Billionaire Romance Boxed Set (9 Book Bundle) (90 page)

The building didn’t look like
much. Syria peered out the taxi window at the snow-covered parking lot. She
handed the driver his fee and stepped out. She didn’t have any baggage, just a
change of clothes in her backpack, and long satin scarf from her bed, the one
Tyson used when he tied her up for the first time.

It was Christmas Eve, and while
her heart hurt a little for her mother, who was taking extra shifts in the 911
call center, she would see her in a couple days. Today she was surprising
Tyson.

Her boots crunched in the snow as
she approached the front door. A middle-aged woman in a flowered dress, her
hair tucked neatly in a red beret, sat just inside with a little metal box.
“Have you already bought your ticket?” she asked.

“I was told I could get one at
the door,” Syria said.

“You certainly can! Tickets are
$20.” The women opened her box. “You are a single lady, right? This is a
singles night!”

Syria smiled and pulled out her
wallet. “This sounds like a fun way to spend Christmas Eve.”

“It’s my favorite night of the
year!” the woman said, accepting the money. “And we have a super hot one this
year?”

“Really?”

The woman whispered
conspiratorially. “Some of the members thing it’s tacky, but they secretly love
it. This year we have a professional Santa stripper. St. Nick is his
specialty!” She fanned herself with her hand. “I already met him when he
checked in. He’s a hottie!”

Syria had to stifle her giggle.
“I bet he is.”

“Right through there!” The woman
pointed through the door. “Your first drink is free and there are snacks on the
side table.”

Syria opened the double doors to
a room throbbing with music and light. A four-piece jazz band played in the
corner, and a number of round tables festooned with poinsettias dotted the
room. Some fifty or sixty women sat throughout them, chatting amiably, eating
from little plates. Syria slipped into a chair at an empty table to look
around, tucking her backpack beneath her seat.

A bartender served colorful
drinks at a portable bar. As promised, a line of tables boasted a number of
finger foods, shrimp and vegetables and little cakes decorated like presents.

Most of the women seemed to know
each other, but none minded her presence. Syria sat comfortably alone and
waited.

The band finished their number
and the clarinet player in a white tuxedo stepped to a microphone. “And now, I
know it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Introducing, Naughty Santa!”

The spotlight shifted to the
opposite corner. Two bulky women in sparkling dresses opened the double doors,
and there he was, Tyson, resplendent in his full Santa gear, hat, beard,
jacket, pants, boots. His hands in white gloves went into the air, and some of
the women jumped to their feet, cheering and clapping.

Syria stood with them. Tyson
leaped forward to the beat of the music and pulled his velvet bag off his
shoulders, swinging it suggestively in front of him.

The women began shouting, “Me!
Me!” as he moved to the tables. Tyson selected an elderly woman in a gray hat
who was still sitting in her chair. He kneeled in front of her and smacked his
thigh. The lady shook her head, but the chorus of women around her shouted, “Do
it! Do it!” and as soon as she seemed less resistant, Tyson scooped her from
her chair and deposited her on his knee.

Syria laughed out loud. He was so
great. Tyson whispered in the woman’s ear and her eyes went wide. He pulled a
small bottle from his bag and handed it to her. She looked at it more closely
and jumped off his lap. “Santa!” she said.

She set the bottle down like it
was hot and another woman snatched it up. Even from a distance, Syria
recognized it as lube.

Tyson got up and moved in through
the tables. Syria stepped out of any of the lights so he wouldn’t see her too
soon. He selected another woman, this one very eager to get near him. She
danced with him a moment, then Tyson spun her around, holding her carefully at
the waist and gyrating behind her. The whoops and shouts grew so loud, they
almost drowned out the music.

Tyson reached in his bag and
presented her with a small box. Syria couldn’t make out what it was, but when
the woman figured out the contents, she clapped her hands over her face. A few
rips of cardboard, later, she was holding up a mini-bullet triumphantly.

Tyson danced through the tables a
little longer, handing out a couple more gifts, until the chorus of “Me, me!”
started to shift to, “Take it off!”

Tyson pulled back from the tables
then, away from the groping hands and wiggling bodies of the women, who were
already reaching in their purses to extract dollar bills. Syria leaned against
the back wall, trying to contain her amusement. This was fun, and he was really
good at it.

The music shifted to something
more driving, the drum beat steady. Tyson turned away from the tables and
ripped at the velcro of his jacket. Syria couldn’t hear it over the pulsing
music, but she remembered it well from his first shoot. He opened it wide,
facing away, and the women cheered so loud, it made Syria’s ears ring.

He tugged the jacket off his
shoulders, shimmying like a girl might, making the women all laugh. The sight
of his muscled biceps made the women all shout again, and Syria watched them
for a moment, how their eyes lit up like girls, and even the stodgy lady in the
gray hat was shaking her head and smiling.

The jacket flew across the room
and slid along the polished floor. The women were on their feet, stomping with
the music. Tyson whipped around, pointing to his chest and winking as if to
say, “Look at this!” With the beard and hat, the effect was hilarious.

He pulled something from his
pocket, and Syria squinted in the flashing lights. She wasn’t familiar with
this part. A long leather strap came out, festooned with silver bells. He shook
them, the tinkle barely penetrating the din, then slid them between his legs,
rubbing them from front to back with an expression of bliss.

The women were shouting
encouragement, and Tyson jumped forward again to the beat. He snapped the
leather and wrapped it around another women’s waist, waggling his eyebrows at
her.

He withdrew back to the center of
the room and acted as though he was easing his pants down. The women’s cheering
erupted again, but he stopped, looking over his shoulder, and Syria smiled,
knowing exactly what was coming next.

In one swift jerk, he yanked off
the breakaway pants, revealing his absolutely perfect round ass and the tiny
red satin g-string.

Some of the women covered their
eyes, then looked back. The noise was deafening. Syria had to laugh at their
delight. Even when you know it’s coming, that particular stripper trope was a
wonder to behold.

She felt her blood pumping as
Tyson strode swiftly through the room, thrusting his hips at random women, who
now were coming forward to touch him and slip money inside the tiny band. A few
got more bold, dropping the money in the satin pouch. Tyson went along,
pretending ecstasy, and making the other women laugh. When it seemed all the
women had come forward who were going to, Tyson continued to make rounds,
dancing with them, letting them run their hands along his bicep, and sometimes,
spank him as he bent over a table.

Syria pulled a hundred dollar
bill from her pocket and finally stepped out of the shadows. She came up behind
him, waving the money. The other women saw her and pointed, and one finally
turned him around.

He saw her and froze for a
moment. She couldn’t see his smile behind the beard, but the way it spread
wider made her know he was glad to see her. He pointed to the bill and turned
back to the crowd, gesturing with has hands with how big it was. Then he
pointed at his pouch to show how small it was.

The women were on his side,
encouraging him to go get it anyway. He ducked his head, as though he were shy
and sheepish. Syria held the money up.

So he danced for her, spinning in
circles, gyrating his hips. The women clapped and cheered. Syria felt like she
was in a vortex of sound and light, everyone happy and having fun. When he got
close enough, his eyes never left hers. She danced with him, moving side to
side, then holding on to his hips. He was hard, sweating, and putting off heat.
She tried to convey to him how proud she was, how pleased. She tucked the bill
in the top of her shirt and pointed to it, as if to say, “Come and get it.”

The women whooped. When he
reached with his hand she backed away, waggling her finger as if to say, “Nope,
not that way.” She pointed to her mouth.

Tyson turned to the woman and
shrugged as if to ask, “Should I?”

They all cheered and he turned
back around, hopping toward her in that thrusting way he’d done the whole
night. She leaned forward, letting her chest get closer to him. He bent toward
her, next to her ear, and said, “I love you,” then turned his head and snatched
the money with his teeth.

The room went crazy, and Tyson
swooped around the room, blowing kisses and collecting his clothes and bag.
Syria waited until the room settled down again to sneak along the wall, and
when no one was looking, followed him through the doors.

He was sitting on a chair to one
side, pulling money out of his g-string. He looked up, and when he saw her,
jumped up to pull her in a hug. “Syria! My God! What a crazy surprise.”

“Merry Christmas,” she said.

He pulled her close. “I’d kiss
you but the beard itches like you wouldn’t believe.”

She reached for his hat and
pulled it off. “Then let’s take care of that.” The beard attached with a loop
around his ear and she carefully tugged it free. He let it dangle from his
other ear, and pulled her in, his mouth covering hers in a hot collision of
lips and tongue.

She pressed against his body, hot
from watching him strip for other women, seeing them run their hands along his
skin. She broke away. “I know they were a lot of older ladies, but that was
still so totally hot.”

“It’s hot now.”

Syria glanced at the door, the
jazz music muted from the other side. If she could get off to a bondage knot in
front of a roomful of strangers, she could certainly risk this. She had, after
all, almost become a signed and sealed professional Exhibitionist.

She reached down for his
g-string. “I think you’ve still got some money in here.” She slipped her hand
inside.

He grew erect against her so fast
that bills flew out and fluttered to the floor. “You are one crazy girlfriend,”
he said.

She pushed him back on the chair,
his cock coming up at her like the north pole. “And I come prepared. She took
his hands and slid them up her legs, revealing her naked skin. He slipped a finger
between her legs, sliding up inside her. “I hope TSA didn’t have to search
you.”

“I wasn’t concealing anything,”
she said, and straddled his lap, pulling the skirt out of the way.

He moved his hand to her waist,
eyes closing as her folds parted for him. When she sat nestled against him, all
the way down his shaft, he held her so tight and so long that emotion welled up
in her again.

“You’re here,” he said. “It’s not
a dream.”

“I am,” she said, “and now you
better pleasure me or you’re getting coal for Christmas.”

He opened his eyes, smiling up at
her, and scooted down a little on the chair. “Prepare to get slammed.” His hand
shifted to her hips, lifting her up, and bringing her down so hard and so fast
that she gasped.

“Better?” he asked.

Syria couldn’t answer because he
was doing it again, shifting her body to his bidding, grinding against her,
then starting another long stroke. Laughter broke out on the other side of the
door as somebody gave a speech, and Syria prickled with the danger, the risk, and
the willingness in both of them to do whatever the other wanted, anywhere they
wanted it.

She clutched his shoulders and
dropped her feet on the floor, helping him move with her, adding to the impact
of their bodies slamming together. The heat curled up through Syria, starting
at the burn between them, the slide of his skin inside her, and the pain of
overworking her muscles, all combining to shoot her into a new level of
pleasure. She was just starting to spiral up when the door opened and a shocked
woman looked at them with an open mouth. Tyson stopped a moment, holding Syria
close, but the woman simply backed away and closed them in again.

“I think you might be fired,”
Syria whispered. “And the cops might be on their way.”

“Then I better hurry this up,”
Tyson said. He increased the speed and pressure, and now it was going, her body
tightening, then letting loose, cascades of shivers crossing her body and
gripping him where they were joined. Tyson slammed his cock into her one final
time and now everything burgeoned with warmth and wetness, his cum flowing
inside her as she relaxed down on him.

“I hate to fuck and run,” Tyson
said. “But we better run.”

Syria burst into giggles as they
snatched up his money and their bags. He thrust his arms into the jacket and
did a patchy job of connecting the velcro of his pants. They were running
through the empty room and out the other side when the doors opened a second
time.

“Go!” Tyson yelled, pulling on
her arm as they dashed out into the night. “My car’s over here!”

He unlocked the doors and they
jumped inside. They pulled out of the slot just as two women came out the back
door. Tyson careened across the lot, speeding their way to the side street.

“You are a mad mad woman!” Tyson
shouted as they left the hall behind.

Syria laughed. “I am.” She
reached over and gripped his arm. “I’m mad about you.”

He grinned at her, checking his
rear mirror. “I’m glad you are. Nobody’s following. I think we got away with
it.”