Billionaire Romance Boxed Set (9 Book Bundle) (81 page)

“Stress eating?” I
teased, taking a slice for myself.

“No,” he replied,
indignantly, around a mouthful of cheese.

To this day, I’ll never know what
possessed me to say the next thing that popped out of my mouth.

“You know, the last time we
had pizza together it didn’t really end well.”

“I’m aware,” he said,
drily.

We both chewed in silence for a
moment.

“I know this doesn’t mean
much now,” he said, “but if I had the chance to start over with this,
I’d do things differently.”

“And marry someone
else?” I suggested. He didn’t say no - but he didn’t say yes, either.

“I let the whole thing go to
my head,” he said, after a while. “I actually thought…”

My fingers tightened around the
pizza crust I was holding. “You actually thought…?” I prompted.

He shook his head. “No - no,
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’ve put you in enough unenviable
situations as it is.”

“Hey,” I said, gently.
“I’ve had a great time, being your wife.” I thought of the interview,
and our fight. “Well…most of the time.”

He laughed a little. “That’s
very kind of you to say.”

“I don’t just want to walk
away from it prematurely,” I went on. “I mean, you know…in case
something else comes up.”

He shut his eyes for a
moment, and then spoke again. “I’m sorry I called you selfish,” he
said. “I’m the selfish one. I have been from the beginning. You’ve been
very sweet, and kind, and tolerant of the most awkward situation possible. I
appreciate everything you’ve done. I really do. But Maddy-” he hesitated,
and took a deep breath. “I can’t be around you anymore.”

My pulse was thumping deafeningly
in my ears. “Why not?”

“Do I really have to spell
it out for you?” He looked at me, a little disbelieving.

“I’d really appreciate
it,” I said, my voice sounding very distant.

“I like you,” he said,
simply. “That’s all. Better than anyone I’ve ever really dated. I thought
it would be all right, at first - lend an air of authenticity to the whole
thing. Couldn’t possibly hurt for me to be little bit smitten, could it?”

I pinched myself.

“Ow,” I said.

He stared at me. “Did you
just pinch yourself?”

“No,” I said. “Are
you being serious right now?”

“Of course I am,” he
said, gently. “I’m sorry, I thought it was obvious.”

“It was….not,” I said.
“Obvious. Not at all.”

“Well,” he said.
“This is awkward.”

I laughed. I had to.

“So, what…you thought I
knew, and I was just toying with your emotions to get in your pants?”

“It doesn’t sound very
sensible,” he said slowly, “when you put it like that.”

“It doesn’t sound very
sensible no matter what,” I said. “Why on earth would you be so
paranoid?”

“Wait, wait,” he said.
“So if you weren’t toying with me - what, then?”

My throat constricted. “What
do you mean?”

“Do you…are you…”

I’d never seen him at such a complete
loss for words before. “Relax,” I said, finally, putting him out of
his misery. “I…I like you, too.”

Being perfectly honest, the word
“like” didn’t even begin to cover it. But I wasn’t going to let
myself go there. Not just yet.

“Maddy…” He looked at
me with an expression that was some strange mix of hope and trepidation, mixed
with relief, mixed with…

“Hey,” I said.
“Let’s not get too carried away. We’ve known each other for what…eight
months?”

“And yet, you’re my
wife.”

Such simple words, coming out of
his mouth - but suddenly, they took on a whole new meaning.

“I know,” I said.
“But all the same.”

“All the same,” he
agreed, his shoulders relaxing a little.

I leaned back on the sofa and
rested against him, letting his arm drape over my shoulders. Just like a real
couple. And for once, that thought didn’t come with a side of heartache.

“Oh - Maddy?” he said,
after a long silence.

I stirred. “Yeah?”

“Please don’t tell my
sister,” he said. “She’ll never shut up about being right.”

The guest room door popped open.
“I heard that, you jackass.”

Epilogue

I woke up slowly, to the sun
peeking in through the blinds. Stirring in bed, I realized I was wrapped up in
a tight embrace.

“Good morning,” Daniel
murmured in my ear. I smiled, slowly.

“G’morning,” I managed,
as he pressed soft, insistent kisses on the side of my face. I rolled over to
face him, not even protesting when he kissed me on the mouth - that was a fight
I’d given up long ago, once I was confident that when he said he didn’t care
about my morning breath, he really, really meant it.

The scarlet rope was still coiled
up on the floor where we’d left it, after last night’s activities. Over time,
it had grown more smooth and supple, curling around my body like a second skin.
I remembered how it had made me feel, mere hours before - how hehad made me
feel - and I shivered against the heat of his skin.

His fingers drifted along my body
with a feather-light touch, igniting a slow fire deep inside. I was still sore
from last night, but apparently I hadn’t gotten enough. I made a quiet,
encouraging hmmm as his hand dipped lower.

I thought he’d known just how to
touch me the first time we were together, but he’d only gotten better at
reading my body and giving me what I wanted, often before I even knew what it
was.

His fingers slipped between my
folds, teasing me. Testing me.

I slid my leg up over his hip,
spreading myself open. He smiled, and I felt his hardness nudge against me. I
was still sleepy, but my body was wide awake and ready. I tilted my head back
as he slid into me - agonizingly slow, but so perfectly satisfying.

He filled me up just the same as
he’d always done, but the feeling of skin on skin was still new, still
intoxicating. I rolled my hips with his movements. He reached down to caress
me, his fingers rubbing slow circles just where I needed them. I let out a
small noise, my eyelids going heavy. He’d hit the sweet spot, and he knew it.
He was watching my expressions carefully, our faces so close that our noses
were almost touching.

Sometimes we played games - ropes
and handcuffs, pretending to be people that we weren’t. Sometimes he would
bring me to the edge and then pull me back, again and again, just to assert
himself, to remind me that I could control my own body if he demanded it of me.
And I had grown to love those games. As frustrating as they could be, they
comforting. Dependable. Intimate.

But sometimes, there were no
games.

Sometimes it was just us, with no
artifice. No mitigations or apologies. I wouldn’t necessarily say that I preferred
one way to the other, but it was awfully nice to have both.

This morning, it was just us.

He was my husband, not my
billionaire boss who’d once tried to buy a year of my life. That was our past.
Until recently, our future had been unsure. But now, it was clear there was no
longer any need for a contract to keep us together.

I melted into his touch,
breathless and quivering in his arms. I’d never understood how he could reduce
me to this with just the slow, steady rhythm of his hand - but I certainly wasn’t
about to complain.

Then, just like that, I
shattered. Somewhere in the midst of the mind-numbing pleasure, I felt him
thrust deep inside me, one last time, his open mouth connecting with my
shoulder, teeth sinking in just far enough to leave a red mark.

When I blinked back to life,
Daniel was smiling and stroking my hair. He kissed the tip of my nose, and I
made a face.

“Happy anniversary,” he
said, his voice still gravelly from sleep.

I grinned. “Has it been a
year already?”

“I know,” he replied,
lightly grabbing a handful of my hair. “It’s a shame, isn’t it? I don’t
own you anymore.”

“We’ll just have your lawyer
draft up something new,” I said.

He chuckled, pulling me close and
kissing my forehead.

“I love you,
sweetheart.”

“I love you too,” I
muttered, against his chest.

I closed my eyes, and just
breathed.

About the Author

Melanie Marchande is a young
writer who loves creating fun, flirty, and occasionally steamy stories about
two people realizing they just can’t live without each other. If you’d like to
read more from her, please leave a review letting her know what you liked about
the book so she knows what to write next. You can also connect with her online:

Email: [email protected]

Website:
melaniemarchande.com

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Twitter: @MellieMarchande

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facebook.com/MelanieMarchande

Author Page:
http://www.amazon.com/MelanieMarchande/e/B00BKPEGYK/

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If you enjoyed this novel, please
check out the sequel!

I
Married A Billionaire: Lost and Found

When Maddy Thorne agreed to marry
her billionaire boss in order to keep him in the country, she never would have
guessed they’d actually stay together. But over a year later, she’s still
happily married to the slightly eccentric, maddeningly attractive Daniel. As he
begins to come out of his shell and turn into the figurehead that his growing
technology company needs, Maddy finds herself dealing with a whole new set of
problems. And despite his newfound openness, he’s still keeping secrets. Even
from her. But despite her misgivings and the ever-present prattle of journalists,
really, Maddy can’t complain.

Then, a frantic late-night phone
call changes everything.

Daniel has been accused of
illegal insider trading. His assets frozen, he suddenly finds himself at the
center of a media circus and a trial under a merciless judge with no way out.
Maddy wants to support him, but it seems all Daniel wants to do is crawl back
into his shell. In the midst of the chaos, Maddy receives an offer to display
her drawings at one of the most influential galleries in the city. Pulled in
two directions even as her life crashes down around her, will Maddy allow
Daniel to keep pushing her away, or will she find a way to pull him back?

THE EXHIBITIONIST

By Starla Cole

The wind whipped between the
crumbling facades of the abandoned buildings of the Warehouse District as Syria
and her friend Mia followed the long block from where they’d been instructed to
park their car.

Syria shivered, not sure if it
was entirely from the cold. She was nervous as hell. When her Japanese bondage
instructor, only known as “The Madam,” had invited her and Mia to participate
in a
shibari
exhibition, she hadn’t realized they’d be treated like help
rather than talent. All they had been told was to park well away from the
building where the exhibition would be held and to enter by the back door.

They really had no idea what
they’d gotten into.

“I don’t see why we had to park
so far away. It’s not like we’re robbing the place.” Mia hugged herself as she
slogged through wet leaves.

Syria peered down the street,
looking for any signs of life. Neither of them had dressed properly for the
cold, which had come on suddenly that afternoon. “We should have reconsidered
our outfits,” she said.

Mia’s stiletto boots teetered on
the uneven pavement. “Stupid, stupid. We don’t even know what they’re going to
do to us.” Her teeth chattered, and Syria wondered if she was nervous too. She
was the one getting tied up in front of strangers. Syria was just the moral
support.

“You don’t have to do it, you know.
We can go back to the car and forget the whole thing. It’s not like we’ll run
into Madam at the grocery.” Syria had been thinking ahead herself, wondering
how warm the warehouse could possibly be, and if they would keep Mia naked. She
was glad she was only a silent spectator.

And a sneaky one. Madam had told
her not to photograph anything, but Syria couldn’t bear it. She was a
photographer! This was way too amazing of an opportunity to pass up, so she’d
modified her bag to allow her lens to peek out. She set the focus to manual and
would have to hope things were in range. With the low light and a bit of
distance between her and the bondage suspensions, she might get nothing, but
she had to try. The camera was in silent mode, no beeps or clicks. She’d get
away with it. No one would be paying any attention to her.

The wind whipped right up her
short skirt and chilled her thighs. She’d worn proper panties today, no
g-string, but under the cute leather jacket she only had on a sheer white
halter, tied behind her neck and so thin as to be almost invisible. Mia’s idea,
in hopes that Syria would interest another of the bondage experts to tie her up
too.

Syria wasn’t sure about that, but
wearing something so bare out in public had sent such a hard-core thrill through
her, she’d had to do it. Mia snapped an image of her to send to her boyfriend
Tyson up in Seattle, although he was working a gig and hadn’t responded yet.

Mia at least had a proper jacket.
Her legs were bare too, but under her trench coat she wore spandex boy shorts
and a tight fuzzy sweater. Unlike Syria, she’d put on a bra in case they would
let her keep on underwear. Not that she was shy, obviously, having done a
pirate sex show for years. But even her experience couldn’t keep her hands from
shaking as she tied her belt back at Syria’s house. They were both out of their
element.

The warehouse loomed in front of
them, three stories and larger than any of the other small metal buildings that
lined the street. No cars had passed during their walk and the street lights
were dim. The whole atmosphere felt like a movie, two young girls entering to
their doom. Syria’s belly quivered, imagining the doors opening wide and both
of them getting swept into a room to be stripped, tortured, and kept prisoner.

“That looks like the door.” Mia
pointed to a small back entry, painted red, the only bit of color in the dreary
metal and concrete. They turned off the street and headed for it. As they
approached, another tiny figure arrived from the opposite street, huddling in a
blue pea coat. As they all arrived at the door, Syria saw she was Asian, her
black hair twisted in a tight bun, her face painted white with red lips and
heavily lined eyes, like a traditional Geisha.

“It’s our first time,” Mia said
to her.

The girl shook her head and
brought her finger to her lips.

“What, we can’t talk?” Mia asked.

The girl shook her head again,
then whispered, “We are submissives. This is our door. Do not speak upon
entering.”

“I’m just a spectator,” Syria
said, but fell silent at the glare from the kohl-lined eyes, surprised at the
strength coming from someone so tiny.

The presence of another girl, one
who had clearly done this before and lived to tell about it, and even come back
for more, soothed Syria’s nerves. It would be like the video she’d seen, she
guessed, lots of ropes and strung-up girls and men sitting around. Nothing to
fear.

The heat that washed over them
when the door opened was another relief. Mia glanced back at Syria and smiled.
“This is going to rock!”

The other girl shook her head,
rushing forward, probably to distance herself from the noncompliant submissive.
The whole silent domination was a lot of rot. They were just people. So what if
some of the people tied up the others?

They walked down a dimly lit
corridor, metal doors at regular intervals all tightly shut. Syria pushed a
little faster, trying to follow the tiny figure ahead of them. Madam had not
given them any instruction beyond entering the red door.

The hallway turned sharply and
now they could make out a bright light at the end. A man stood there,
resplendent in a three-piece suit, and he pointed the first girl to a door.
Syria slowed down, as did Mia. The man watched them approach. He, too, was
Asian, with thick black hair and sly eyes. He missed nothing, Syria could tell,
appraising the women much as she might when considering an angle to photograph.
She tightened the bag against her body. He turned to Mia. “You must be Madam’s
new submissive.”

Mia nodded. The man pointed to
another door in the corridor, but when Syria tried to follow, he caught her
arm. “Submissives only. She will be prepped.”

Mia halted. “Oh no, she’s coming
with me.”

“Madam will not be pleased.” The
man’s brows furrowed together, his eyes dark.

“Madam can shove it up her back
door.” Mia’s eyes flashed, her cheeks pink. She linked her arm through Syria’s.
“We’re doing this as a favor.”

They pushed through the door and
immediately stopped. The room didn’t match the rest of the warehouse at all,
plush carpeting on the floor, a massage chair, gold fabric draped on the walls,
a bright makeup table. And people. Several people.

A woman in a red kimono, hair
piled high above a bright friendly face, reached for Mia’s hand. “You are just
as the Madam described.” Her movements were fluid and graceful, leading Mia to
the makeup table with gentle firmness even though she was petite.

Syria hung back at the door. Two
women began removing Mia’s coat and brushing her hair. Red Kimono turned to
her. “You must be Mia’s friend, the photographer.” She glanced down at the
oversized bag, and Syria felt unmasked. “I am sure she is so glad you are here.
The first time can be unnerving.”

She gestured to a chaise lounge.
“Rest here. I am Kana, the Madam’s assistant. You may remain with us until the
time of the exhibition.”

Syria sank into the plush chaise,
carefully setting her bag beside her. The women were intricately braiding Mia’s
long black hair. A third woman began powdering her face.

“Shall I take your coat?” Kana
asked.

Syria’s face flushed, remembering
the sheer halter. “No, no. I’m a bit chilled.” The room, actually, was quite
warm, but she couldn’t bear to wear such a slinky outfit among their gorgeous
Japanese formality. All the women were in ceremonial dress, glimmering kimonos
with the funny socks that allowed their sandals to go between the toes. Syria
tucked her knees tightly together, glad for sensible boots and not the tramp
heels Mia wore.

But the women quickly removed the
shoes, setting them carefully on a cart. Mia faced a mirror in her sweater and boy
shorts. The makeup girl stepped back and with a nod, the other women pulled the
sweater over Mia’s head. Her black bra stood out sharply in the soft room, like
a blight. With a quick snap, it fell away.

Mia caught her eye in the mirror,
and Syria attempted a smile. The women pulled Mia to standing and tugged down
the shorts. Now she was naked, but only a moment before Kana covered her in a
shimmery gold robe.

The makeup girl returned to her
position and Mia was given an artful look, dark lashes and deep color on her
lids. The lips were brushed plum and her cheekbones stood out. She looked
beautiful, exactly right for her hair and skin, like a goddess with the braids.

A side door opened and a larger
bustling woman in a plain white kimono entered with a tray of bottles. She
waved the others aside and untied Mia’s robe, pressing her hands against her
thighs and arms and waist. Mia caught Syria’s expression yet again, amused.

The women pulled Mia up and the
robe came off and now the woman rubbed something along Mia’s rib cage, her
upper arms, and then along her thighs and ankles.

Pressure points, Syria realized,
and probably something to assist with the places the ropes might chafe her. She
bumped her bag in just the right spot. She couldn’t hear the click but sensed
the camera had taken the shot. She had no idea if she was getting anything, but
the image was amazing, Mia, naked, surrounded by the women in their resplendent
costume, anxious and bemused.

The woman stood, satisfied and
the gold robe went back on.

Kana waved to Syria. “It is time.
You will go with me to sit with the audience. Because you are a woman, you will
have to sit in the back. I understand if this does not fit with your idea of
how you would be treated, but this group, while not strictly Japanese, likes to
abide by certain rules. We hope you will obey them so that you might come
again.” She smiled, and Syria was reminded of a butterfly, her face was so open
and kind, the color from her kimono reflecting on her face.

“Okay.” Syria didn’t know what
else to say but picked up her bag and followed Kana out through the door. The
other women led Mia another way. “See you soon!” she called out.

The corridor continued another
several yards then opened into a large space bordered by a stage lit with soft
white towers of light. Three rows of chairs were filled with men of many
ethnicities, all in suits, laughing and talking amongst themselves.

When she entered, they quieted,
turning to look as though they had smelled a woman. Kana held her tightly.
“Madam has brought a new submissive, and this is her escort. She will watch the
proceedings from the back.”

The men nodded and were turning
back to their conversations when Kana, trying to be helpful, slid the bag off
Syria’s arm and tugged the jacket from her.

The light lit the white halter
and the sudden cooling in the room made her nipples tighten painfully. Syria
wanted to grab the coat back, but she was stuck and Kana was handing her things
to an attendant. She didn’t know which to panic more about — her camera
going away or the attention her outfit had drawn.

She pulled at the hem of the
skirt as the men silently appraised her, twisted in their seats. Why had she
and Mia thought this was a good idea? Kana, thankfully, made no mention of her
clothing and led her to a cushioned chair in the corner. A boy dressed all in
black came onstage, leading a metal hook on several ropes along a metal bar
until it rested in the center. The men turned their attention to this, and
Syria relaxed. Hopefully they would forget about her now. She crossed her arms
over her chest.

A man in silky black pants and a
ceremonial jacket came on stage and bowed to the audience. Music began, full of
flutes and strange instruments Syria didn’t recognize, flighty and light.

The girl they’d met at the door
came out in a sky blue kimono, her makeup slightly altered, the white face
accented with silvery blue shadow and kissed pink lips. The man took her by the
hand and led her to the center of the stage, turning her in a circle for
everyone to admire.

She kept her eyes downcast,
demure, so small as to almost appear to be a girl, although Syria knew she had
to be plenty old enough. Her glossy hair was swept up with two crossing
bamboo spears.

The man came behind her and
embraced her, one hand on her belly, another cupping her chin, bringing her
face up to his. He smiled at her, rapt and loving, and ran his fingers along
her jaw, her neck, her collarbone, and just inside the fold of the kimono.

Syria stirred and could not pull
her eyes away, but became aware that his hand was loosening the girl’s robe.
Then he spun her, hand tight on the blue fabric, and as the little wisp
whirled, she broke free of the kimono, pale and naked, turning more and more
slowly across the stage.

Her body had been rouged at the
thighs and breasts. She was trimmed but not shaven, the dark hair a deep
triangle below the white belly. The man tossed the kimono away and reached for
the hook, pulling it lower. Only then did Syria realize he had a coil of white
rope in his hand. The girl turned back to him in slow circles, and he quickly
twisted the first tie, pressing her arms lightly so that she lifted them. And
he caught her again, running a hand along her body, across the tiny breasts,
and wrapped the rope around her waist, cinching it tight.

Syria’s brain whirled as he
whipped through the steps of creating a cinch on her waist, another above and
below her breasts, smashing them tightly between, and then one on her thigh. He
attached her to the hook then, letting one leg dangle, spreading the other
straight and high and lashing it into place. Now she hung straight down, one
leg up, arms in a double column over her head. He bent the free leg and tied it
down, then stepped away, observing her with admiration and something akin to love.
He grasped her knee to spin her, and now the work was complete. The girl
whirled, a blur of rope, breast, white skin and rosy spots, her lightly furred
mound the center point of attention, open and ready.