The Billionaire Submissive (Billionaires in Bondage) (32 page)

Intrigued, he opened the door with his key and slipped inside. The main parlor room was just as he’d left it not even half an hour before. The lights were still on.

Charlie had spread several devices across the table, which he had to admit was odd. She usually put her things away under lock and key, afraid that her research would be stolen and misused once more. Along with the things she’d taken from the assassin, he saw two small, plain gift boxes, opened and empty. The boxes had no markings, no indication of where she’d bought the items or what they’d contained.

Instinctively, he carefully tiptoed toward her bedchamber door using every assassin skill he possessed. A similar box lay on the floor outside her door, wrapped in twine. For him? He must assume so since it wasn’t addressed. He picked up the box and untied the twine to find a strange, three-looped ring inside. It weighed fairly heavy on his palm. While he was mulling over what she’d meant it for, he opened the door and every thought he had leaked out of his ears.

As though she’d heard him, even though he’d made no sound, Charlie had turned toward the door, dressed in barely anything at all. Pink silk stockings, her favorite. A corset, not shocking, though it wasn’t the iron maiden she’d pretended to be wearing earlier today when he’d been so testy. She’d loosened the top of her chemise so her breasts were bare, lifted like a sacrificial offering by the corset. Delicate chains hung from her nipples. Berry-red and swollen, they were clamped into the jewelry.

She posed a moment, shoulders thrown back and chin high. “What do you think?”

He opened his mouth but no words would come out, just a rough growl that didn’t even sound like a man.

She laughed. “Good. Now let me help you get your gift into place.”

Relieved that Sig also found her jewelry captivating, Charlotte stepped up to him. His gaze was locked on her breasts. As she neared, he stretched out a finger and lightly touched one clamped nipple. Already engorged and tender, her breast throbbed at the small touch. She groaned out a sound very much like the raw growl he’d made a moment ago.

The pain—and, yes, it was more pain than pleasure—sent a surge of hot tidal need flooding through her body. Her nipples felt like they were on fire, as large as grapefruit and painfully sensitive.

How could such a minor caress put her senses on full overload? She moaned again, unable to suppress the extreme sensations pulsing through her. It felt like live wires were attached to her breasts. An electrical current was charging her system higher, into red-alert territory.

And Sig had done nothing but lightly touch her trapped nipple.

Being an extremely clever and attentive lover, he immediately leaped to give her more of that exquisite pleasure. He dipped his head and captured her other nipple in his mouth.

Her reaction shocked them all.

Her knees collapsed. She clutched desperately at his shoulders, her cry rising to embarrassing decibels. Big hands caught her from behind, or she likely would have hit the floor. Gil supported her against his chest.

Or did he trap her for the other man’s ministrations?

Because she pushed back, desperate to escape the incredible yet extreme sensations, and he didn’t budge. In fact, he lifted her off her feet, holding her higher, making it easier for Sig’s torment.

She gasped for air. She even kicked out with one dangling foot, hoping to hit Sig in the shin. He took the opportunity to capture her leg and lift her thigh around his waist.

“Stop,” she finally managed to get a coherent word to come out of her mouth.

Sig lifted his head quizzically, his lips quirked in a wicked grin of dark amusement. “My lady?”

“This is… I can’t… Oh for heaven’s sake.”

Gil laughed softly against her ear, but there was a strange vibration in his tone that skittered across her nerves. He didn’t sound like himself. His laugh was almost…cruel. A lot could be said against a man who’d hidden his true identity from her for over a year in order to win her cooperation, but he’d never been cruel.

“You must be doing something right, Sig. She can’t finish a complete sentence.”

Sig trailed a fingertip down the valley between her breasts, but he thankfully avoided the torturously swollen tips. “I see you found some interesting toys at that shop, Charlie. I never expected you to be the victim of experimentation.”

“I’m no victim,” she retorted, seizing a handful of his hair in her fist. She jerked his head back, hard, enjoying the way his eyes tightened with warning, even while his nostrils flared wide. “The intensity of this experiment merely caught me unawares.”

“You’re feeling pretty damn aware to me, Charlie.” Gil growled against her ear, his breath a hot torment. His palm edged up her rib cage, rough, calloused fingers inching toward her breasts. The thought of his big hand wrapping around her breast made her squirm helplessly, twisting in his grip—whether to flee or urge him to hurry, she didn’t know.

And the sounds…

Majel help her, she’d never made such ridiculous sounds before for a man. Never.

“If you truly want us to stop, you must tell us now.” Sig’s voice was rough, losing his normal genteel persona. Ignoring the fierce grip on his hair, he bent his head back toward her breasts. The very brush of his breath made her cry out again. “Do you like this? Do you want this? Or is it too much?”

Panting, she had to think and categorize her own reactions, because she honestly didn’t know. Her breasts hurt. Every slight touch made her want to whimper and plead and beg.

And I never beg.

He’s got her tied up, but she’s got him out of control.

Out of Control

© 2014 Teresa Noelle Roberts

Glass artist Jen Kessler has hit the jackpot—a cheap apartment in a charming Victorian house, complete with a sexy, intense, buttoned-down landlord…who may or may not have a riding crop in his bedroom.
 

She’s not looking for a lover, but when her innocent, impulsive hug sparks kisses as hot as molten glass, it leads to bondage, spankings, and more naughtiness that, up to now, she had only tasted.

His new tenant may have wild, dyed hair and an unconventional job, but Cornell math professor Drake Matthews admires the work ethic that got her out of debt. Then he’s stunned at how quickly she destroys decades of carefully cultivated self-control.

Soon their sexual and emotional passions push them to the edge—and beyond. But it’s not all good, dirty fun. As Drake takes more and more control of Jen in the bedroom, her deeply ingrained independent streak pushes back. And it’ll take more than a shared penchant for ropes, paddling, and coffee to overcome pasts that could unravel their relationship before it begins.

Warning: Contains kinky sex, molten glass, geeky higher mathematics, family secrets, and irresponsible consumption of coffee.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Out of Control:

“Do you need a hand with anything? More coffee maybe? Or should I leave you alone to unpack?” Drake stood in the doorway, and Jen couldn’t tell if he wanted her to ask him to stay or dismiss him. He was wearing his serious, professorial face, but there was something in his eyes, something in the way he watched her, something in the way he leaned on the doorframe, lazy as a cat, but like a cat sometimes was, active in his laziness, that suggested his thoughts might be more serious than fun. Naughty, even.

“I can think of a few things I could use a hand with.” She stifled laughter. She honestly hadn’t meant it to sound suggestive, but it came out that way.

“I imagine.” Drake came closer and suddenly the room seemed very warm. Or maybe that was just her panties. “What can I do for you?” The words could just refer to all the million things involved with getting settled in a new place, and on one level, probably did.

But Drake felt that tension too. She could hear it in his voice, see it in the way he carried himself. He was studying her like she was prey, or maybe an opponent in some kind of contest, trying to figure out his next move. Funny thing was, he probably thought he was being subtle, but he was obviously trying to decide whether he should jump in where they’d left off or pretend it had never happened and start their acquaintance fresh.

Still, he wasn’t as awkward as a lot of guys might be. He wasn’t slobbering like a puppy who thought she had a treat in her pocket, but wasn’t ignoring her either. More like he was waiting for a clear signal.

What the hell. She decided to give him one, an opening he could take in several ways. Otherwise, she’d never get anything done, and that would be bad, right?

She’d never been the type to wait demurely for a guy to make up his mind. That was like waiting for everything to fall into place so you could quit your horrible nine-to-five job and commit to art—a great way to be old and gray and still waiting. You had to
make
things fall into place, whether you were talking about work or relationships. Create opportunities. The worst that would happen in either case was you’d fall on your face. And then you got up, brushed yourself off and tried something different.

She stood up from the floor, where she’d been sorting through a box. “How about welcoming me to the house properly,” she said, her voice slipping to a sultry whisper almost despite herself, and held out her hand.

Drake took her hand, shook it in a friendly but businesslike way. “Glad to have you here.” God, his hands were big.

He stepped closer, not letting go of her hand, close enough she could feel the heat of his body. A shudder ran through her, made up of equal parts desire and confusion. She felt paralyzed. Jen’s normal impulse would be to kiss this man, who seemed like he wanted desperately to kiss her but was holding back. At least pull him into a hug, make it clear she was interested. Yet she couldn’t move, trapped by his serious gray eyes, the heat of his touch, the set of his mouth under that tidy beard.

“You confound me,” he said, his voice harsh, dark. “Jen, Jen, Jen, what am I going to do with you?”

“I have a few ideas.”

“So do I. Problem is, while we’d both enjoy these ideas, I’m not sure they’re smart.” Jen froze, unable even to breathe. At least they were on the same page about wanting each other. She wanted to ask him if he truly cared if it was a bad idea, to make it clear she was all about the good-bad ideas, say she even had a clue what those ideas might entail, but she couldn’t speak.

“The hell with it. Smart is overrated.” Drake’s voice came out as a growl, nothing Jen could imagine in a civilized Cornell classroom but could definitely imagine in a bedroom. He reeled her in, pulled her against his hard body.

She felt small and soft. Normally that would make her want to demonstrate her strength—which, thanks to her active life, was surprising for someone who looked more like the petite-flower type. But she liked feeling small and soft in Drake’s arms, with Drake’s mouth crashing down onto hers.

He lifted her up effortlessly, not breaking the kiss, and carried her toward the unmade bed. My God, what did this man do for a workout? This mathematician had muscles like a cowboy. Holding her with one arm, he swept piles and bags of clothes off the bed onto the floor. She saw a wince cross his face as he did it, as if it offended the sense of order she’d seen reflected in his side of the house. “Don’t worry,” she joked, “my clothes are used to spending time on the floor.”

“Not for much longer,” she thought he said. She would have puzzled at the words, except Drake distracted her by pulling her T-shirt off with one decisive motion. She had accidentally packed all her bras last night. At the moment, this seemed like the best accident ever. Drake studied her bared curves, running his big hands along her sides. She purred and arched up. His hands moved to her nipples, began caressing in a gentle, exploratory way, not what she would have expected from his earlier fierceness. Lovely but too light for her taste, it teased and tickled as much as it aroused. She squealed and tried to squirm away at the same time she arched her hips up to meet his, turned on and tormented at same time. The pleasure was almost painful, in the same paradoxical way pain, in the right circumstances and with the right person, could be pleasurable.

“Too much?”

“Too
little.
I like it rougher.” Not something she’d admit to most guys this soon, for fear they’d take it too far, but Avi’s words inspired confidence. The woman wrote about safe BDSM practices for a living, after all, and she’d said Drake was all right.

Drake chuckled. “Good.” Her brain was whirling like cotton candy in one of those machines at the county fair and felt just about as pink and fluffy, but his tone registered. Evil glee, definitely. She was in trouble, but it was the kind of trouble she loved. With one hand, he began pinching first one nipple, then the other, tugging and kneading. Delicious pleasure and equally delicious pain seared through her. “Good girl. Put your arms over your head.”

She obeyed. She couldn’t help herself. She didn’t want to help herself. Why wouldn’t she play along? This was the best thing that had happened to her in a long, long,
long
time that didn’t involve making art.

He grabbed her wrists with his other hand, his grip viselike, unbreakable. Heat pooled in her belly, and she couldn’t help whimpering.