Billionaires in Paris: An Alpha Billionaire Romance

by Dane, Cynthia

  I hold my hand out with a smile. He shakes it, also grinning at this crazy happenstance. “What are the odds?” he asks. “Are you staying in this hotel?”

  “Yeah!” It’s popular with the social circles back home. If you announce you’re going to Paris, half the room asks if you’re staying here. I didn’t book the room, but my assistant did, and my assistant belongs to a society for young women who are, well, assistants to rich assholes like me. They share locations like this in their monthly newsletter. “You?”

  “Been here three days already. Only staying a few more, though.”

  “What are you doing here?” I gesture to the empty chair in front of me. When he says he doesn’t want to disrupt anyone I’m with, I glibly say I’m alone for breakfast. That gets his ass hovering in the chair. “Seeing some of my girlfriend’s family. They’re from Paris.” He lets out a pent-up breath. “They’re a handful of French people, but at least we don’t have to stay at their house.”

  Martin and I broke up ages ago, but hearing he has a girlfriend makes me tense. It’s probably leftovers from my mother barging back into my life, like she belongs there, or something. “Girlfriend, huh? Who you playing with now?”

  “It’s not just play,” he assures me. A server asks if he would like something, and in flawless French he says that water with lemon would be fine. He won’t be staying long. “It’s the whole package.”

  “Oh.” What’s he trying to say? Besides the obvious – we were never anything more than a Domme and her obedient toy.

  Martin doesn’t look it, but he’s as submissive as a good dog. Like most men of his standing, however, he’s very good at hiding his sexual inclinations in public. He’s the second heir to a lumber fortune in Canada. We met when he moved to my hometown for grad school and started frequenting The Dark Hour, the only place to go when you’re filthy rich and into kink (or at least voyeurism.) Didn’t take long for me to pick up that he was the kind of guy I usually looked for. That first night we met I had him licking my boots. Second night? I rode those rosy cheeks until I couldn’t come anymore.

  What is up with Paris, anyway? First the hottest one-night stand of my life, and now Martin, the last boyfriend I had before Ian? This is getting crazy. It’s a parade of the most memorable guys I slept with in the year before I gave Ian Mathers all my time and free access to my body.

  “Anyway, since you asked… I’m with Solange now.”

  Solange. So. Lange. I rack my brain trying to remember where I know that name from. Naturally, I start thinking of Dommes.

  It hits me.

  The French Solange, of course. A tall, lean mean machine who even made me quiver in my boots when I was hanging out in those groups a lot. I don’t hang out as much with them anymore, unless we were already good friends. I’m a lot busier now. And, well, a good half of them don’t like the fact that I’m with Ian. Things get awkward when you go from identifying as a full-time Domme to a switch who mostly subs for her Dom boyfriend.

  “Congratulations,” I say. “She has to make you happy.”

  “Well, you know…”

  Uh huh. I know. Like how Solange once left a naked man all red on stage at The Dark Hour. Minus the purple cock that was begging for release, of course. Two things Martin loves. No wonder he’s in Paris.

  Martin glances at the gold band on my right ring finger. “I hear you’re not doing too bad in your love life either.”

  Something attempts to bungee jump down my throat. “I’ve been in a relationship for over a year now. I’m sure you’ve heard with whom.”

  “How could I not? Everyone was in a titter when you were caught holding hands with Ian Mathers, of all men.”

  I recognize that tone in his voice, but choose to ignore it. I’ve got enough anxiety right now. “We’re here on vacation together.’

  “Together? Where is he? I can’t believe you have him under lock and key somewhere. That sort of play was never your style.”

  He’s right. It wasn’t. I like my men paraded around, not hidden away. “He’s in our room, sleeping. Poor dear’s worn out.”

  Whatever Martin infers from that remark, I let him have. “I’m happy for you. Surprised to find out you were serious with a Dom, but…”

  My eyes narrow. “But what?” Dare I be judged in a Parisian café at eight in the morning? By a fellow North American? Come on, universe. You can do better than that.

  “I was there when you and Mr. Mathers debuted as a kinky couple. If I didn’t know you as well as I do, I would’ve thought you had always subbed.”

  “Holy crap. You were there?”

  “Lots of people were there.”

  Kill me. That was my coming out to the kink community. For years I had built my image as a Domme. Sure, I’d occasionally fuck an alpha asshole like Damon Monroe, if it was vanilla, but that’s because I’m a woman with sexual needs. For the long term, I preferred making men worship me. Martin was good at that. The only reason we broke up after three months was because he was changing schools and I didn’t feel like following him to California. We went well together, but it was never I’m in love serious. I didn’t have that freak-out until I started dating Ian.

  “You’re a good looking couple.” Martin shrugs. “Far be it from me to tell you what you want in your relationships.”

  Judgment. Here it comes.

  I know how it is. Do I ever. I judged other Dommes when they suddenly started submitting to those alpha assholes we sometimes slept with. It was one thing if they had admitted to being switches from the beginning, but being a Domme in our area is a point of immense pride. We take a lot of shit. As much as we give back, really. We have to be tough and ready to defend our domineering honor at any moment. Society, especially high society, does not like women who take as much control as we do.

  There I go. Still saying we. Most of those women only talk to me out of politeness now. I sometimes miss it.

  Okay, I miss it a lot.

  Ian and I have dabbled with our relationship going in the other direction. He’s not really into submitting. He’s a guy who Doms most of the time. He’s not going to openly admit that, even to me. The few times we’ve taken things in that direction, though, I could tell he enjoyed it.

  I often fantasize about going further. While he was in the shower last night, I momentarily distracted myself with thoughts of going in there and telling him to get on his knees and eat me out. Then I went back to thinking about my mother and that killed every fantasy in my head.

  “Either I’m having a crazy dream, or you’re living it up in Paris with another man, Katie.”

  I jerk up. Where the hell had Ian come from? I had left him upstairs, naked and snoring. Now he’s dressed in casual slacks and a plain T-shirt, his aftershave wafting in this direction. He even had time to shower and shave? How long have I been down here?

  “Good morning.” My smile is as genuine as pyrite is real gold. Ian leans down and kisses my cheek. Martin is getting up from his seat. “You’ll never guess who I bumped into here.”

  My past and present exchange cautious looks before shaking hands. “Martin Charles,” my ex-boyfriend and former sub says. I never realized how much shorter than Ian he is. I mean, I knew he was shorter than me, but talk about a trick of the eye. “Kathryn and I used to, ah…”

  “We dated. We’re having a mutual blast from the past here.”

  Most people wouldn’t be able to see it, but I catch the very slight turn of Ian’s lips and that glimmer in his eye that says “You fucked my girl? I’ma fuck you up too!”

  Men. They do not surprise me any longer.

  “I hate to introduce and run, but I’m due on the other side of town in half an hour. Wish me luck.” Martin grabs his jacket and leaves the café, posture straight and head held high. Like I said. It’s hard to guess he sometimes begs tough women to peg him in the ass. I hear Solange delivers in that department.

  Ian helps himself to the now empty chair across from me. “I leave you alon
e for one morning and you go finding your ex-boyfriends all over 7ème arrondissement.” I try not to groan. Ian is fluent in French. By Fluent, I mean he can write, read, and listen to it with great skill. Speaking, well, he’s grammatically correct. I think. His accent is so bad that the locals have no idea what he’s saying half the time. Which sucks, because I am not fluent in French, and relying on him when we’re out of English zones means deciding if I want to be associated with him every time he goes up to someone to ask directions. Because, as we all know, there’s nothing more insulting than going up to a French person and butchering their language.

  (When pressed, I tell people he’s Québécois.)

  “Martin is the only ex-boyfriend so far.”

  “Martin.” He says it as if it’s some old man’s name. “Really? Some guy named Martin?”

  I’m finishing up my coffee so we can get out of here. “What can I say? You may not be able to tell, but he knows how to please a woman.” My empty coffee cup hits the table. “Especially a Domme like me.”

  We hold a tense gaze. The weight of our entire relationship slams against the elasticity of this moment, and all I can think is that he would be a fucking idiot to insinuate that I’m not who I say I am.

  Still holding my gaze, Ian leans forward across the table and plays a damned devil. “Such dirty talk so early in the morning.”

  I grab my purse and get up from my seat. “It’s not dirty if it’s matter of fact.”

  His hand grabs mine on my way by. I snap back, finding those no-good eyes of his still attempting to dig holes into me. “We’ve got some unfinished business, by the way.”

  I snatch my hand back. “This isn’t Vegas, babe. If we don’t have slovenly sex the first night we’re in town, we’ll somehow survive. Come on. Class it up a bit.”

  I walk slowly enough for him to catch up to me. What? I’m not abandoning him. I’m giving him some food for thought!

  Chapter 5

  IAN

  Picture this: a good looking guy (me) minding his own business in the middle of a Parisian street, drinking sparkling bottled water and holding my girlfriend’s shopping bags like a good monkey. Sounds like the perfect time to get papped, right?

  I see the fucker creeping at the end of the sidewalk. He thinks he’s so slick, holding up his phone for an apparent selfie. Unfortunately, I’m on to these sorts of games now. I can look at the way he’s checking out for famous people milling around Paris and then slyly turn the camera around on his phone.

  Wonder who he works for. Since he’s pointing that thing in my direction, I’m gonna assume it’s The Daily Social, my area’s #1 gossip rag for local celebrities and the high and mighty. I’ve shown up in that trash more times than my mother can count in her photo album.

  “Thanks for waiting!” Kathryn pops out of the ladies’ boutique, carrying a small blue bag. She snakes her way to my chest, arm around my waist as she gives me a quick kiss to the lips. Click. We’re one of The Daily Social’s favorite couples, so this is hardly surprising. Still, I don’t have the heart to tell her we’re being trailed. I’d much rather turn her around and take her hand as we walk in the opposite direction. I’m not going to make a scene with that guy. Eventually he’ll get all the pics he wants and run off like a weasel, searching for someone else to stalk for an hour. He’ll sell his pics, I’ll call my publicist to make sure a call is put in to The Daily Social. If they’re going to print pictures of me on a date with my girlfriend, they will damn well be nice ones and only say nice things. With any luck, Kathryn will never find out, because there won’t be anything to report.

  “Disgusting! There’s a pap here!”

  We’re stopped at a crosswalk when we hear those French words. I slightly turn my head, seeing two women around our age hiding behind sunglasses and pulling hats down their heads. It’s too warm for that bullshit. The fact they’re carrying around bags of swimsuits attests to this.

  “Where do you see a dog?”

  One woman points past the other’s nose. “Hot on our trail, Dolores.”

  “This would never happen in Monaco. I need to get my husband to move us there.”

  “You say that every time we’re papped.” They reach our intersection and, after hastily looking both ways, race across the street before the light changes.

  “They’re in a hurry,” Kathryn says. “Did you catch what they were talking about?”

  Even though the light is turning, I lean over to kiss her cheek. Take that, pap. We’re going to be so sweet that you want to vomit. Now, if he could pap our bedroom, that would be another issue entirely. “I didn’t catch it, sorry. Where do you want to go now?”

  We’re still holding hands when we pass some lingerie boutique boasting the latest trends in turning men on. Based on how the mannequins are dressed, I’m gonna guess that they’re right on that pulse. Have I mentioned that we still haven’t had sex yet this vacation? If it’s not happening tonight, I’m going to have the bluest balls.

  I must be radiating “fuck me now” gamma rays because Kathryn is pulling me into the lingerie boutique. Eat your heart out, pap!

  We’re instantly swarmed by a team of saleswomen in this otherwise empty boutique. Two get their hands on Kathryn while I’m banished to some seats in the corner with all the shopping bags. While I wait for her to storm the lacy Bastille, I pull out my phone and find about five-hundred texts from my nosy mother. “How is Paris??” “It’s raining here. Is it raining there?” “I talked to Claire today. She’s such a nice girl. Do you know her?” “Tell Kathryn hi for me.” “Did you do it yet?”

  That last one came in five minutes ago, which means it’s still early in the morning back home. My mother seriously thought that the moment she woke up to have her blueberry oatmeal and sweet tea? “What the hell are you talking about?” My mom and I have a cool relationship. I can say hell. “I know you’re not asking what I think you’re asking.”

  “Grow up. You know what I’m talking about.” The icon that says she’s texting her fingers raw stays stagnant for a good twenty seconds of sheer agony on my part. Meanwhile, Kathryn is holding up a silky black number in front of me, and I’m trying not to think about my mother nosing into my sex life. Again. “Did you propose to her yet????”

  Kathryn spins around after I groan in disbelief. “It’s nothing,” I tell her. “My father’s favorite stock is down. That’s all.” Sad thing is that it’s probably true.

  She gives me one last lingering look before resuming her shopping. She mentions trying something on. It doesn’t sink in until she disappears into a changing room.

  “No I have not. That is not happening.”

  “Why not??”

  “Because it’s not. End of discussion. Have a good day.”

  It’s not even eight in the morning on the eastern seaboard, and my mother is already finding ways to fuck with my day in Paris.

  My mother has it in her head that I’m going to use this romantic trip to propose to my girlfriend, whom she adores. Great! Except I have no intention of proposing to Katie now or anytime soon. Not because I don’t want to eventually marry the love of my life, but because she’s made it pretty clear that we’re not doing the marriage thing anytime soon. Whenever it’s brought up, she nearly dies.

  Then there was that time we kinda-sorta-did get married and annulled in one flashy week in Vegas. Not our brightest moment.

  I think about that a lot. Like Katie, I was shocked when we woke up after a drunken night to discover we had gotten hitched. While we both agreed to get an annulment as soon as possible, it didn’t come without any strings attached. For one, I had to face the fact that I did want to be married to her. On sober terms, of course, but married nonetheless. Would be fine if she didn’t internally explode going to a friend’s wedding. Lingerie boutique? No problem. Bridal gallery? I can see her clawing her face off now.

  I can bide my time, though. Marrying or not marrying aren’t deal breakers for me. I can wait until she’s ready
, if ever. If she’s not? That doesn’t mean we don’t get to be together for the rest of our lives.

  Aw, I’m getting warm fuzzies. The kind that are obliterated by my hot girlfriend emerging from a changing room wearing nothing but a black negligee. Does she want me to die?

  Probably.

  “Well?” she asks, posing against the wall. “What do you think? Too much?”

  “If you mean too much fabric, then yes.” I put my phone away. “Be careful. A man might want to gobble you up if he catches you wearing that thing.”

  I’m not the only one around here who can wink. “Maybe that’s what I want, sir.”

  She’s so perfect, so absurdly everything I want in a woman that I’m ready to get down on one knee right here. Can’t you imagine it? You’re a pap trolling the streets of Paris looking for the goods, and you stumble upon one of the richest heirs in America proposing to his ridiculously gorgeous girlfriend in a lingerie shop. Of course, she’s wearing nothing but the black of this fabric and the sweet white of her skin. It’s almost kinky.

  Oh, good, there goes my optimism and here returns my base self.

  You know what I could do to her while she wears this thing? For one, I could rip it off her body and take whatever I want beneath. Between Damon Monroe and Martin Charles, I’m ready to assert myself all over this elegant city. Pshaw. While I’m at it, why don’t I marry her? Then everyone will know that I’ll be the last man to touch this seductive woman.

  Before a saleswoman can disturb us, I stand and whisper into Katie’s ear.

  “You need to buy this so I can ravage you later. It’s required.”

  She silences me with a single finger. “Glad we were thinking the same thing.”

  Did you hear that, gentlemen? Whether you slammed her against your headboard or let her slam her pussy against her face, I’m the one she’s thinking of now.

  Hey, I never said I was proud of my alpha jealousy. I mean tendency. That’s it. Tendency.