An Heir For The Billionaire: His Every Command (Part One) (A BDSM And Domination Erotic Romance Novelette) (2nd Edition) (6 page)

I took a shower, unable to let my thoughts drift far from my evening with Randall. My nipples were still tender, a shiver working through me every time the hot water came into contact with them. I closed my eyes and remembered every bite of the dinner we’d shared in sequence, forcing myself to try to recall the wines that went with each dish. There was the dry, tart white that went with the delicate white-fleshed snapper, cooked in a pouch that came to the table puffed up with hot air and steam. I remembered the flourish of the waiter’s sharp scissors as he cut it open in front of me, the steam bathing my face in citrus and fennel. Then there was the plate of roasted vegetables, so thoroughly caramelized that they had almost blacked along the edges, but were sweet and savory all at once. Crisp-skinned duck breast with tangy sauce, enormous shrimp that had been grilled with a spicy African rub.

Each dish was a tiny portion, but the whole meal was so filling that as we came to the last courses, I wondered if I would even be able to eat them.

The water went cold and I stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my body and another around my hair. I walked into my bedroom and sat on my bed, still wrapped up in thoughts of Randall. He had gotten me to open up so completely; I remembered every word of our conversation as if it were the most important talk of my life, instead of simple first-date chatter. I had told Randall about my parents, about my relationship with Matthew, about my dreams of becoming a respected writer. He had treated me seriously, politely, encouraging me to tell him more, interested in everything I had to say. Randall was certainly not my idea of what a wealthy man would be like.

Remembering telling him about Matthew made me think back to my ex. I dried off and slipped into my most comfortable pajamas, walked into the living room and debated whether or not I should have a glass of wine. The fact that Matthew had cheated on me stung. What hurt worse was the fact that he had been doing it under my nose, that he had been so very obvious about it in retrospect. I should have known better. I got up and poured myself a glass of rosé, not caring if the combination of all the alcohols I had drank would give me a massive hangover. I turned on my music and brooded, foolishly perhaps—I didn’t care about that either. I felt tears stinging in my eyes as I thought about the months I had spent with Matthew; how I had let myself love him, let myself believe that he loved me.

When I had first started dating Matthew, I had really thought he was the best I could get. He was sweet and caring; he had a steady job and a good relationship with his family. I had told myself that I had grown out of stupid boys who thought they were hot shit when all they had to their name was a tricked out car, some student loan debt, and an entry-level job that would turn out to be a dead end. Matthew was supposed to be a real, adult relationship—he was supposed to be the guy I dated for a few years, maybe even the guy I ended up marrying. But he had turned out to be a screw-up just like the other guys I had dated. I shook my head as I thought of the fact that he had been so willing to throw it away on some slut. I tried to picture her in my mind, but it made me too angry, remembering the text messages that I’d read—that Matthew had gone down on her, that she’d sucked him off in fifteen minutes, some lewd joke about yoga classes. I had also been stupid enough to think that Matthew was the best lay I’d ever find.

I felt myself smiling in spite of my tears when I realized that Randall had blown every single experience with Matthew out of the water in one evening. The dinner alone was a sublime, once-in-a-lifetime experience, my very own
Pretty Woman
story to tell my friends some night over cocktails. My tee shirt brushed against my nipples and I remembered the cruel way that Randall had punished me for failing to remain still while he drove me crazy from his licking and teasing. I closed my eyes with a sip of wine in my mouth and remembered the moment when Randall had convinced me to take my panties off at one of—if not the most—exclusive restaurants in the city, right in the open, and lay them on the table where anyone could see them. I wondered if that had been more for my benefit or his, if he got turned on by the power he had at the establishment as the kind of guy who could afford a thousand-plus dollar meal for two or if he had been turned on more by the fact that I’d obeyed, that I’d taken his dare.

My pussy was still tender from his cock, my whole body buzzing with the sensation of having been so utterly satisfied that I knew I would be walking just that little bit awkwardly the next day. I swallowed the sip of wine and thought about what it would be like if I could somehow track Randall down again. It was silly; Randall probably didn’t think anything of wining and dining a random woman he met on the street and fucking her brains out in a private back room. I laughed at the realization that no one had even raised an eyebrow when Randall and I had stepped out of the office, that we had been treated just as courteously when we had left as when we had arrived. The kind of clout that it implied was enough to make me almost breathless. I had never been particularly attracted to the kind of guy that Randall represented in my mind. I went into my bedroom and looked at the business card he had slipped into my bra. He probably wasn’t some high-powered CEO, I thought dismissively. He couldn’t be more than a handful of years older than me—that wasn’t enough time to get to that level of authority. He’d probably had the cards made as a prank, or as a way to seduce women. More likely he was a trust-fund guy; I had no doubt that he had the kind of money he was throwing around. I put the card down again and remembered that I had left my purse—and my phone—at home. I retrieved it from the kitchen table and looked through my missed messages.

There was one from my friend Di, who was asking if I wanted to go out the following weekend; our favorite band was playing at a tiny club downtown. I replied that I’d buy the drinks if she’d pay the cover. I went through the rest of my messages until I came to one from Matthew.
Baby, please call me
, it read.
Please.
I deleted that message and then every message I’d ever gotten from him, feeling the tears welling in my eyes again. I deleted the voicemails, everything on my phone except for his number; I changed his contact name to
Asshole Ex
and retrieved my laptop from my desk in my room, sitting on the couch with a glass of water and logging on. I changed my relationship status, made sure to post an update about what a cheating idiot Matthew was, and went through and deleted all of his emails to me, everything from the very first date—all of the messages on Facebook, all of the tweets, everything I could associate with him.

Feeling oddly energetic, I went around my house and collected everything that he had ever owned and left lying around, and threw it in the trash. I’d take it out in the morning, I thought, as I tore one of his tee shirts into shreds before tossing it with the rest of his junk. When I finished I felt completely exhausted finally, and I slipped out of my pajamas, rolling my eyes at the fact that I had bothered to put anything on when I always slept naked anyway. It wasn’t as though there was anyone to see me when I was alone in my house. More than once, when it had just been Matthew and I lounging around, I had walked around the place completely naked, not bothering to put anything on until minutes before the delivery guy was supposed to arrive with our food.

I pulled the covers over my body and told myself firmly to stop thinking about Matthew. Randall, enigmatic and definitely attractive, was a much more productive use of my mental energies. I relived the moment when he had tied me to the filing cabinet; my wrists still ached faintly from the shoelace he had tied around them and from my instinctive pulling and straining against the binding. I could still feel his touch like a phantom caress. He was so confident, so sure of himself.
“How wet is your pussy right now, Jasmine?”
I could hear his voice in my mind so easily; he had said my name almost as a purr, his low voice just as certain as his touches. I shivered, turning onto my side as I remembered the way he had undressed me slowly. His mouth on my breasts, teasing my nipples, had been just as deliriously pleasant as his punishment. Matthew had never been that commanding; he could have never convinced me to take my panties off under the table of an insanely expensive restaurant. He would not have been able to afford to take me there.

I recalled Randall making me demonstrate how sorry I was for disobeying his injunction to remain still; the feel of his cock between my lips was etched into my memory. He was so huge! I reached down between my legs and began to stroke myself, thinking of how his hot, velvety flesh had felt against my tongue and how his precum had tasted. If there was ever a chance to go down on him again, I thought, I wanted to make him come in my mouth. I wanted to swallow every last bit of him, see the pleasure scrawled all over his face. I wanted to penetrate that smooth, charming exterior, and know what he was really like when he wasn’t playing the role of seducer. I started rubbing myself more firmly as I remembered the strength in his arms as he lifted me up and held me against the filing cabinet.
“Do you want to come, Jasmine?” “You have ten minutes. If you don’t come in that time, you are not permitted to after it.”
I trembled at the intensity of my memory of that moment. No man I had ever been with had ever exerted such strong control over me, and I had to admit that it had been a massive turn-on. I had never, in my entire life, thought of myself as being even remotely submissive, but in the moments I’d been with Randall, there had been nothing I desired more than to obey, to give in to the punishment, and to be thoroughly under his control the entire time.

I was panting as I came—not as hard as when Randall had had me under his thumb, but enough to relieve the tension that the recollections had stirred in me. I caught my breath gradually, shifting over onto the cooler side of the bed and the other side of my body. I was so thoroughly tired that I knew it wouldn’t take long at all for me to fall asleep; if only I could manage to wake up without a hangover, I thought sleepily as my body floated in an unresponsive languor.

Chapter Four
 

I woke up the next morning still full of thoughts about my chance encounter with Randall. It was a Friday; I had the day off from work, and without my boyfriend I realized quickly that I had far too much time on my hands. I read through the comments on my post outing Matthew as a cheater and a loser as I drank my coffee, blessedly not hungover from my overindulgence. In spite of the lack of hangover, I didn’t have much of an appetite, and the coffee suppressed what little inclination I had to eat. I paced my living room, trying to decide what to do with myself; I forced down a piece of toast with my aunt May’s preserves on it, knowing I had to eat something or later on I’d be ravenous. As I pondered what to do, my thoughts turned back to the card Randall had slipped into my bra. I picked it up again and studied the address, a sense of mischief beginning to wake up in my mind. If he wasn’t who he said he was, it should be easy to prove, shouldn’t it? I giggled at the thought; it would be an adventure at least.

I dressed carefully, putting on the kind of outfit that I wore for meeting with clients—a charcoal blazer with a matching skirt that fell just above my knees, a creamy white blouse, and a pair of heels. I was sure that I wouldn’t find Randall busy being a CEO, but there was no reason to get myself thrown out unnecessarily before I was able to prove my hunch. I did my makeup carefully, put my fiery red hair into a professional-looking bun at the base of my skull, and headed out, thinking that after I proved that Randall was no CEO, I’d get myself into something fun downtown; checking the address in my phone’s GPS, I realized I would be halfway there anyhow.

I took a cab to the address on the card, getting out a few blocks away from where it should be. Feeling pleased with myself, I gave the driver a nice tip and walked the last few blocks; I didn’t spend much time in this part of the city. Looking all around me, the street was pinned down by enormous skyscrapers on both sides, their metal and glass creating a canyon for the flow and eddy of pedestrians and cars at the bottom, intensifying the heat of the day. The morning light glinted and shimmered, hurting my eyes if I looked up for too long. I narrowly avoided collisions with other pedestrians more than once and told myself to pay attention to the world around me; if I wasn’t careful, I’d walk right past my destination and have to double back.

I need not have feared missing the building that Randall’s card claimed he was master of. Barksby Industries was a towering monolith among the decadent architecture, standing out as plainly as a lighthouse at midnight. The dark glass seemed to drink in the light, rather than reflecting it, creating an obsidian-black background for the lettering declaring the company’s name. The steps leading up to the front doors were polished, the front landing pristine, with perfectly trimmed hedges. For just a moment, I felt almost intimidated by the sheer immensity and cleanliness of the building. I felt certain that there was no way that I’d even be allowed through the doors, and much less that I’d find anyone who might be able to answer my question. I shook my head, smoothing my hair and telling myself that I was dressed nicely enough that they would have to at least let me in, even if no one was willing to tell me if there was a Randall Barksby.

I walked purposefully toward the entrance, looking straight ahead as if I was on an important errand. The security hovering near the doors didn’t give me a second glance, and I felt relief wash through me as I pulled the shining brass handles, striding forward without a single word. The interior was just as impressive as the outside, the marble floors and granite walls echoing with the footfalls of people moving briskly through the lobby. I tried not to look around me too obviously, stealing furtive glances at designer suits and high-end dresses, perfectly applied makeup and tense corporate hairstyles. I wondered fleetingly to what extent I managed to blend in, and whether anyone had looked at me and known in an instant that my outfit, while tailored and certainly not cheap, was also certainly not Armani. I shook the thought and approached a reception desk; it was a heavy-looking mahogany slab, an island of calm in the controlled chaos that reigned in the lobby. The woman on the other side of the desk was trim—almost skinny—with pale blonde hair and the kind of skin that would freckle in a few minutes in the sun. She looked up from her computer terminal and offered me a polite but impersonal smile and a softly-spoken greeting.