon as things settled down again, I tried to resume sex with Ian, but my brain was officially filled with anxious thoughts. Why was my mother in Paris? Why did she want to see me? Was she dying? Was she finally divorcing my father and wanted to tell me for herself? Did she meet a guy in Germany, where she’s currently living?

  Why does she want to see me?

  Suffice to say, there was no sex. My libido had jumped into the Seine and was doggy-paddling away. Dry as the Sahara. As interested in sex as a 90-year-old nun. Ian would take a distracted handjob and be grateful.

  Yeah, right. Halfway through he told me to rest while he went to take a shower. Without me. Like I don’t know what he was doing in the shower! Unfortunately, I was too moody to surprise him in there.

  “Kathryn? Kathryn Alison?”

  That airy yet masculine voice snaps me out of my stupor. I look up from my phone and into the pleasantly surprised face of…

  Oh my God!

  “Martin?” My phone plops on my bistro table. “Martin Charles? No way.”

  The man standing in front of my table looks like any other rich guy out for a holiday in Paris. Collared shirt. Linen pants. Obnoxiously cute but spoiled haircut. It’s the same damn haircut he had when we dated a long time ago.