Billionaire Romance Boxed Set (9 Book Bundle) (87 page)

“And elsewhere. It isn’t suitable
for quite a number of situations.”

“But you did that to her.”

“Some of it was me. Some were by
others. She’s allowed to play with members of the household.”

“So you dictate when and who they
have sex with?”

“I want everyone in my
organization clean and healthy and safe.”

Syria felt mildly repulsed by the
idea of an endless orgy of people, even if it were within a marbled mansion. “I
don’t think this would be for me.”

He squeezed her fingers. “I
haven’t even made my offer.”

“You don’t need to.”

“Let me try.”

He let go of her hand and tapped
a single button on the cell phone that rested silently next to his glass. A man
in an elegant white silk shirt arrived and placed a leather case on the table,
then slipped back out the curtain.

Erik pulled a sheaf of papers
from the case. “I’m proposing a trial for 72 hours only. You can be in my
company and play out some of the elements of the contract. Then we can decide
exactly what our terms would be.”

Syria stared at the pages. “Why
would I do this?”

“I can change your life. Give you
anything you want. And be precisely the sort of man you’d like me to be.”

Syria swallowed hard, picturing
Tyson. “I don’t even know what that would be.”

“I bet you do.”

“It wouldn’t involve having sex
with the kitchen maids.”

“You might be surprised at how
much pleasure can be gained from a controlled environment, an expanded
monogamous circle.”

“That’s an oxymoron.”

Erik laughed again. “I can see
you are going to be a wonderful challenge. And I am prepared to rise to it.”

He zipped the papers back into
the case. “This is for you to consider later. For now, we’ll have dinner, and
perhaps dance. I would love to have an excuse to hold you close, even in
public.”

For the first time, Syria
realized music was indeed filtering through the curtain, some combination of
stringed instruments. “I can do that.”

“Good.” He pressed another button
on his phone.

Within moments, the waiter
arrived with two silver-domed plates. The aromas that wafted up when he
revealed the dinner made Syria’s belly rumble.

“Bon appetite,” the waiter said,
and backed out of the alcove.

Erik held up his glass. “To our
arrangement.”

Syria lifted hers too. “To never
caving.”

Erik laughed again as he sipped
the wine. “This is already a night to remember.”

The dinner had been exquisite.
Syria felt happy and calm as the waiter whisked away the contents of the table.
Erik stood, reaching to help Syria from her seat. She thought the dinner was
ending when two men arrived and took away the table and chairs.

“Now, we dance,” Erik said.
Another boy pushed a red satin chaise lounge into the room, and Syria’s heart
sped up. Maybe he was planning to seduce her after all.

The waiter tied back the curtain
a few inches, allowing the haunting sounds of the violins and cello to enter
their space. Syria peeked out. The clientele struck her as rather homogenous
now, mostly elegantly dressed businessmen with beautiful women, sometimes one,
others with two.

Erik stepped close and took her
hand, turning her to him.

“I’m not a very skillful dancer,”
Syria said, wishing she could wipe her clammy palms on something, but it was
too late.

“Just follow my lead.” His hand
came around her to rest low on her back. He did not bring her in close, but
left a few inches between them, his arms in a firm frame.

The room was small, but Erik used
every square foot in a sweeping waltz that moved in a fluid circle, keeping
them within the confines of the walls. Syria felt no struggle at all in his
arms as he guided her. He somehow managed to subtly communicate to her which
direction to go and what step to take.

He looked down at her, smiling
and easy, and Syria let her tension melt. How easy it could be just to let
someone else guide your life, especially someone wealthy and handsome and so
good at it.

The music slowed down and Erik
pulled her into him so that the length of their bodies touched. Still, his legs
directed her as they danced in graceful quarter turns. Syria felt positively
light.

His hand caressed her arm now,
and while she was aware that his seduction of her was beginning, she let it
come. They were in public, the curtain wasn’t even closed now, and she could
see what he was like. She had no intention of being his slave or even doing the
trial, but allowing herself to imagine this lifestyle might be a nice diversion
for an evening, especially since all that waited at home was an endless amount
of photo work and a tough conversation with Tyson.

Just the thought of him made her
tense. Erik must have felt her shift as he took his arms out of the dance frame
and brought her in, fingers massaging the back of her neck. They didn’t dance
now as much as sway together, feet shifting in small mincing movements.

“Let everything else fall away,”
Erik said. “Just live for his moment.”

Syria laid her forehead on his shoulder,
letting him work out the tension. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, even
as his hands moved down her shoulder blades, curling to her waist, and
squeezing her rib cage perilously close to her breasts.

The music wound around them like
a ribbon, haunting and slow. Erik’s thumb moved up, sliding against the bottom
of the swells and Syria stopped dancing, holding still. “I can’t do that,” she
whispered.

“I won’t press you,” he said into
her ear. Then they were moving again, dancing with normal steps, out of their
alcove and into the main room, which was in the process of being transformed.
The dinner tables were wheeled away, other than the ones on the periphery. No
one ate any longer, but sat at tables or danced in front of the small
orchestra.

Erik led her to the center of the
empty space as Syria tried to look around. “I didn’t know it became a different
sort of place.”

“Many restaurants convert into
dance clubs. In New York, there are many famous ones.”

“Do they have to kick out all the
diners?”

“Generally reservations are only
give to those who know how the restaurant will transition.”

Additional musicians were
arriving and taking seats, a saxophone, trumpet, and trombone. More of the
couples were coming to the dance floor. Syria relaxed again. This was going to
be fine.

The new instruments jumped in,
and the music began to speed up. Erik led her into a more riotous dance, and
Syria found she could just let go and have fun with it.

Some of the other couples were
full-on swing dancing, waving their hands and rolling in and out. A few were
quite good, going up in the air or spinning around their partners.

“Wow,” Syria said. “I had no idea
something like this was so close.”

Erik spun her out to the end of
his arm and reeled her back in. Syria felt her hair falling a little loose, but
had to laugh. She hadn’t been so lighthearted in a long time.

After a minute, the music began
to slow again, and now the sax player stepped forward for a sexy solo that made
Syria swallow hard. She felt it piercing her, poking holes in her resolve as
Erik pressed in behind her so she could watch the man play. His arms crossed
her waist, and his hands splayed across her belly in an embrace that felt
protective and secure.

Syria closed her eyes. She wanted
to drink more, to just get lost in this. Erik’s body shifted with hers, back
and forth in a gentle rocking motion. He held her hard against his hips, his
mouth near her ear. “I can’t keep my hands off you,” he said. “But I will not
do anything you do not want.”

Syria said nothing, moving easily
to his rhythm, letting the music flow through her. She opened her eyes and
realized the other couples were also locked in tight, many of them moving
suggestively against each other as the room grew gently dimmer and the
chandelier light switched to red.

Erik still didn’t turn her, just
held her close. Syria looked to the sides of the room, where tables still lined
the walls, the cloths changed from crisp white to black. On one, a woman sat
smack in the middle, leaning back on her hands, and a man lifted one of her
legs to his shoulders like they were at a speakeasy.

The shift to a retro club
atmosphere clearly meant anything goes. Syria had never been to a place where
people could have sex in public, except at that bondage exhibition. And of
course, Erik had been there.

The man by the table pushed the
girl’s skirt up past her hips and dropped his face between her legs. Syria
whirled around to Erik. “What is this place?”

He pushed some errant hair away
from her face. “Nothing you can’t handle. Just couples, dancing and enjoying
each other.”

She looked over her
shoulder. Another man was peeling a dress from a voluptuous redhead, her hair
trailing down her naked back. Her black bra stood out starkly against her skin.
Another woman reached behind her to unhook it, and yet another woman leaned in
to the newly freed breasts to greedily cover the exposed nipple in her mouth.

The two women and the man feasted
on her with mouths and hands, pulling off her shoes, easing down her panties.

Syria gripped Erik harder. “Is
this some sort of test?”

He shook his head. “Just a place
I like to come.”

The noise level surged as the
band filled in behind the sax player. Erik pulled Syria into another slow
rhythm, lightly touching her arm as she stared across the room. Some of the
couples just danced, like they were. Some talked at tables. In fact, much
of the room looked normal, until your eyes fell upon a couple overcome with
each other, not bothering to leave or find a hidden spot, but moving into each
other, slipping out of clothes.

She caught sight of a silver ring
on a woman’s neck. “Are there other slaves here?”

“Yes,” he said. “Some like to get
their possessions together for floor shows.”

Syria wasn’t sure how safe she
was with Erik. He hadn’t told her what they were getting into. “Did you plan
for me to see this all along?”

“No. It depended entirely upon
how you acted when I made my offer.”

“But I declined.”

“I sensed you were still not
quite decided.” He led her into a slow twirl. “And I still sense you have some
interest.”

Syria didn’t answer, caught by
another scene. Two women circled each other in an elaborate dance as a small
crowd watched. It looked scripted, a bit like Aliara and Malin in the studio.

The first woman, in a belly
dancer’s red flowing pants and beaded top, spun and leapt to stay out of reach
of the other woman, who wore a black gyspy-styled skirt and peasant top that
exposed a circle of twinkling gems around her belly button.

The gypsy girl lunged and swiped
at the dancer girl as if on the attack, but she always escaped. At last, the
gypsy kneeled, letting the other girl dance around her in bold leaps and spins.
The gypsy girl tore at her own peasant top, rending it so her large, dark
breasts spilled out, heavy as melons and the color of caramel.

The belly dancer slowed down,
mesmerized by the display. The gypsy lay back, letting the skirt fall up to her
knees.

Syria realized she wasn’t dancing
with Erik anymore, but standing to watch. Erik maneuvered them to the edge of
the dance floor so they could see better, his hands kneading her waist through
her dress.

The dancer walked in a lazy
circle around the gypsy, whose mass of black curls spilled across the floor
from a black bandanna. Her skirt rode up her thighs and the crowd seemed tense,
waiting to see what would happen, if the dancer would be lured in.

The girl in red bent down and
scooped up the torn bodice, bringing it to her nose and caressing her cheek.
Her feet worked an elaborate pattern as she circled the other girl, then she
kneeled next to her, still gyrating from her waist, unsure.

The gypsy took the belly dancer’s
hand and laid it on an ample breast. The dancer closed her eyes, slowing her
gyration, and let go of the stolen shirt. The gypsy girl moved the dancer’s
hand to her thigh and slid it up beneath the skirt.

Syria could feel herself
spiraling up as she watched, the heat between her legs becoming fierce. Erik
stayed behind her, rocking gently, kneading her muscles, and when his hand slid
back to the space beneath her breast, she didn’t pull away. The fire began to
lick at her, and she leaned into him, wanting it, needing to feel something
like those girls were showing her.

He recognized her acquiescence
and cupped her breast completely. Syria moaned gently, trying not to let it go
too far, but not wanting to force herself out of the easy seduction. She’d
learned in these past weeks with Tyson and Mia how amazing and open her life
could be if she just let go of her old inhibitions.

The dancer now leaned over the
gypsy, pushing the skirt up and out of the way, revealing completely bare skin.
The dancer delighted at it, slipping her fingers inside, and the gypsy’s head
fell back.

But the tension rose again as the
gypsy tugged a black scarf from her waist band, and the belly dancer did not
appear to notice, caught up in the moist entry, splaying the folds wide.

Syria stilled, waiting to see
what would happen, and Erik fondled her breast, easing his other hand across
her hip. She could feel his erection against her back, and the urgency in his
fingers made her spiral up another level of desire.

The dancer glanced up at the
gypsy, but she was too late, the larger girl expertly wrapped the black scarf
around the dancer’s wrists. In a swift motion, they had switched places, and
now the dancer was on her back, hands tied above her.

The gypsy held the dancer’s arms
above her head with one hand while sliding the other beneath the sparkling top
of her outfit. The dancer struggled, defiant, so the gypsy rolled her over,
quickly lashing her wrists to her ankles, immobilizing her.

Syria knew this was just an act,
like Mia and Sam as pirates, but still, she found herself anxious for the
dancer, hoping she would start to enjoy it. But maybe this was what the crowd
wanted, to show things rough, advantage on someone weaker. She turned away.

“You will miss the best part,”
Erik whispered, and Syria looked back, almost fearing what Erik would find the
most titillating. The gypsy tore the beaded top from the bound dancer, exposing
small, soft breasts, and squeezed them roughly. She yanked down the dancer’s
voluminous pants, although they caught at the ankle on the ties.

The dancer girl squirmed and
fought as the gypsy circled her.

“Erik, I really don’t think
—” Syria stopped at the sight of another woman, this one in a blue belly
dancer’s attire, flying through the air in a series of back flips and
cartwheels. She did not hesitate but knocked the gypsy girl off her feet,
sending the crowd into a cheer. Before the gypsy could move, her skirt was
ripped off, and the naked girl was lying on her belly on the floor.

The blue dancer tied the gypsy’s
hands behind her back, rolled her onto her skirt, and dragged her across the
floor to one of the round pillars that separated sections of the hall. She tied
the girl to the pole, and circled her, spanking her ass and walking up boldly
to press fingers up between her legs.

But the gypsy did not show any
signs of distress, smiling over her shoulder and spreading her feet wide. The
blue dancer stepped away, shrugged, and bounded back over to the other dancer,
freeing her from her bonds.

Together they chose a man from
the crowd, probably the gypsy girl’s escort, and he approached the pillar. The
belly dancers gestured that the girl was his, and he smiled broadly, shaking their
hands.

The blue dancer lifted the other
dancer in the air and spirited her across the room and out of sight.

The gypsy girl remained tied,
sliding her hands down the pole so she could bend over. The man was given
a paddle, and he ran his hand across the girl’s bottom and smacked her with it
soundly. Syria thought she would turn away, but the expression on the girl’s
face was dreamy, relaxed, as if this was exactly where she wanted to be, naked
and spanked in front of a room full of people.