Tied to the Billionaire

by Lisabet Sarai, Amy Armstrong, Sam Crescent, Cheryl Dragon, Tanith Davenport

  “Ah—poor Olivia! Do you want something?”

  “Ah—yes, yes, sir…”

  “Ask me then. Tell me what you want.”

  Olivia hung in her bonds, silent and needy.

  “Ask, my sweet. Be brave.”

  The bravado in his voice was gone, replaced by tenderness. He caught her chin in his fingers and raised her face to his.

  Olivia swallowed her fear. “Sir—please—your cock in my cunny…”

  “You want me to fuck you?” Not waiting for an answer, he stepped between her spread thighs and rubbed the swollen tip of his organ over her slick folds. A premonition of climax shuddered through her.

  “Yes…oh, yes…”

  He sank into her depths. She moaned as he filled her—hot, hard, perfect. Crushing her to his chest, he worked his hips, grinding against her sheathed clit.

  The friction undid her. She flew into orgasm, jerking in her bonds as he pounded her without mercy.

  “All you needed to do, darling,” he murmured, as she came back to earth, quivering in his arms, “was ask.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Another strawberry, Mrs MacIntyre?” Andrew dangled the scarlet fruit an inch above her open lips, letting the cream that coated it dribble onto her tongue. Bound hand and foot to the four corner posts of the Louis XVI bed, Olivia could do little more than wriggle.

  “If it pleases you, sir…”

  He allowed the berry to drop. Sweetness exploded in her mouth as she bit into its firm flesh.

  “It does please me. You please me, my little crusader, more and more every day.” He stretched his naked body over hers and mingled his coffee and tobacco taste with the fruit flavour in a luscious, lazy kiss. He was hard again, though fresh jism from their latest coupling still leaked from her cleft. His pubic hair scratched and stung against the welts he’d painted on her thighs with the new martinet. They’d found the toy yesterday at one of the city’s many flea markets, along with some iron manacles Andrew claimed dated from the Revolution. The lingering soreness in her pussy transmuted into an ache of need. She wanted him again, deep inside—as surely as he wanted her.

  “We have an appointment this afternoon with Monsieur Fronchet at Van Cleef and Arpels on Place Vendôme. I plan to buy you a proper wedding ring.” The plain gold circlet he’d acquired so hurriedly in Newport gleamed in the morning sunlight. After they’d been discovered in flagrante, his trousers unbuttoned and her gown in tatters, Andrew’s mother had insisted on a rapid, private marriage and a long trip abroad. Andrew had been eager, for once, to obey his mother’s dictates.

  Olivia had been mortified when Gannet had strolled up to the tea house. Now, though, the recollection of his knowing smile thrilled her. Andrew had vowed he’d share her with his devoted and discreet friend after they returned to America…

  Her husband licked at the corners of her mouth, gathering powdered sugar and residual cream. “And then, later, I’ve booked us a cruise on the Seine. A private cruise.”

  Warmth surged through her as he applied his deft fingers to her soaked quim. A premonition of climax scattered her fantasies of what he might do to her on the boat. But he snatched his hand away just as she teetered on the brink, then chuckled at her moan of frustration.

  “You’re insatiable, my darling slut.” He leaned in for another kiss.

  “And you love that fact, don’t you, sir?” Olivia countered when they broke for breath.

  “I do. I love you—your body, your mind, your eagerness to serve me…”

  “Even my liberal social philosophies?”

  “I raised the millworkers’ wages, didn’t I? And the steel men’s, too.” He twisted one engorged nipple to the point of pain. She swallowed her cry, determined to endure whatever delicious tortures he saw fit to bestow. “You drive a hard bargain, Mrs MacIntyre.”

  His rampant cock slipped easily between her sprawled thighs and into her slick folds—where it belonged. Olivia gasped. “Ah—oh, sir…” A new crisis shimmered on the horizon as he stroked in and out. She gazed up into the mischief-filled eyes of her lover, her lord, her master.

  “But it’s worth it. You’re mine now, tied to me by law and lust. And no matter what anyone says, I’m never letting you go.”

  About the Author

  I became addicted to words at an early age. I began reading when I was four. I wrote my first story at five years old and my first poem at seven. Since then, I’ve written plays, tutorials, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred-page dissertation and, of course, erotica. I’m the author of four erotic novels and two short story collections. I also edited the groundbreaking anthology Sacred Exchange, which explores the spiritual aspects of BDSM relationships, and the massive collection Cream: The Best of the Erotic Readers and Writers Association. My short stories have appeared in more than two dozen print collections edited by erotica luminaries such as M. Christian, Maxim Jakubowski, Mitzi Szereto, Rachel Kramer Bussel and Alison Tyler.

  My lifelong interests in sex and the written word became serendipitously entwined about a decade ago when I read my first Black Lace book by Portia da Costa. Her work inspired me to take my fantasies out of the closet (and the private email files) and expose them to the world. The rest, as they say, is history (although, granted, no more than a minor footnote!).

  I’ve always loved travelling—my husband seduced me in a Burmese restaurant by telling me tales of his foreign adventures. Since then I have visited every continent except Australia, although I still have a long travel wish list. Currently I live with him and our two exceptional felines in Southeast Asia, where I pursue an alternative career that is completely unrelated to my creative writing.

  Email: lisabet@lisabetsarai.com

  Lisabet loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

  Also by Lisabet Sarai

  Raw Silk

  Incognito

  Serpent’s Kiss

  Truce of Trust

  Necessary Madness

  Fire in the Blood

  Hot Spell

  Quarantine

  Rajasthani Moon

  Bound Brits: Getaway Girl

  Brit Party: Monsoon Fever

  Brits in Time: Shortest Night

  Gaymes: Crossed Hearts

  Master Me: The Understudy

  Seeing Stars: Bodies of Light

  Treble: Wild About That Thing

  Switch: Mastering Maya

  Halloween Heart-throbs: Rendezvous

  Christmas Spirits: Tomorrow’s Gifts

  Yule Be Mine: Almost Home

  HOT FOR HIM

  Amy Armstrong

  Dedication

  For Claire, Inva, Maria and Rachel, wonderful friends who continue to inspire me.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Dior: Christian Dior S.A.

  Dom Perignon: Moët & Chandon

  Lanvin: Lanvin

  Manolos: Manolo Blahnik

  Vivienne Westwood: Vivienne Westwood SRL

  Chapter One

  With a low, drawn-out groan, Elena reached out and whacked the button on her alarm clock before burrowing deeper under the toasty duvet with a satisfied grunt. The blasted thing continued to buzz.

  “Leave me alone,” she moaned hoarsely. “It isn’t time to get up yet.”

  The buzzing increased until it was so loud the noise was like a physical thing inside her head, as if her brain was thrashing around in there, trying to beat its way out of her skull with a claw hammer. With a silent curse, she threw off the covers and sat up.

  Whoa. Bad decision. When the room began to spin and a hot flush erupted, her entire body got so hot she thought it was trying to solve the world’s energy problem. She made a grab for the bedside table and gripped it tightly,
trying to breathe through the sudden nausea while she waited for the woozy feeling to pass.

  The good news was that the incessant buzzing had quit. But why was she so parched? She must have taken up astral projection in her sleep because eight hours of crawling through the Sahara without so much as a sip of water was the only possible explanation for her indescribable thirst. Well, that or the six tequila shots she’d knocked back in The Salsa Bar the night before. Oh, and that bottle of red wine she’d polished off in All Bar One might have contributed.

  When images of dancing with a five-foot-nothing Ricky Martin wannabe ran through her mind, Elena put her head in hands and leant back against the headboard. She couldn’t remember much about the night, but she did recall slapping the guy when he’d tried to cop a feel. Made sense. Elena hated men who got all up in her face—or arse as the case might be. What the hell gave them the right to treat women like sex objects? Consenting to a dance did not give him the right to grope her like she was his for the taking—nothing more than a possession. Elena belonged to no one but herself.

  The damn buzzing started up again.

  “No, no, no, no!” She reached for the alarm clock and squinted at it in the dim light of the room, but the evil thing was silent. Ah, it wasn’t the alarm, it was her mobile phone. Who the hell would be calling her in the middle of the night? Okay, it was nearly six, but what the hell?

  She grabbed the phone and fumbled mindlessly with it before finding the right button to answer the call. It had better be an emergency or the sodding sleep destroyer was going to get a piece of her mind.

  “Hello,” she all but growled out.

  “What sort of greeting is that for your favourite uncle?”

  Elena frowned, fighting through the fog in her groggy, sleep-deprived mind. “Uncle Hen?”

  Her query was answered with a low, rumbling chuckle. “You’re twenty-six now, Elena. Henry would be sufficient.”

  “Wha—?” Elena’s mouth was so dry, she couldn’t finish the question. She grabbed a glass of water from the nightstand, downed the lot then tried again. “What can I do for you Uncle, uh, Henry. Is everything okay?”

  “Quite. I thought it would be good to catch up. I’m in your neck of the woods.”

  “London?”

  “No, Europe. I’m going to be staying at the villa in Cannes for at least a week. I was hoping you’d join me.”

  “Oh, that’s, uh, very nice of you to offer, but I have work and…”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “Well, yes, but I couldn’t…”

  “Yes, you could. You work too damn hard for someone so young. I admire your dedication, but it wouldn’t kill you to take a break. You have staff. Delegate.”

  Elena started to shake her head, but thought better of it when the claw hammer started its bashing routine again. She couldn’t possibly take a holiday, could she? Elena’s interior design company was fast becoming one of the best known in London. And she’d worked incredibly hard for the past four years to ensure its continued success. The last holiday she took was…wow, she couldn’t remember, but it had to have been at least three years ago—maybe more.

  Elena had a great team of designers working for her, but she still preferred the hands-on approach. She was known for being a strict boss, but her no-nonsense approach got results. All right, so she was a control freak, but proud of it. She would never have achieved the same level of success if she’d been more relaxed or too capricious. Running a profitable business required a firm hand. But maybe her uncle was right. What would be the harm in taking a week off to unwind? She certainly deserved it, maybe even needed it.

  Twelve-hour working days were commonplace, but it didn’t stop there, did it? Elena not only burnt the candle at both ends, she lit a couple more for good measure. It seemed she wasn’t satisfied lately unless she had a permanent hangover, but her frenetic lifestyle was becoming a little too much to take. Her heavy workload was one thing, but the excessive partying had to stop or something was going to give. A change in pace might be just what she needed to get her life back on track.

  “Elena, what do you say?” her uncle prompted.

  “Let me see if I can arrange a flight and…”

  “Be at London City at ten Monday morning,” Henry interrupted. “I took the liberty of chartering you a flight. You can thank me when you get here.”

  When her uncle hung up, Elena cursed and threw her mobile on the bed. “Son of a bitch.” It looked like she was spending a week on the Riviera. She was annoyed that Henry had been so presumptuous, but a very small part of her liked that the decision had been taken out of her hands. It would do her good to relax for a week, if she remembered how.

  Chapter Two

  Just as Elena had expected him to, Henry had arranged for a car to pick her at the Côte D’Azur airport in Nice. She instructed the driver to take the coastal route and fifteen minutes later they were driving along the Promenade de la Plage, heading towards Antibes. She hadn’t realised how much she’d missed France, but being in the country again, feeling the sun on her face and breathing in the fresh sea air reminded her how much she loved the Riviera. When she was in university, Elena had dreamt of moving to the country permanently, but it hadn’t worked out that way. After she’d started her design business, she’d become caught up in the frenzied London lifestyle and her dream had pretty much been put on hold.

  The car pulled into the driveway of her uncle’s villa and as she stared at it through the tinted windows a fond smile stretched across Elena’s lips. She’d forgotten how beautiful the place was. The villa was set high up on a mountain and the panoramic view of the sea stretching out to the Cap d’Antibes was simply breathtaking. Stepping out of the car, Elena smoothed out the creases in her Lanvin silk skirt, taking her Dior sunglasses from the top of her head and sliding them into place to shield her eyes from the bright, midday sun. As she ascended the stone steps that led to the magnificent, glass fronted doors, she felt as though she was coming home.

  Henry was more like a father than an uncle. At nineteen, Elena’s parents had been killed in a car crash and though she was legally an adult, Henry had insisted on looking out for her, ensuring she had everything she could possibly need. That translated into him paying for her education and giving her an allowance, even though she’d been well taken care of in her parents’ will. His latest endeavour to ‘care’ for her was inviting her to live in his villa in Cannes. He hardly spent any time there himself and said he didn’t like to see it sitting empty, but Elena was certain his generosity was because he hated where she currently lived. Her cosy flat in Knightsbridge was too downmarket for his tastes. That was probably what the invite to spend the week had been about. Elena suspected he wanted her to get a taste of what she was missing and if that was his intention it was a damn good plan. She liked the life she had built for herself in London, but compared to the South of France? There was no competition.

  As usual the front door to the villa had been left unlocked. Elena let herself in and walked through the grand entrance hall until she reached her uncle’s study. It was located at the back of the property overlooking the pool and about the only room he frequently used. She removed her sunglasses, smoothed down her glossy blonde hair then knocked on the door before walking inside.

  “Unc—” Elena’s words cut off quickly when she regarded the man sitting behind the large mahogany desk who was most definitely not her uncle.

  “Hello, Elena. It’s good to see you again.” When Henry’s business partner, the enigmatic Charles Hunt, rose from his seat and rounded the desk, Elena hated the effect he had on her. Instantly her nipples hardened and a tingling sensation erupted in her groin. It had been at least a year since she had last seen him in London, but he looked as good as ever. Well over six feet tall, Charles towered above her, but his raw magnetism didn’t come from his height or muscular build. Charles exuded power—it oozed out of his every pore.

  The American billionaire was undoubte
dly a catch. Women on every continent wanted to bed him and many of them had succeeded—if the gossip about him was to be believed. Charles had tried to seduce Elena on more than one occasion, but by his own admission he was highly dominant and Elena had never been good with people telling her what to do, in bed or out of it. She just wasn’t wired that way. But even as the thought came to her she knew if she were ever to submit—to give herself to someone so completely—it would be to him.

  Elena had been no saint over the years. She’d had her share of fun and short-term relationships, but something had always held her back, stopped her from becoming too involved. When the men she dated began to get impatient, demanding more of her time and a deeper commitment, Elena was quick to cut ties. She always told herself it was because she was too young and not ready for a serious relationship, but the truth was that from the moment she’d first met Charles, she hadn’t wanted anyone else. He was her ideal. Strong, confident and powerful, Charles was exactly the type of man she needed in her life. He excited her. But she didn’t know if she could give him what he needed, particularly in bed, so she’d always shied away and feigned indifference. She had a feeling Charles could see through the barriers she had constructed and knew the real effect he had on her, even though he’d never said as much.

  Charles’ dark brown hair was longer on top than he used to wear it and there was a light dusting of stubble on his chin which only added to his appeal. His eyes were the same as she remembered—a sparkling deep azure blue that reminded her of the ocean on a sunny day. They were mesmerising.