Owned By the Billionaire by Tristan Rivers
Chapter 1
“Come on, it’s just for a couple of hours. What else would you be doing anyway?” Dominique is inches from my face, watching me with slanting, black eyes, her purple, bejeweled eyelashes fluttering with every blink.
“Maybe sleeping.”
Dominique huffs. “You’re such a grandma.”
I sigh. “I worked 12-hour days all week. And—it’s just not my thing. I’m a small-town girl. We don’t have places like that in Springfield.” I’m sitting on a beat-up ottoman in the living room of the cramped apartment we share, trying hard to shuffle away from her. But she’s got me cornered, sparkly-pink lips pursed, hands braced either side of my knees. Her black, corkscrew curls are wild and her gaze unwavering, and I’m suddenly reminded of a predatory creature about to pounce. An eyebrow arches.
“How much did you say junior ad executives get paid again?”
I’m trying hard to be unyielding, but I can’t resist a smile. “Peanuts.”
“Ex-actly!” She draws the word out, dazzling me with her perfect white teeth. “All you’ve got to do is hand out a few flyers. I’ll pay you seventy bucks. And you might have fun,” she finishes in a stage whisper.
I don’t want to go out tonight. Moving to a new city and starting a new job—actually, my first ever grown-up job—has taken it out of me these past weeks, and all I want to do is curl up in bed, exchange messages with my best friend, Monica, back home, and watch movies. And I definitely don’t want to go to a Sexpo. Whatever that is.
But Dominique has persuasion down to a fine art.
“I haven’t got anything to wear.” I’m aware how lame an excuse this is, and a wicked look glimmers in her eye.
“I can help you with that.”
“We’re not the same size,” I say quickly, having observed that her closet consists of burlesque outfits, slinky bathrobes, and slouchy tracksuits.
“Just wear your normal clothes then. You’re beautiful, and you’ve got a great figure, Reagan. Skinny jeans and a tight black sweater will be perfect.”
“Don’t people get dressed up in gimp masks and latex bodysuits?”
“One or two.” She gives me a wink. “Seriously, it’s not a sex party. It’s an exhibition. Like an RV show. Or Comic-con. But with better exhibits. It’s very tame, I promise.”
I sit up straighter, knowing I’ve already lost. “And all I do is hand out flyers to people and tell them when your next performance is going to be?”
“Yes, Reagan.”
I let out an epic sigh. “Okay. But just because I want to help you out. I’m not taking your money.”
“Shush. It’s the going rate. And I’d rather be paying you than some random stranger I find at the venue instead.”
She leans forward and reaches for my hands. At the same moment, her lilac satin bathrobe comes undone, and I’m treated to a flash of her costume, which is no more than two heart-shaped nipple pasties, panties, a garter belt, and stockings. I roll my eyes and let her pull me to my feet. “You’re very good at getting your own way.”
“You don’t know the half of it, honey.”
An hour or so later,I’m standing in the middle of the Sexpo in a leather pencil skirt, black knee-length boots and a clingy black sweater with a mesh back. If I’m going to do this, I might as well look the part. My brown hair is loose and left in natural waves, and I’ve applied a slick of red lipstick to make me look a little more alive. I’m also carrying Dominique’s purse, which is bulging with her flyers and weighs a ton.
“Wait until my show’s over before you hand them out,” she’d instructed me before rushing off to the performers’ area. “That way people will already be curious about me.”
While I’m waiting for her to go onstage, I buy a fortifying shot of vodka from one of the bars and wander around the stalls. Aside from the performers, just about everyone’s wearing normal clothes. So far, so good. But the stalls are something else. We really don’t have things like this in Springfield. There’s every kind of kink I’ve heard of, and plenty I haven’t. The vibrator stall is generating a lot of buzz. Literally. People are jostling each other to grab hold of the dildos and press them against the tips of their noses. Across the aisle is a stall devoted to adult-sized diapers and onesies. Another place exhibits swings and restraints that you can test drive before you buy. But I don’t get it. It doesn’t feel sexy to me. It’s all a bit cringe. Full of married couples desperate to spice up their tired, old sex lives and company bosses trying to convince their secretaries that they’re cool and experimental. The guys’ tongues are hanging out, while the women mostly look bored.
There’s a program of live shows all night long, and Dominique, a.k.a. Violet Sundae, is first up. When her act is announced, I head up to the front and pick a spot off to the side so she can’t see that I’m watching her.
I have some idea of what to expect, but it doesn’t lessen the impact when she comes onstage. I stifle a gasp. She looks gorgeous. She’s wearing a corset, making her tiny waist even tinier, a purple net petticoat, and a tiny bowler hat set at a jaunty angle on her head. She gets a great reaction from the audience too, with lots of clapping and whistling as she begins her show. It’s kind of surreal watching my petite roommate on stage, commanding all that attention. When she begins to take her clothes off, I decide to make a bathroom trip. It’s not like I haven’t seen her half-naked almost every day since I moved into the apartment, but I’m starting to feel like a seedy dude at a pole-dancing club.
I take my time fixing my lipstick and examining the dark shadows beneath my eyes—another consequence of being a junior ad executive. They suit me in a way—lending me a nocturnal, vampirish air. When I come back out, Dominique is just finishing, and I catch a glimpse of her peachy, G-string-clad ass as she gives a final wave to the audience and sashays off stage. So here’s where I hand out the flyers. I grab a stack from the purse, affix a smile to my face, and offer them to people as they depart from the stage. I have prior experience, having handed out discount vouchers in a downtown Springfield supermarket when I was 16. But this is way easier. Almost everyone takes one, and a ton of people ask me questions about her.
Before long, I’m starting to enjoy myself. So, maybe I was being a little prejudiced earlier. Most people seem pretty normal, quite a few around my own age, and I end up chatting and joking with them, suddenly obscurely proud to be associated with Dominique.
And then I see him. I swear my heart stops beating, and my breath rushes out as if I’ve just been winded. Less than ten feet away, in a latex tank top, black leather pants, and studded collar is one of the account directors from my company. Jeremy Standish. Mr. Suave. I can feel my eyes bug out, and before I have time to turn my head away, we make eye contact. I stand stock-still, as if I’ve been nailed to the floor with a giant nail gun, and snap my jaw shut. Shiiiit! my brain is screaming.
He steps forward, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “Hello, Reagan.”
I bend my lips into the shape of a smile. “Hello, Jeremy,” I reply in the tone of a creaking hinge. “I’m just helping a friend out for the night.”
He nods once, very seriously. “So I see. Goodnight.” He strides off, accompanied by a good-looking man wearing a similar outfit. I watch him go, my heart making up for all those missed beats, pounding until I feel dizzy. I’m working for one of the most competitive, cut-throat agencies in the city, and I’ve just seen my boss wearing latex. He could fire me for this without any difficulty. I’m little more than an intern. He could just tell human resources that my work sucked, and that’ll be it.
Through the fog of panic, I realize that I’ve got to follow him. If he leaves right now, it’s bad news. It means that my presence has upset him a lot, and he’s going to want to get rid of me A-sap. But if he stays, maybe it’s not that big of a deal.
Of course, it’s not a big deal, I tell myself as I weave through the crowds, trying to keep him and his hot companion in sight. He wouldn’t walk around in public dressed like a condom if it was. I push through a swarm of people, just in time to see him passing through the exit.
“Fuck. This is not good.” It’s so bad that I’m even talking to myself. Entire career sabotaged in five seconds flat. Graduate jobs at Koln & Mathers are like gold dust. Usually, you don’t even get an interview unless you know somebody. But I got mine through sheer persistence—calling them up and sending them ideas for ads until they invited me to meet one of the bosses. Eight interviews later, I was hired on probation. But I get a sense they don’t trust me yet. I’m not one of their preppy, Ivy League types who was born with a bucketload of charm. I’m more irreverent, more of a loose cannon. And now I’ve blown it. I might as well not even go into the office on Monday morning to spare us both the humiliation. I’m not cut out for any of this—the big city life, the cut-throat career, the Sexpo. Who am I kidding?
I peer at the exit, desperately wanting to leave and take the bus back home, but I’ve got Dominique’s purse, which contains all her valuables. Instead, I walk back into the throng, trying to find her. I eventually discover her in a corner, surrounded by a bunch of people, both men and women, showering her with compliments and having their photo taken with her. I decide I’ll hand the purse to her and leave.
But it’s impossible to get close. And I feel bad for disrupting her big moment. She looks like a tiny, beautiful starlet, and shoving her purse at her right now would be extremely unclassy. I back away, remembering that I’m supposed to be handing out flyers. Sunk in gloom, I haul out another handful and start offering them to passers-by.
Before I know it, they’re all gone, but Dominique is still busy being fabulous, so I sacrifice another five dollars of my earnings to buy myself a beer, then wander aimlessly from stall to stall, thinking moody thoughts, and replaying the horrific moment when Jeremy’s eyes met mine.
For no particular reason, I stop in front of a stall selling nothing but whips. There are riding crops; whips with a single, long, thin tail (bullwhips, apparently); whips with lots of tails (floggers); and a very nasty-looking thing called a cat-o-nine-tails. Somehow, a riding crop ends up in my hands. It’s black leather, about three-foot long, and has a soft handle. When I whack the flat tip against the side of my boot it makes a satisfying thwhup. And when I test it out on my forearm, it hurts way more than I expected it to, leaving a bright red stripe in its wake. Am I tipsy? I wonder as the heat spreads from my arm through my body. And then a deep, masculine voice comes from behind me, close enough I can feel the warmth of its owner’s breath on my ear.
“Exquisitely made,” he says. I spin around and receive my second jolt of the evening. I’m face to face with a tall, broad-shouldered man. But aside from that, the voice ought to belong to someone else entirely. My eyes dart from side to side, wondering if it’s possible that someone else had been speaking. But no, he’s the only man near enough. The voice is rich, resonant, and commanding, but I can practically hear “hipster” being drawled in Monica’s derisive tones. He’s wearing a wheat-colored sweater with a deep V-neck, exposing a light scattering of chest hair and a wisp of black ink—a wing, or a feather maybe? A pair of oversize glasses hang from the V; an earring hangs from his right ear. He has golden-brown hair, cut short at the sides, with a long-top pushed back in a messy quiff, dark, straight brows, and dark scruff covering a firm jaw. His lips are full, and his eyes are soulful, golden-brown, and almost puppyish. In short, he looks like he just walked out of a fashion shoot in Brooklyn, or some equally edgy neighborhood. I’m holding the crop in both hands, but he’s not looking at it—he’s running his eyes all over my body without a hint of shame.
“Is it?” I say, as neutrally as I can.
He nods. “Very. But the real beauty is in its execution. I’d be happy to show you how it works.” There’s a flicker of heat between my thighs.
“I—I’m not into this stuff.” One of those straight, thick eyebrows lifts a smidgen in tandem with a corner of his mouth.
“Sex? You’re not into sex?”
“I mean…” I gesture at the row of whips hanging on hooks along the stall front. “This. Bondage.”
The quirk in his lips becomes a full-on smirk. “Bondage is something a little different. But it could certainly be a precursor to me using a whip on you.”
“Whatever. It’s not my thing. None of it.”
He leans in, using his height advantage. “I think it is.” His voice has become a gravelly purr, like the sound a predatory animal makes when it has its prey in its sights. And he’s so close that I can smell him—a rich, spicy scent tempered with expensive cologne. “I can see it in your eyes.”
For once in my life, I’m stuck for words. And then my anger flares. “Who are you, and what the hell do you think gives you the right to pass judgment on me?” I snap. “You know nothing about me.” I’m speaking loudly, but he seems unabashed.
“Nothing? Well, let me see… you’re at the biggest sex exhibition in the northeast in a provocative outfit, and you’re caressing a whip. And you have very vulnerable eyes.”
I scowl. I’ve been told often that my eyes look innocent, and I don’t like it.
“I’m just working here, helping a friend out, and I got bored waiting for her.”
He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out one of Dominique’s flyers. “This friend?”
I fight to keep my expression blank. “Have you been watching me?”
“What if I have?” His face displays such evident enjoyment that I want to slap him.
“You’re a freak.”
He takes a half step closer, and his smile doesn’t falter. “If I am, then so are you,” he says in an undertone. “But seriously, you don’t need any of this crap.”
I fold my arms. At this point, I don’t even know why I’m continuing to stand here and give him an audience, but I can never back away from confrontation. “No? What do I need?”
“You need a man whose breath in your ear is enough to make you yield all control.” Again, I can feel his breath, and its warmth makes me shiver, all the way to my nipples, which instantly tighten. Then he straightens up and, without another word, turns around and walks away from me.
I am rooted to the spot, incapable of doing anything more than watch him go. He’s also wearing gray jeans, hanging loose on what looks like a very well-shaped ass. His shoulders are muscular; I can tell from the way the light fabric of his sweater clings to them.
Anger and confusion ride through me in waves. This could be the most bizarre encounter I’ve had with another human being. And yet my nipples are still hard, my clit is throbbing, and when I move my hips, I can feel that there’s a little moisture between my thighs. What’s wrong with me? I clamp my jaw shut and put the crop back where it came from.
“There you are!” Dominique appears, now wrapped in her fluffy black coat that practically engulfs her frame. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere! How did you go with the flyers?”
I swallow hard, forcing myself back to normality. “They flew out of my hands. Everyone loves you!”
“Really?” Her eyes are glittering with excitement.
“Yup. People were asking all about you, when your next show’s happening.”
“I thought the show went well. I mean, nothing went wrong, at all. And people were clapping.”
“There was a lot of clapping. And cheering and whistling. It was amazing! You’re a star, Dom!”
She flings her arms around me. “Thanks, Reagan! You’re the best.” But then she draws back and peers into my eyes. “Are you okay? You look a little—I don’t know—stressed?”
“I’m fine. Just a little shell-shocked by all this pervery, I guess,” I say lightly.
Her eyes widen. “Are you serious? Was it too much?”
“No, I’m kidding. I actually had fun.” I want to tell her about the freaky conversation I just had and about running into my boss—probably soon to be ex-boss—but now’s not the time to rain on her parade.
“Good. I knew you would. Shall we go? I’m starving!”
“Yes, let’s,” I reply, already heading toward the exit.
To my annoyance, I find myself looking around for the guy as we leave. Those strong shoulders straining beneath his sweater, that just-too-perfectly messed-up brown hair. That cocky smile. But there’s no sign of him.
“Meet anyone interesting?” Dominique asks as we step out into the frigid air, a sprinkling of snow instantly coating our hair and shoulders.
“There was a guy—” I shake my head hard, trying to displace his image from my mind. “But no.”
“What?” She clutches my arm, half in excitement, half for balance as we skitter along the slippery sidewalk.
“No. I mean, he’s good looking.” Those big brown eyes rise up in my mind again. Up close they were less puppyish and more leonine. Full of certainty and self-possession. “He’s not my type. At all.” We both shudder as a blast of wind rips right through our coats.
“Why not?” Her words are slightly slurred, and I realize that her lips are as numb as mine. We arrive at the bus stop.
“I like all-American guys, I guess. Clean cut. Usually jocks.” The thought of my ex-boyfriends makes me snigger. Tom, Jack, and Hugo. All dark-haired and blue-eyed with strong, straightforward bodies and a closet full of T-shirts and sweatpants.
“Every guy I’ve dated has looked practically identical. They could be brothers. Or cousins.”
Dominique grins. “And this guy?”
“He’s a hipster. Well, he looks like a hipster. But the way he talked to me…” Yield all control. All of a sudden, my mind is full of his words, and they seem to have a direct connection to my clit.
“You’re practically panting, girl.” Dominique is looking at me sideways, amusement tugging at her lips. “He was giving you some sexy talk, wasn’t he?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t try telling me you didn’t like it.”
The bus arrives and we get on. I use the break in conversation to gather my thoughts. “It was weird,” I say as we take a seat at the back. “I’m a mainstream girl. I like normal sex. I always have done. I don’t get why people feel the need for S-and-M.”
“A guy’s never given you a little slap on the ass when you’ve been doing it?”
My cheeks warm, and with the contrast in temperature, they’re burning. “Maybe.”
“Case in point.” She stares out of the window, lips pressed together, knowingly.
“But that’s different. It’s really not on the same scale as all that stuff at the Sexpo. All that equipment. It just seems kind of convoluted.”
“Maybe you’d feel differently if you tried it out.”
I stay silent, turning over his words. You don’t need all that crap. It didn’t make much sense at the time, and it still doesn’t now.
“Did he give you his number?”
“No.”
“And he didn’t get yours?”
“Nope.”
“What kind of a guy engages a girl in sexy talk, then doesn’t exchange numbers?”
“I guess a guy who doesn’t have the guts to follow through.”
“Or someone who’s ve-ry patient.” She closes her eyes, as if she’s suddenly been sedated, and seems to fall asleep. It’s a habit of hers, I’m beginning to understand. I stare at her profile irritably. I seem to be the only one not in on the joke. What was this—take your straight-laced roommate to a sex show and laugh at how awkward she is?
I reach into the side pocket of her purse for my phone. Maybe Monica will be online. But it’s not there. Weird. I pull her purse onto my lap and root through it, going through every nook and cranny with increasing panic. It’s not in my coat pockets either. Fuck.
When I get back home, I empty the whole thing out, but it’s not hiding anywhere. It’s gone. Fuck, fuck, fuck! I groan.
“Is it locked with a password?” Dominique asks sleepily.
“Yeah.”
“It should be okay then. Call the venue in the morning and see if anyone turned it in.”
I sit on the edge of my bed, head in hands. What the hell happened to my phone? I try to retrace my steps. There was no reason why it would’ve been out of the purse. I looked at it a couple of times during the night, but not very much because I was trying to be professional. Did I have it in the bathroom? Yes—I took a selfie because I wanted to see if the bathroom lights were unreasonably harsh. And then? Did I put it back in the purse? I can’t remember. And there’s no point doing this. It’s not going to help me find it. I grab my laptop and try Find my phone. It’s off, and the last known location was the Sexpo venue. Most likely, the battery died. It’s always going flat. Dominique’s right. I’ll call tomorrow.
When I finally lay down, I can’t sleep. Why did I agree to come out tonight? I should’ve listened to my instincts. Not only did I run into my boss and get propositioned by a stranger, but I no longer have a phone. And, to my annoyance, my panties are damp, and I’m restless and antsy. I haven’t had sex since I broke up with Hugo, which was almost six months ago. I haven’t even thought about sex for weeks, since right about the time I started at Koln & Mathers. The thought of my employer delivers a stab of panic to my stomach. Jeremy Standish in a latex tank top. Oh, god. I really don’t want to think about this now. But, of course, the more I try to force it out of my mind, the more it drives me crazy, and my mind snowballs and snowballs. By two a.m., I’m convinced that come Monday morning, he’ll have sent instructions to security to stop me from entering the building. He did look kind of good in the tank top, though. I pummel my pillow for the hundredth time, and I giggle to myself like a maniac. He’s got a silver fox thing going on, and he evidently works out. I wonder why Mr. Riding Crop didn’t dress up, too. He looked like he’d just happened to be passing and decided to come in for a minute. I try to imagine him in latex. No, that doesn’t work. Bare chested, then. I like guys who are stacked with big, bulky muscles. A big, artistic tattoo covering one of his pecs. Pants slung low, those sexy diagonal grooves muscular guys have out on show. I can see he’s hard, his cock straining against the zipper. I’m lying on the bed, naked and vulnerable. He strides over to me. One hand pushes my legs apart, the other eases his zipper down.
I give up. I reach for the drawer in my nightstand and grope for my little purple bullet. It buzzes discreetly as I press it to my clit, and I come in seconds, a sharp jolt of a climax that leaves me shocked and feeling a little seedy. Since when do I fantasize about sexy strangers? But at least I’ve gotten him out of my system now, and I can forget about him. And finally I sleep.
