Owned By the Billionaire by Tristan Rivers
Chapter 4
Knowing my propensity to lose things, I put Adler’s number in my phone right away. But by the following morning, the dreaminess of that moment at the metro entrance has faded, and instead, I keep thinking about being in the bar with him. How he didn’t treat me as his equal, but toyed with me, like a cat playing with its prey before it kills it. The recollection of how I wanted him to pull my hair a little, crush me beneath his muscular bulk so I couldn’t escape, brings a flush of shame to my cheeks. This is never what I’ve been about. Boyfriends have always been friends as well as lovers. Sure, they might have been better than me at lugging around heavy objects, but in everything else, we’ve always been equal. I’ve never had fantasies about a dude throwing me over his shoulder and dragging me off to his cave. The thought of what a terrible, controlling boyfriend Adler would be makes me a little angry. And then I get even angrier that I’m considering what he would be like as a boyfriend.
I resolve to ban him from my thoughts. It’s not all that difficult because, luckily, I’m working practically every waking moment. All week, I work on the new brief with Jeremy. He seems to be happy with me, giving me more and more things to do, and even takes me to meet clients. The more I see of him, the more impressed I am. He’s very calm and good at getting people to do what he wants, and he has the clients eating out of his hands. I learn from Jenny that he’s the “difficult client guy.” Any time the agency starts to freak that a client is thinking of dropping them, he gets sent in to sweet-talk them. I observe him when he’s not looking, wondering what he’s into, what he does to that good-looking boy of his when they’re alone together.
There is something very seductive about power, I muse one Thursday morning as I watch him deliver our pitch to the potential clients. It’s a health drink company, and the executive board is made up of cool young guys and girls, slouching in baggy T-shirts and pants. But little by little, they straighten in their seats, and lean forward. No one’s fiddling with their phone or gazing around the room. They’re completely focused on what he’s saying. He’s very suave in his charcoal-gray suit and bird’s egg-blue silk tie, his short gray hair styled with a hint of jauntiness to show that he’s a creative. When he delivers his closing line, they’re all smiling broadly, and one girl even starts clapping before her face turns beet red and she pretends to be picking at her nails instead. I scan their faces. Their pupils are dilated, and there’s a kind of hunger there, as if they want what he’s got.
And then it’s my turn to speak. It wasn’t part of the initial plan, but yesterday Jeremy asked me to say a few words. I get to my feet and address the group. I’m nervous, of course. In fact, I only slept about four hours last night. If I screw this up, I’ll undo all of Jeremy’s good work. But I’ve practiced the speech seven times, and I’m lucky that nerves never show in my voice. It goes well, and I ride on the wave of fascination that Jeremy created. By the time I finish, they’re still smiling.
As we pass through the doors of the building, Jeremy claps me on the back. “Good job, Reagan. We don’t usually put our first years out front, but I knew I was right about you. If they don’t take us on after this, they’re not worth having as clients.”
I glow with pride, and the tension of the past days eases away.
I don’t know how, but by mid-afternoon the other execs know that I spoke at a client pitch, and they’re buzzing with the news.
“Nice work getting so close to Jeremy,” Suzannah says, sidling up to me in the cafeteria, her eyes as cold as a cat’s as she looks me up and down. I haven’t changed out of my power suit, which comprises a black fitted jacket and pencil skirt. She thinks he’s got the hots for me. She has no idea he’s gay. Why would she? He looks like the classic alpha male of every chick-lit reader’s fantasies.
“Yeah, I was lucky,” I say with a shrug. But as I collect my coffee, my stomach tightens. It is kind of odd he picked me to work with him in the first place.
* * *
At the endof the day, there’s nothing I want more than a hot bath and an early night, but when I get home, Dominique is in full-on burlesque mode again, prancing around the apartment in a pair of green, sequined hot pants and two red, sequined nipple pasties in the shape of cherries. The small-town prude in me presses her lips together in disapproval, but at the same time, I can’t help admiring her perfectly toned, golden brown body.
“Hey, girl! You look beat,” she chirps as I come into the kitchen.
“Long day.” I slump onto a chair.
“How was the pitch?”
I grin, touched by how she always shows an interest in my life. “It went well. My boss was happy with me.”
She claps her hands together. “That’s great, Rea! You deserve it after all that work you’ve been doing. Now, what are you doing tonight?”
I sigh. “I’ve got a hot date with my bed.”
“Nooo!” She bends forward, pressing her hands against her knees, and peers at me, her huge black eyes full of concern. “You’ve got to celebrate when you do something good. That’s how life works. Come to my show tonight. It’s the one that you were flyering for.”
“But I’m soo tired,” I say in a moaning voice.
“You haven’t been out all week. I’m getting worried about you.”
It’s true. I worked all weekend too, not stopping until nine p.m. both days. I actually haven’t been out at all since I met Adler. Who I’m not going to think about at all.
“I know it’s a school night, but come just for an hour or two. It’s a nice, small venue. I’m not going to sweet-talk you into doing any work for me this time. I can introduce you to a few people. Or not. It’ll do you good.” She flashes a kind smile at me, then turns to the counter to finish making some food.
Does she think I’m a loser? Here I am, living in this big, lively city without any real friends and spending most of my free time at home. And I do kind of want to reward myself for the successful pitch. “I’m coming,” I say and head to my bedroom to get ready.
We take a bus to the venue, which turns out to be nothing like the Sexpo. It’s an old theater in the old commercial district, vaguely art deco, and kind of run-down, but that somehow makes it feel intimate. There’s a rickety wooden stage at the front, and the floor space is filled with small round tables, each with a candle lantern in the center. I check out the running order. Dominique is performing third out of six performers. I’ll stay for her show and then I’ll leave.
All the performers are gathered around a couple of high tables in a dark corner off to the side of the stage, and Dominique brings me over and introduces me to her friends. There’s an artist, an actor, and a girl and a guy who sing in different bands. They seem like a cool bunch, and I sip my gin and tonic and chat about the city’s performing arts scene. But now and again, I scan the crowd for someone. A certain tall, broad-shouldered someone with a messy brown quiff and incredible caramel eyes. So far there’s no sign of him, and I’m glad. The last time he popped into my mind, I almost deleted his number from my phone. The thought of him makes me feel way too hot and uncomfortable. My first drink goes down fast. Which has nothing at all to do with the fact that there’s a tiny thread of nerves running in my veins. Why should he be here anyway? All the acts are burlesque, or something like it. Nothing on the flyer indicates that anyone’s getting tied up. But maybe he likes burlesque too, I muse as I get another drink. He has the flyer.
The first show is great. Two girls are performing a circus show with fire poi and hula hoops. They’re tiny and impossibly agile, and when they’re done, there’s a thunderous round of applause. Dominique excuses herself to get ready for her show and I sink gratefully into the background, already tipsy on a drink and a half. I hate the way alcohol affects me when I’m tired. I get dizzy and kind of nauseous. Good going, Rea. If you turn into any more of a lightweight, you’ll have to quit drinking altogether.
The spot where I’m standing, elbows propped on the table, is a great vantage point for checking out the new arrivals, and I’m happy to see the place is filling up, ready for Dominique’s show. There’s still no sign of Adler. He’s not coming. He’d be here already if he was. And I’m disappointed. There it is: the heaviness in my stomach isn’t relief. I want to see him again. I want those deep brown eyes that watched me with such interest in the bar to burn into mine again. I long for him to kiss me the way he kissed me outside the metro. However much he unsettled me, infuriated me even, there’s something about him that’s hard to forget.
The second show begins with a door slamming loudly, and I jump along with the rest of the audience. It’s a spoken word/experimental dance mash-up, and quirky is a kind way to describe it. I can’t work out if it’s supposed to be a parody of the genre, or if that’s the girl’s natural voice. Going by the serious expression on her face, it’s the latter.
I lean back against the wall, and my mind wanders, annoyingly, back to the question that Adler asked me: what created such a powerful desire in you to submit? Assuming for a second that Adler’s right, and I have this secret urge to be dominated, where did it come from? I’ve posed this question to myself too many times during the past few days, and I’m no closer to coming up with an answer. The fact is, I hate being controlled or giving in to someone. I’ve been this way ever since I was a kid. I couldn’t stand being disciplined by my parents or schoolteachers, and that hot, squirmy feeling of humiliation that always accompanied it. It was so intense I can feel it now, and it makes me want to cross my legs tight.
My emotions must’ve shown on my face because one of Dominique’s friends appears at my elbow and says, “Pretty terrible, isn’t it?” He’s wearing a flat cap and has dark hair and mischievous dark eyes.
I laugh loudly. “It’ll make Dominique’s star shine even more brightly,” I reply, aiming to be judicious. He grins, and the next thing I know, he’s handing me a JD and Coke. Me and Jack don’t have a good history, but I take it automatically.
“Thanks?” I say, raising a quizzical eyebrow. He shrugs.
“Friend of Dom’s is a friend of mine.” We keep talking until Dominique’s show starts, and then, along with everyone else in the packed room, we fall silent. She’s very talented. Even as a burlesque ingénue, I can see that. She looks stunning in her teal-colored costume, and she’s raunchy and sensual. My attention doesn’t waver as I watch her, and for a while I forget about the squirmy feeling that reared its ugly head from over a decade ago.
The air is thick with cheers, whoops and wolf whistles as the show ends. Dominique takes a bow, standing in the middle of the stage in the nipple pasties I saw earlier tonight and a rhinestone encrusted G-string, that, thankfully, I didn’t. By the time she exits the stage, blowing kisses to the audience as she goes, I’ve finished the entire drink. Damn. I was planning on dumping it on the bar when the guy wasn’t looking. And now I suddenly feel wide awake as though I’ve pushed through the tiredness barrier. It’s getting late, but I shouldn’t leave before Dominique gets back. I decide to get one final drink, and one for the guy as well.
There’s a long line at the bar. What else did Adler say? I think as I jostle back and forth, awaiting my turn to order. It might be the opposite of what you expect it to be. I hate being controlled so I secretly yearn for it? Is that it? I think about his hand in my hair, his tongue probing my mouth, and an image screams across my brain: me tied, hand and foot, on my knees, while he stands over me, a hand twisted in my hair, a smile playing on his lips, knowing he can do anything he wants with me. My body’s reaction is nothing I’ve experienced before. It’s like something shot me in the clit, and I shudder all over. Before I know what I’m doing, I take my phone out and locate his number. I write one sentence, I think I know what you mean by opposites. I remember something…and I hit send. Then it’s my turn to order, and I buy three shots.
There are so many flying elbows at the bar I have to drink mine right away, and then I bring the other two over to Dominique and her friend. She’s glowing with excitement, and I tell her how much I loved the show and meeting her friends, then I make my excuses and leave.
Why the hell did I write that? I push my way out of the venue and into the quiet street. The logic behind the thought is already blurring in my mind as I turn the corner onto the main street. And then I narrowly avoid walking smack bang into a tall, dark man who’s looking down at his phone, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Adler!” I say helplessly. He looks up and meets my gaze with sparkling eyes, and my knees go weak. This is the man I was just fantasizing about. And he’s even hotter than I remember. That jaw. Those cheekbones. Those smoldering, molten-caramel eyes.
“You know what I mean by opposites, huh?” he says, his voice low and gravelly.
“I’m not sure I meant to send that.”
His smile gets wider. “You drunk texted me!”
“No,” I insist, but my face goes beet red.
He looks around. “Come here.” He takes my hand and leads me to an alleyway several feet away. He props me against the wall and leans over me, one hand on either side of my head. “What were you trying to tell me, Reagan?”
His nearness is doing crazy things to my body. I want him to press me against the wall, crush me with his weight, lift me up and wrap my legs around his waist.
“I don’t know. It was just a fleeting thing.”
“No, it wasn’t. Tell me now.” His eyes are hard, and something deep in my core surrenders to him.
“I used to hate being controlled as a child. I mean, really hate it.”
He dips his head, and his mouth is just below my ear. “Were you a willful child?”
“Pretty much.”
His lips are on the corner of my mouth, tantalizingly close to my own. “And you got punished for it?”
“Yup.”
“And it made you mad?”
“Yes, and—”
His mouth meets mine, his beard scruff chafing my skin, but his lips are soft and full. He kisses me as hard as before, even harder, his tongue forcing its way right to the back of my throat, and his thigh slips between mine. As it makes contact with the seam of my tight jeans, I moan into his mouth. He draws back and presses the pad of his thumb against my lip.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Now, let’s get you home.” He takes my hand, and I follow him dazedly into a taxi.
“Your address?”
I give it to him. As soon as the car starts to move, he reaches for me and doesn’t stop kissing me for the rest of the journey. It’s the most passionate, heady make-out session of my life. He’s gentle, almost tender, and he strokes my face and my hair, tells me I’m beautiful. And even though I can tell he’s hard, his cock bulging against the zipper of his pants, he doesn’t try to grope me. He’s almost gentlemanly in the way he holds me.
I feel a flicker of embarrassment as the taxi turns into my slightly rundown, red-brick neighborhood and pulls up in front of my very functional apartment block. I try to pay, but he stops me.
“I’ll pay at the end of the journey,” he says.
“You’re not coming in?”
He lifts my hand and kisses it. “No. It’s late and you’re tired. I need you full of energy. Are you free tomorrow?”
I hesitate. “Yes,” I say at last.
“Good. I’ll pick a venue and text you the address.”
“Okay.” I stumble as I get out of the car and, quick as a flash, he runs around to the other side and helps me, leading me over to my front door.
“Sleep well, petite,” he murmurs and kisses me on the cheek, then steps back and watches until I let myself inside and close the door.
“Wow,” I mutter as I make it up the stairs and through the door of my apartment. “Just, wow.” I think I can deal with telling him embarrassing things about myself if the reward is being kissed like that.
I get ready for bed fast and climb in between my sheets. I wish he was there with me, his mouth on mine, his leg between my thighs, those long-fingered hands running all over my body…
And then I pass out.
