The Billionaire Possession Series: The Complete Boxed Set

by Amelia Wilde

  “I want you. I need you.”

  I let the phrases fall into the open air.

  Juliet groans. “Stop, Weston. Stop torturing me.”

  “You’re not enjoying this?” I circle her nipples with my fingers, then drag my fingertips back down to her swollen clit. She thrusts her hips back at me, more of her juices pooling between her legs.

  “I’m enjoying it too much.” Her voice drops when she admits the truth. “I’m enjoying it so much it hurts...”

  “But it’s a good hurt, isn’t it, angel?”

  “God, yes. But I need—” She stops herself as I push three fingers inside her, moving them in and out like I have all the time in the world.

  “Tell me what you need.”

  Her hands grip tightly on the comforter beneath her, fistfuls of white beneath her knuckles. “I need you to take me. To fuck me. Please.”

  “I love it when you beg.”

  “Please fuck me, Weston. Please. I can’t take it. I can’t wait any longer. Please…” It’s instinctual, from the raw core of her, and I don’t make her ask a second time.

  I line up the head of my cock with her opening. It’s immediately slick with her wetness, and she tenses, pushing her body back toward me.

  “You’re mine.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I thrust forward, taking her with one powerful stroke.

  She cries out, her tightness enveloping me, her heat taking me over completely, and I drive my hips forward, diving deep. Juliet spreads her legs another inch and bucks back against my hips. Deeper. I push forward until I meet a boundary deep inside of her, my hips pressed firmly against her luscious ass.

  “No going back now,” I tell her, and all of her muscles clench around me.

  I fuck her hard. I fuck her deep. I fuck her with total abandon. It’s been months—years—since I let myself take what I wanted without any thought of deadlines, of limits, of how long it’s going to be until the woman in my bed turns on me, demanding to be saved. Juliet doesn’t want to be saved. She doesn’t need to be saved. She only needs to be mine, and the way she writhes and moans underneath me is all the evidence I need.

  We come together like melding stars, the energy so intense that I’m surprised someone doesn’t knock at the door or pound on the walls, screaming at us to shut the hell up.

  Juliet comes again and again over my cock, so many times that commands become pointless, a pleasure tool for another time. Every time I touch her clit she shudders and moans, her pussy gripping me so tightly, it’s a miracle I can thrust at all.

  I’m riding the edge, about to plummet over it headfirst, and Juliet must feel it. “Wait—”

  She scrambles forward, not far enough to lose contact, but far enough for her to reach a small bedside table taking up all the space between the bed and the television stand. She pulls open a drawer and takes a small foil packet out, shoving it into my hand.

  It’s all I can do to get the condom on before I pull her back into place, entering her again with all my strength, and the cry that it forces from her—somewhere between a moan and a scream—is all it takes.

  I come so hard I forget my own name for way longer than I should, my vision going dim at the edges, and when I finally come down, I’m curled up with Juliet’s back pressed against my chest, my arm wrapped protectively around her. We’re still for a long time, and then she laughs, a slow, languid laugh that sends a shock of pleasure down my spine.

  She rolls onto her back, and I look down into her violet eyes. “What’s so funny?”

  “I thought it would be good,” she admits. “I had no idea it would be that good.” Then she bites her lip, her eyes narrowing.

  “What is it?”

  “I think—” She takes in a breath, her nipples already hard. “I think we should do that again. To be sure.”

  25

  Juliet

  Something is different.

  I stretch out in my bed, my spine lengthening and arms reaching above my head, the sheets smooth on my naked body, a grin already plastered on my face. The morning sunlight streams in through the window of my tiny studio apartment, and for once it seems almost beautiful.

  What’s different?

  I’m so deliciously, deliriously tired that even the insistent beeping of the alarm takes a good minute to make any impression. I’m still grinning into my pillow like an idiot. I only reach over and silence the alarm when it starts to break into my fantastic mood.

  The sheets still smell like him.

  Like Weston.

  The images from last night sweep over me like a tsunami, and the warm joy glowing in my chest clicks.

  Yes. That’s why I feel so good.

  I don’t even care that I’m going to be late for class.

  I bolt upright in bed, running a hand through my tousled hair. Shit. Shit! I’m going to be late for class!

  I laugh out loud as I fling myself out of bed and race for the bathroom, making it there in a record two steps. My alarm had been going off for a solid forty minutes before I realized it, so I’m out of time. If I’m going to catch the last train with a stop near Anderson, I need to leave here in ten minutes. Yesterday, I would have been clenching my jaw in grim determination, cursing myself all the way.

  This morning?

  It’s still sunny out and it has the makings of a beautiful day, and that’s all that matters, right?

  “Get a hold of yourself, Juliet,” I say out loud, as I rapidly massage the shampoo from root to tip and whip my loofah over my skin and run the razor over my legs and under my arms. I’m in and out in two minutes, maybe less, and twisting my hair into a low bun at the nape of my neck as soon as I’m done drying myself off.

  I tug the first sleeveless blouse I reach and some professional-enough capris out of the closet, slip them on over the first pair of panties and bra I grab from my dresser drawer, and snatch my bag off the floor by the front door. I didn’t get a chance to study yesterday, but for the first time since fall classes began a month ago, I can’t force myself to feel that pit of dread churning in my gut.

  Because last night was amazing on a level I can’t even begin to describe in words.

  I grab my keys off the hook by the door and step on something as I’m pulling open the door.

  It’s the spare key that hangs on the last of the four hooks on the keyholder, and it’s folded into a sheet of paper from the printer.

  My Juliet—

  I had some things to finish up at the office and couldn’t bear to wake you. We shouldn’t stay up so late at night…unless, that is, you want to.

  I’ll see you later, angel—

  W

  I clutch the paper to my chest, then laugh out loud again. Who am I? What is this?

  Love, comes the answer, and I laugh again, because it’s so absurd to admit, even in the privacy of my own mind, that I might be falling in love with Weston Grant. It’s absurd, because what we have is an arrangement, not a real relationship.

  Does he even have real relationships? Can a person who makes his living doing what he does, with such a relentless drive for profit and profit only, fall in love?

  No. What we have has an expiration date that has to be non-negotiable if I’m ever going to get back to the life I had before, the life that was of my own making. The life that my parents would be proud of.

  But today, I don’t care. There are thirteen entire days before I need to seriously consider this again, and I’m going to spend at least one of them not having a single care in the world.

  Except for getting to class on time.

  I shove the note and spare key into my bag and pull my apartment door tight behind me. I lock up, jiggling the key and testing the doorknob to make sure nobody can steal my precious books.

  Then I turn on my heel and run.

  Weston is waiting for me when my last class is over—waiting for me, his face lighting up like the sunrise when he sees me coming down the front steps at Anderson. He’s standing in front of hi
s Town Car, his jacket off with his shirt sleeves rolled up, looking every inch the same as he did when he appeared at my doorway last night.

  Only he’s wearing a different shirt, a different pair of slacks, and an entirely different grin on his handsome-as-hell face.

  I’m wet looking at him from across the sidewalk.

  “How was class?”

  I hesitate a few steps away from him, taking him all in. What does it mean, now that I’m his? I’m not sure whether I should kiss him in greeting or duck into the car like a socialite leaving a club at four in the morning.

  He solves that problem for me by stepping forward, putting his arm around the small of my back, and guiding me into the car. As soon as he’s pulled the door shut behind us, his mouth is on mine, hot and hard and minty. The car pulls away from the curb, and I don’t care where we’re going. I don’t care what we’re doing. I’m lost in Weston Grant for the millionth time in twenty-four hours.

  I pull away, finally, gasping for a breath. “It was good.”

  Weston’s green eyes—green with a splash of blue around the center, I’m noticing now for the first time, unbelievably—dance. “What was good? The kiss? You can be so strange, Juliet James.”

  “Class. It was good. All of them were good. I barely made it on time.”

  That grin spreads across his face again and the heat intensifies between my legs. I’m about to ruin his upholstery. “You overslept?”

  “I don’t know how I could have done anything else, after—”

  I don’t get to finish the sentence, because Weston is pressing me up against the door of the car, my back pinned against the armrest, his hand pushing down my capris. Tugging my panties aside. Fingers, thick and insistent, pushing into me, his thumb reaching for my clit, and then he curls them and the heat explodes out over his hand.

  “Sorry,” he says, and he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “I couldn’t wait another second, angel.”

  “That’s….” I push a few tendrils of hair back from my face, my legs shaking against the seat. “That’s—I forgive you.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  It only occurs to me then to find out if we have any privacy at all, and a sigh of relief escapes me. The divider between us and the front of the car is firmly in place.

  Weston is hard, the bulge in his pants clearly visible.

  I reach for him.

  He puts a hand out and stops my wrist, and my gut twists. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he says, kissing my temple. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

  “Where?”

  “I think it’s time, angel, that you visited my place.”

  26

  Weston

  Juliet puts her best poker face on when I glide my phone over the private elevator’s sensor and the car purrs into motion, whisking us upward toward my penthouse. One of my penthouses. I’m not about to brag about the others until....

  Until she indicates any kind of desire to get out of the city. If she does, we’ll have options all over the world.

  But I don’t need to go anywhere, if Juliet needs to be here. For the next thirteen days—at least—she’s mine, and if she’s happy here, then so am I.

  Last night was a dream of epic proportions, and waking up to her was even better. I’ll never tell her that I snuck out as the sun was rising so I didn’t have to confront the awful, gut-wrenching possibility that she might have changed her mind while she slept.

  I don’t know what happened after dinner. I don’t know why asking her to come over then made her want to run and hide, and God did I want to follow her up to her apartment anyway. But it turned out to be the right move. Something I did changed her mind.

  The details? Not necessary. Not now, anyway, because she certainly didn’t hesitate when I told her where we were headed.

  The elevator doors open and we step into the entryway of my penthouse.

  “Wow.” Her low whisper comes from a few feet behind me, and I realize I’ve walked in ahead of her, not even thinking of what this must look like to a woman who lives in a studio apartment with enough room to get well and truly—

  Well.

  Her cool mask has slipped off, and her eyes have gone wide and are sparkling. This is the hour of the day when the penthouse looks most impressive, with the gentle late-afternoon sunlight filtering in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, giving everything a glow that only highlights all the things, carefully arranged, how I like them.

  “So this is where you live.”

  I take her hand and draw her further inside. “This is where I live when I’m in New York.”

  She cuts her eyes over at me, a little grin playing over her face. “Do you spend a lot of time out of New York?”

  I shrug one shoulder. “I could. I don’t usually, but I could.”

  Juliet presses her lips together in that little grin of hers and looks around. “Give me the tour!” She squeezes my hand, like we’re about to ride a roller coaster.

  “This is the living room,” I say, spreading my arms to encompass the massive sunken living area with impressive skyline views. “There’s a hot tub out on the terrace—”

  I wind her through the penthouse, showing her the guest suite, the office suite, the den, the kitchen. “I had this remodeled in the spring. The theme used to be all white.”

  “You’ve gone completely in the opposite direction.” The dark tones match new chrome appliances that are polished to a high shine.

  “Do you like it?”

  “I love it.”

  “Really?”

  “You were in my studio last night, right?” Juliet raises her eyebrows at me. “Even the Rose’s kitchen is luxurious compared to that.”

  “From what I’ve heard, the Rose has a very well-appointed kitchen.”

  “And this one is even better.” She gives it another once-over. “Do you like to cook?”

  “I could take it or leave it.”

  Juliet laughs so hard tears spring to her eyes, and then she tugs on my hand, pulling me back out into the hallway. “Okay. What’s to the left?”

  “The master bedroom.”

  Her expression turns serious, her violet eyes widening. “Show me.”

  The master suite takes up one full side of the penthouse, and has its own living area, a bathroom at least ten times the size of Juliet’s, and, of course, my bed.

  Juliet’s eyes light up when she sees it. It’s a study in contrast to the white of her sheets and the pale blue of her comforter. I chose mine—or rather, had a designer choose them—for a more masculine feel. The black comforter tops high thread-count gray sheets, and all of it is flawlessly smooth.

  “You have a king-size bed.”

  I laugh at that. “I think anything smaller would look a little ridiculous in a room this size, don’t you?”

  “I think this bed would take up my entire apartment.”

  I close the door behind us, even though we’re completely alone—I had Dave ensure that all the staff would be gone for the evening, retaining the chef on call in case we decide to eat in. When I turn back to Juliet’s face, she’s biting her lip. Her bag rests on the floor at her feet, and there’s a pink flush to her cheeks that I recognize.

  “You have an amazing bedroom.”

  I close the distance between us, sliding my hands around her waist, and pull her in. She smells like strawberry shampoo and sunscreen, and an image of her in a bikini, stretched out next to me on a white-sand beach, flashes into my mind. “There’s nothing in the world more amazing than you.”

  She tilts her head up then, meeting my lips slowly, like we have all the time in the world. I’m hard as iron in an instant, my cock pressing painfully against the fabric of my pants. It’s the kind of slow, gentle kiss that didn’t have a place in our lives yesterday, but today—today is a different story.

  It doesn’t last long.

  The closer I pull her in, the more she rolls her hips against me and presses her breas
ts against my chest, growing hotter under my touch. It’s like she’s given herself over to whatever this is—at least for the moment—and isn’t looking back. My heart beats faster, harder. I swear, for the rest of my life I’m going to treasure these two weeks, even if the end is....

  I don’t have another moment to think about it, because Juliet pulls back, looking at me with fire flaming in her eyes, and then she takes one step away from me.

  She pulls her shirt over her head by the hem, then unfastens and drops her pants to the floor.

  And then—slowly, slowly—she gets down on her knees in front of me, at the foot of the bed.

  I run my fingers through her hair, tilting her head back to look up at me. Her lips are slightly parted, and she’s breathing soft and slow, and there’s none of the aloof coldness that I see in her at the Rose. We might as well be on another planet, because this Julia James—the one kneeling submissively on the plush carpeting at the foot of my bed—belongs to me. And with her heated gaze, she’s asking me for permission.

  “Go ahead, angel.”

  She bites her lip, looking down at the front of my pants, and then reaches forward, undoing the button of my pants and zipper.

  My cock springs free, hard and eager.

  She takes it into her petite hands.

  Then she takes it into her warm mouth.

  And I’m in heaven.

  No, it’s better than heaven. A thousand times better.

  Heaven has come to me.

  27

  Juliet

  “Another drink, sweetheart?”

  The man’s voice breaks into my thoughts for the fiftieth time during my shift at the Rose, but I don’t let him see that I wasn’t paying attention. I turn my gaze on him and let the eye contact linger, a playful smile dancing across my lips, and shift my weight to the side. “Something new and different? Or do you want to stick with the regular?”