The Alpha Billionaire Club Trilogy (9 page)

D
ylan
and I checked the seating chart on an easel by the door and found we were seated in the far end of the room, furthest from the wedding party. I knew Christie had stuck us there to make a point. As her sister, I should have been sitting close to her, Cathie, and my mother. For the first time, I was thrilled she was a spiteful bitch. I’d rather be alone in a corner with Dylan than sitting near the wedding party any day.

Dylan pulled my chair out for me and helped me sit before taking his own seat. No one sat to his left. On my left was an older couple I didn’t recognize. After stilted introductions, during which Dylan neglected to mention his last name, the couple turned to face the rest of the table and ignored us. Perfect. If we drowned out the sound of one of the groomsmen getting ready to give a speech, we could almost pretend we were alone.

We both stayed quiet and ate our salad while the groomsmen droned on and on about his long friendship with Peter. About anyone else, it might have been sweet. But since I knew he was talking about Peter, it was mostly annoying. I zoned out a little, trying to enjoy the meal and wondering how long it would take, when I felt the weight of Dylan’s hand on my leg.

Trying not to be obvious, I looked up at him. Dylan’s eyes were on the speaking groomsman, his expression bland and vaguely interested. For all that anyone else could see, he was the picture of innocence. Beneath the table, his fingers slipped beneath my skirt and trailed along the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.

“Dylan,” I hissed. His eyes flicked to me and he winked, then went back to pretending to pay attention to the speech. That was my only effort at protest. Why bother? By now I knew Dylan would do what he wanted to. Whatever he wanted to do was guaranteed to be more fun for me than sitting here and acting like I cared about the rehearsal dinner.

Adjusting my napkin so that it more fully hid the movement of Dylan’s hand between my legs, I dropped my eyes to my plate and shut out all the other diners. He teased me, trailing his fingertips in figure eights up and down my leg, the side of his hand brushing innocuously against my delicate lace panties. I tried to act like he wasn’t driving me crazy, like I couldn’t feel the heat build between my legs with every pass of his fingers.

I just wasn’t that cool. When he brushed against my panties one more time, I barely caught myself before I moaned. The man beside me shifted, as if he was going to look at me, then my silence convinced him it wasn’t worth the effort. I sank my teeth into my lower lip and slid down a little in the high backed chair, opening my left leg toward Dylan.

No change. Only more of those teasing, light touches. I could feel myself getting wet. If I thought he would let me get away with it, I would have jumped out of my chair and dragged Dylan to the nearest coat closet. Somehow, I didn’t think I could pull that off. This was Dylan’s game, and if I didn’t play by his rules, I’d lose. Since winning with Dylan meant an unbelievable orgasm, I didn’t want to lose. But maybe I could get a little creative.

Curious to see what he’d do, I slipped my hand into his lap. Beneath the dark wool of his suit, he was hard. I closed my hand around his length and squeezed. He gave a slight jerk in his chair before calmly putting down his soup spoon and removing my hand from his lap. Tilting his head in my direction, he said, under his breath,

“No.”

“If you can, why can’t I?” A long, intent look, dripping with meaning. Okay, I knew why. But still…

“You’re making me insane,” I murmured. “Are you going to do this all through dinner?”

The thought was both enticing and horrifying. We were only on the soup course, and groomsmen number two was rambling on and on about some team he and Peter were on in college. Barring a natural disaster or foreign invasion, we could be here for hours. While Christie might not care if we snuck out, my mother would.

“That depends,” he asked. “Do you really want me to stop?”

“No. I want you to keep going.” At the aggravation in my voice, he grinned.

“Take off your panties, and I’ll give you what you want.” His voice was so low I barely heard him.

“Here?”

“Right here.”

I didn’t answer. How was I going to get my underwear off in the middle of the dining room? We were at the far end of the room. The light was dim. But, I had a man sitting just to my right. Dylan was crazy. He wouldn’t make me come unless I figured out how to get my undies off while I was still sitting here, with barely the edge of the tablecloth to cover what I was doing. My pride wanted me to turn down his challenge. My body wanted the orgasm he would give me if I obeyed his ridiculous challenge.

“Excuse me,” I said under my breath to the man beside me. Fortunately, he didn’t spare me more than a quick glance.

Twisting in my seat so that I faced Dylan, I lifted my left hip off the chair and reached beneath my skirt. The high-low hem was my friend as there wasn’t much skirt to get out of the way. Tagging the edge of my panties, I hooked my index finger in the fabric and gave a sharp pull, dragging them down below my ass. A good start, but that was the easy side.

Pretending I hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary, I took a spoonful of soup. I went to put the spoon down beside the plate and dropped it on the floor instead. It was too obvious, but I couldn’t think of anything else. Nudging my seat back a few inches, I murmured,

“Excuse me. Sorry.” I eased my seat back a little more and leaned forward as if reaching for the floor. The second my head was below the table, I lifted my rear-end off the seat and reached beneath my skirt for the other side of my panties, using my napkin to cover the sight of my hand going up my own skirt. From beside me, I heard Dylan clear his throat. My head popped up, and to my horror, I saw the servers coming to clear the soup course, starting at the ends of the tables.

In a panic, I gave the panties one more tug before sitting back up and scooting my chair into place. I made it just in time to sit back and let a uniformed server remove my bowl.

“Did you find your spoon, sweetheart?” Dylan asked, a devilish twinkle in his eyes.

I scowled back at him. I wasn’t actually all that annoyed. The potential disaster of getting caught taking off my underwear in public was turning me on. I’d wanted my orgasm before, but now I really wanted it. That pleasure was mine, Dylan was going to give it to me, and all I had to do was take off my underwear without leaving the table. I wasn’t going to get caught. I was going to do what Dylan told me to and then I was going to come.

I was so close. My panties were still on, but I’d managed to get them around my thighs. I knew without asking that it wasn’t enough. If Dylan said he wanted them off, they were going to come off. This time, I waited until the servers were finished clearing the soup before I made my last move. Smoothing my napkin across my lap, I twisted the skirt beneath over to the side so I could reach my left hand beneath the hem.

The man on my right never noticed as I lifted my thighs an inch and pulled the panties to my knees. From there it was only a wiggle to get the scrap of fabric to fall to the floor. I’d have to remember to pick them up before we left. I’d chosen the almost transparent black lace from among the pieces Dylan had bought that afternoon. All of them were La Perla and all gorgeous. I wasn’t abandoning this pair under the table.

With a self-satisfied smirk at Dylan, I reclined in the seat and let my knees fall apart. My napkin was still spread across my lap, shielding Dylan’s hand from view as it slid beneath my hem, then up between my parted thighs. I bit my lip in anticipation and fixed my face in a polite smile, pretending I was listening to Christie’s best friend from high school rhapsodizing about cheer squad as if she hadn’t given the same speech at Christie’s first wedding just a few years before.

Dylan didn’t make me wait. Instead of teasing me with endless, light strokes, he went straight for the good stuff. A breath after he touched my thigh, his fingertips grazed my clit. I fought back a shudder, all my effort going into hiding my response to his touch. He pressed the swollen bead of flesh, watching for my reaction before he pinched it between two fingers and squeezed. I think I jumped. I know I made a tiny squeaking sound, startling the man beside me. He looked at my face for a moment before turning his eyes back to the bridesmaid’s speech.

My attention was completely divided between the need for silence and my rising arousal. I’d already been hot from Dylan touching my leg. Taking off my panties without being seen by the rest of the guests had only made me hotter. Now Dylan’s fingers played between my legs, toying with my clit and spreading my slick heat in circles around my entrance. I wanted to come, wanted to scream with orgasm right there in the packed dining room. I’d have to keep my mouth shut and my body still or risk total humiliation.

I sank my teeth into my bottom lip and breathed through my nose, deep, even breaths like I’d take in yoga class. Quiet and calm. At complete odds with the building need in my pussy.

Silent and frozen, my entire consciousness narrowed to the splinters of sharp, bright pleasure between my legs. The strength and heat of Dylan’s hand. His fingers pressing, rotating, dipping inside. I rocked my hips in a tiny, experimental motion. The flare of pleasure was dizzying, but the slide of my chair told me I couldn’t do it again. I’d have to remain passive, trusting Dylan to give me what I wanted.

In theory, that wasn’t a problem. In reality, I wanted my orgasm now, not when Dylan decided I could have it. I turned my head to face him, meeting his intense green eyes. Fixed on my face, they were hot, demanding, and in control.

“Please,” I whispered. “I’ll do anything. Don’t make me wait anymore.” His eyes flared.

“Anything?” he asked. I don’t know why I’d said that. With Dylan, it really could be ‘anything’. I had no idea where his limits were, but it was a guarantee that they went much further than my own. Who was I kidding? I’d done everything he’d demanded so far. My offer of ‘anything’ was a joke. I’d do what he wanted anyway, even if that included waiting for my orgasm, or not coming at all. So far, doing what he asked had brought me more pleasure than I’d ever imagined.

“Anything,” I said under my breath.

Dylan’s eyes went the deep green of a forest at twilight as he drove two fingers into my pussy. It took everything I had to stop my gasp at the sensation of finally being full after so much teasing. I would have preferred his cock to his fingers, but even overcome with need I wasn’t crazy enough to consider fucking him in the dining room.

As turned on as I was, it wouldn’t take much more before the rising orgasm swept me under. His arm in the perfect position, Dylan moved his fingers in short, pulsing thrusts as he pressed the heel of his hand into my clit. Pure, exalted bliss exploded in my brain and washed through my body, locking my muscles in place. I didn’t move, but I heard myself give a tiny whimper. I don’t know if anyone heard, and I didn’t care.

When the last wave of pleasure faded, I came back to myself, noticing that Dylan’s hand was back in his own lap and my skirt was pulled neatly down beneath my napkin. Reveling in sated relaxation, I turned to look at Dylan. His grin said he was pretty satisfied with himself. The bulge in his suit pants said he might have been emotionally satisfied, but his body still wanted more. A feeling of dread pushed out my calm. I’d said
anything
. What was he going to ask me to do?

I
had two choices
. I could pretend I didn’t know I owed him one and eat my dinner. Or I could bite the bullet and find out what the payback would be. I was shy, but I wasn’t a wimp. At least, I didn’t want to be. I didn’t want to return Dylan’s generosity by being afraid of him. He’d said I could trust him.

“So,” I said, trying for casual, “What’s my
anything
?”

He didn’t answer right away, just looked at me, reading my eyes. He probably saw everything. My vulnerability, my nerves, my need to please him. I could only hope he’d take it easy on me. When he continued to stare in silence, I fought the urge to look away. I wanted Dylan. Wanted to be worthy of the powerful, vibrant man he was. He wanted me to submit to him, but I sensed he wanted a woman who could hold her own against his strong personality. I needed to find a way to do both.

Finally, he smiled a gentle, unexpectedly sweet smile. Dipping his head into mine, he laid a soft kiss on my mouth. Leaning in a little closer, he said,

“Your
anything
is for later. I’m saving it. For now, just enjoy the rest of dinner.”

“You’re sure?” I asked, not quite able to believe he was letting me off this easy. I’d had visions of under the table blow jobs or sneaking off to find an unoccupied closet. Neither of which I really wanted to do.

“Eat,” he said, gesturing with his fork to my untouched dinner plate. Remembering my post-orgasmic inattention when the servers had delivered it, I flushed. Oh, well. If they’d seen anything amiss, there was nothing I could do about it now. Christie had ordered filet mignon, asparagus and some kind of potato dish with a creamy sauce. Yum. Taking Dylan’s suggestion, I dug in.

The rest of the meal passed in a blur of more boring speeches made tolerable by the delicious food, excellent wine, and Dylan beside me. We were silent, but I was acutely aware of his presence beside me. At one point, between the removal of our dinner plates and dessert, Dylan reached out and took my hand in his. I expected him to drop it in his lap, or start a conversation, but he did neither. He just held my hand, playing with my fingertips. When I caught his eye, he winked.

He had my head spinning. Just when I thought this was all about sex, he did something so sweet I was tempted to hope it was more. I’d held hands with men before and felt nothing from it, but this was different—maybe because it was Dylan. He wasn’t teasing me or trying to turn me on. He was keeping me close. It was dangerous. Not for him, for me.

I wasn’t the kind of girl to have casual sex. I wished I were. Life would be so much simpler if I could be like some of my friends, going out to clubs on the weekend to find a guy and get laid. I’d tried it, but it had felt wrong. Either I’d liked the guy and ended up feeling used, or I was just attracted to him, and I regretted it later. So I knew myself well enough to understand that, as much as I’d like him to be, Dylan wasn’t an exception. I was falling hard for him.

And it wasn’t the clothes, the jewelry, or the orgasms. It was him. His strength, and the combination of power and gentleness, the way he could be demanding and then sweet. How he wanted me to follow his orders, but he was thinking of me the whole time.

How could I resist falling for a man like this? I couldn’t. Every time I got a hint that I wasn’t just a weekend fling, my hungry heart ate it up. I was heading for disaster. I knew it. I couldn’t stop myself.

The servers made a last trip in with dessert and coffee. One more course, and we could escape. Fortunately, the wedding party was finished with their speeches. Another one of those and I would have fallen asleep at the table. Dylan and I both started on our chocolate torts with raspberry sauce. I sipped my coffee, trying to offset the glasses of wine I’d had with dinner. I didn’t know what the rest of the night would bring, but I didn’t want to be tired.

Putting down my fork, I pushed back my chair. Some of the guests had gotten up to wander around and socialize. I had to find the ladies room, and this seemed like the most inconspicuous time to do it. After my (hopefully silent) orgasm at the table, I hadn’t wanted to draw any more attention to myself than necessary.

“I’ll be right back,” I said to Dylan, picking up my purse so I could refresh my lip gloss. Dylan narrowed his eyes and nodded.

The ladies room was down a long hall outside the entrance to the private dining room. I expected it to be crowded, but there was only one other woman in there, an older lady I didn’t recognize. I did what I had to and spent a few minutes fixing my lips and adjusting my hair, pleased to see that even without panties, and after a mind blowing orgasm, I still looked pretty damn good.

I was feeling satisfied with myself right up until I pushed open the bathroom door and ran into Peter. The men’s bathroom was down the hall and there was no one else in the ladies, so he could only be waiting for me. Wary, I tried to edge around him. He shifted to block me and grabbed my wrist. A hard yank on my arm wasn’t enough to shake him off. I lifted a foot to go after his instep again, but he jerked on my arm, knocking me off balance. In my sparkly, stiletto heel sandals, it was impossible to dig in and resist when he pulled me into the shadows down the hall.

“Relax,” he said, tugging me closer to him. “I just want to talk to you.”

“I don’t think we have anything to say.”

“I think we do. You misunderstood me earlier.”

This, I had to hear. Was he going to apologize? Or demonstrate that he was even more of a pig than I thought?

“Leigha,” he said, tugging me closer.

His breath smelled like sour coffee. It was an improvement over his cologne. My nose rebelled, and I tried to breathe through my mouth. How could Christie stand him? He was rich, and she loved money, but couldn’t she find someone less repellant to marry?

“I know you’re wondering how my proposal would work, with you here and Vegas and me in Chicago. But you don’t have to worry about that. I have a new contract that means I’ll be in Vegas all the time. We’ll hook up while I’m here, and no one will ever know.”

“Are you serious?”

“Do you think I can’t take care of you? Once Kane is done fucking you, you’ll want another sugar daddy. Why not me?” Peter raked me with his eyes, taking me in from my breasts to my toes. He didn’t bother looking at my face.

“I didn’t think you had it in you,” he went on. “You always dressed in those frumpy clothes, I had no idea what you were hiding under there. Your tits alone - ”

I jerked back on my arm again, too disgusted to worry about losing my balance. Peter was too offensive to listen to a second longer. I no longer cared if I caused a scene. What gave him the right to treat me like a piece of meat just because I was dressed up for once? And what about my sister? Calling him a pig was an insult to swine.

Peter tightened his hold on my arm, refusing to let me go. He opened his mouth, probably to say something else insulting, and I couldn’t help myself. I was in the wrong position to jab him with my heels, but I still had one free arm. Without thinking, I swung my fist at his face.

At the pop of my fist against his nose, Peter yelped and reeled back. What he didn’t do was let go of me. As I teetered in my sandals, losing my balance as his grip on my arm jerked me back and forth, an arm came around my waist, steadying me. Dylan. Relief flooded through me. I wasn’t a fighter. That punch was the best I had in my arsenal. If things had gotten ugly, I would have thought of something, but Dylan could handle Peter better than I could. I knew my strengths, and beating up guys wasn’t one of them.

With a stiff chop of one hand, Dylan struck at Peter’s arm just above his wrist. Abruptly, and with another yelp, Peter let me go. Dylan took advantage of Peter’s whining over his wrist to slide me to the side, out of the way.

“Sorry I took so long,” he said. “I almost missed him sneaking out of the dining room.”

“It’s okay. You’re here now.” Looking up into his angry green eyes, I said, “I punched him.” Dylan grinned at me, still pissed, and now amused. It was an intoxicating expression.

“I see that,” he said, kissing me on the tip of my nose. Sweet again. He was killing me. “Do you mind if I have a word with him?”

I shook my head, suspecting that Dylan’s plan involved speaking with a part of his anatomy other than his mouth. Peter finally dropped his wrist and stared at Dylan.

“What’s your problem? Leigha and I were just talking.”

I could guess what Dylan was thinking. Something along the lines of Peter not touching me ever again. He didn’t bother explaining his position to Peter. Instead, he hauled off and swung. Peter’s nose was already dribbling blood from my punch. With Dylan’s, his face exploded red. It would have been gross if it hadn’t been Peter. I wasn’t a fan of physical violence, but Peter had it coming. Dylan hit him again, this time on the chin. Peter stumbled back until he hit the wall. His feet went out from under him and he slid to the floor in an ungainly sprawl. One trembling hand touched his nose.

“You broke my nose,” he sputtered, his voice muffled, as if he had a head cold. Dylan shrugged in disinterest.

“I’ll sue your ass off. You can’t do this to me. Do you know who I am?”

At that, Dylan laughed.

“No. But I know who
I
am. Go ahead, press charges. This hallway is under surveillance. You’re in
my
casino, asswipe. You assaulted one of
my
guests, who happens to be my girlfriend. Not only should you rethink pressing charges, I suggest you make up a good explanation for your fiancée on the way to the hospital to get that nose looked at.”

Did he call me his girlfriend? He did. Was it because it was easier and sounded more normal than calling me his lover? Or because he meant it? And if he meant it, what did that mean? My head reeling, I didn’t protest when Dylan took my hand and tugged me closer, tucking me into his side as we went down the hall.

“I don’t think we’ll go back to the party,” he said. I shook my head in agreement. As soon as we were clear of the restaurant and back in the casino proper, Dylan stopped and turned me to face him. “Let me see that hand.”

He lifted my hand and studied my knuckles. I hadn’t noticed until that moment, but my hand hurt. My knuckles were tender, the skin scraped on two of them. I hadn’t realized I’d hit Peter that hard. Dylan stroked my fingers and said,

“This is going to bruise. Let’s get you some ice.”

We were walking to a nearby bar, when I heard from behind me,

“Dylan, hold up.”

As one, we turned around to see two men coming toward us. Both tall, both heart stoppingly gorgeous. I was all Dylan’s, no question. But these two were perfect specimens of male beauty. One with short, dark hair, his eyes so deep a brown they were almost black, dressed in a suit much like Dylan’s. The other blond, eyes a bright blue, in a more casual button down shirt and jacket. They came to a stop in front of us and looked me over. The blond one said,

“So this is who you stood us up for? Nice.”

Dylan scowled back at them.