Billionaires in Paris: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (13 page)

My eyes bat in my boyfriend’s direction. He doesn’t roll his nor suck in his cheeks, his usual signs that he would rather go pound some beers while his woman does her thing.

I grow ever more suspicious.

We go to the front of the line. Before the attendant can shoo us to the back, I pull out my black card and ID. Sure enough, we’re shown to a quiet corner of the store where I can shop in peace. If you count shopping with a mother and daughter who also have special privileges and keep squealing over the latest 2016 collection as
peaceful.

I spend a long time looking at what’s available. It’s not that I don’t have the money to buy everything. Sure, I could, but I’m a discerning woman. I’ll stand and stare at everything for about half an hour before going
That one.
There’s a reason my closet isn’t overflowing like other women (cough, Eva) I know. I buy high-end items because they fit well and last a long time, not for the status. So while that mother and daughter are gushing about how popular they’re going to be when they go to their next party wearing a certain dress, I’m sitting here thinking about how much it’s not to my tastes. Instead, I drool over the beautiful, silky handbags.

I don’t know how Ian does it. He barely moves, except to look at a few things out of curiosity. He doesn’t bother me. He doesn’t pull out his phone and dither. He stands nearby without making me feel like I’m taking forever, even though I am. Is he on drugs? What kind of good shit is he getting off the streets of Paris? Where can I get some for the next time I have a panic attack and he’s not around to coddle me or spank me into accepting the cards I’ve been dealt?

When I ask him what he thinks of the latest classic flap bag collection, he doesn’t say a snarky, “How many handbags do you have, again?” What I get is, “The blue one isn’t really you. If you were to get one, it should be the silver or the red.”

I agree with him. I like the dark blue, but it doesn’t match my style. There are silver and red options, and I love both. Yet I know that I would never use both. I usually buy one main bag to use per season. I love Chanel bags because they’re stylish, elegant, and go with anything. I already have a new satchel for this year. I could use a new tote bag, though…

Instantly I gravitate to the red and silver shopping bags. “What do you think?” I ask Ian, holding one on either arm. He’s between both. “Red?” My left arm goes up. “Silver?”

Normally my male companions would say whichever color they like more. In Ian’s case, I know that’s red. “I like the red one,” he says, and I am far from surprised. “It matches the fire in your eyes.”

My left arm goes down. Whaaaat?

“The silver one is more versatile and the one I could see you using more. If I were shopping for you, that’s the one I would get.”

I’m still hung up on the comment about the
fire in my eyes.
“You like the red one?”

“Like I said…” his lips turn into a well-timed smirk. “It matches your personality. When I think of my lovely goddess, I think of a passionate, burning red.”

Oooookkaaaayyy.

I turn and put the red bag back on its mantle. The silver bag stays soft in my other hand as I model it in a mirror. I look at the price tag. $4900, American. Good buy for a bag I’ll use for the rest of the year.

My
goddess,
though?

Taste buds riot in my mouth as I make my purchase. The shopkeeper asks if I would like to use the bag now or if she should wrap it up. She asks me this no fewer than three times as I’m lost in space. Finally, I tell her to wrap it up. Ian steps forward and plucks the Chanel shopping bag off the counter. Normally he waits until I’m loaded up with bags before offering to carry any.

This is going to be a long and weird day, isn’t it?

***

Every woman deserves a man who is not only going to make her feel like a queen, but will happily follow her around Paris as she buys up every single store she comes across.

Now, don’t think I’m so selfish that I’m not looking out for him. I’ve already bought him two shirts and a new tie collection that is going to look so good on him I’ll be beating back every woman who crosses his path. He spent all morning talking about how he was going to spoil me? Turns out I’m the one spoiling him as usual.

Oh, I know how it goes. Women aren’t supposed to spend money on their men – especially if those men technically have and make more money than said girlfriends.

That’s such bullshit, of course. If a woman wants to spend money on her man, she should! How many times has Ian casually spent thousands of dollars on me as if it’s nothing? A scarf here. Shoes there. Watches and jewelry and hairpins galore. He has this habit of picking me up gold and gem-studded hairpins whenever he travels around the world without me. It never stops me from buying him gifts when I’m alone too, but it’s a completely different energy when we’re together.

You can see it in the shopkeeper’s eyes. Why am I buying things for my boyfriend? He looks perfectly capable of buying his own goodies. We approach the register, and even though I’m the one opening my purse and pulling out my (Chanel, oops) wallet, everyone turns to Ian, expecting him to pay. More than once he politely gestures to me while waiting for the bag to appear in front of us. Never says a word.

I reach pinnacle spoiling girlfriend in the Dior boutique.

“Try this.” I hold out a cologne tester. “It’s got musk in it. That means it has your name all over it.”

I wait for him to make a crack about me jumping his bones if he wore it. Ian definitely prefers heavy scents, and this one is a bit on the citrus side. Even so, I immediately thought of him when I sniffed it. This beats the sandalwood cologne I got him weeks ago!

My shopping bags touch the floor before Ian takes the tester from me. One dab to his wrist later, I’m in love. Again. I mean I fell in love with him again. He takes a sniff, of course, but I can’t judge from his face if he likes it or not.

“What do you think?”

“If you like it, I’ll wear it.”

“Come on, now. What’s your opinion?”

“I certainly don’t hate it. That said, I’ll wear it for you.” His soft smile makes me melt inside. Maybe I like this underappreciated side of Ian after all. “I’ll think of you whenever I wear it. Thinking of you is never a bad thing. I could wear it when we’re apart, too. That way I will always think of the greatest woman I know.”

I buy it for him.

We sit in the nearby park, watching tourists and couples alike mill about, lost in their own worlds. My arm rests behind my boyfriend. For the first time in a long time, I sense a contentment that I haven’t felt since…

My heart skips a beat.

Martin.

The sun blinds me, but I can’t bring myself to pull my sunglasses down. Lumps form in my throat. I remember the last time I spoiled a man like I spoiled Ian today.

Martin. I took him shopping in New York. Bought him cologne and half a new wardrobe.
“Thank you, ma’am. This is wonderful, ma’am.
” Always so appreciative. When we broke up, he gave away most of those items, which isn’t an uncommon thing in our world. Female subs do it all the time when they break up with their Doms.

The tips of my fingernails play with the back of Ian’s head. He needs a haircut, but I don’t mind seeing him shaggier than usual.

“Are you enjoying yourself today?” The waters I test right now almost feel unreal. Am I really wading into them? Is this
really
happening?

His usual playful demeanor still lurks behind those hazel eyes. I will forever thank his parents for giving him such beautiful eyes. As I become lost in them, Ian says, “I always enjoy myself whenever I’m with you. The happier you are, the more content I become.”

This is so unlike him, and yet I can’t help but be drawn into how he fills an old role I so desperately need filled.

“I’m happy right now. Happy in ways I didn’t think possible.” My nail touches the softness of his cheek. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

Plots brew in that calculating visage of his. Were the tides turned, I’d be anticipating some kinky-ass shit coming from his direction. Like taking me back behind a Parisian historical building and screwing my brains out while I call him Master. Chills take me over.

“My plan to do nothing but please you has come to fruition.” Ian leans closer, his voice a hushed whisper. “A man will do anything to please his goddess.”

His touch to my thigh snaps something inside of me. The box has been opened. The dust flying out. Pandora wouldn’t know what to do with herself.

I touch Ian’s thigh in return. A purr travels from me to him.

“Good boy.”

To my surprise, we kiss, my lips pushing against his.

Chapter 13

IAN

I picked the weirdest day to meet my future mother-in-law. There is no getting out of it, though. When Valerie got back to me saying Marilyn agreed to meet
today
and only today, I had to do it, regardless of what I had planned with my girlfriend.

Trust me, I’ve got a lot planned with Katie tonight, whether she knows it or not. Although I’ve got a sinking feeling that she has figured a lot of it out. After we left the park, everything changed.
She
changed. The way she touched me, talked to me,
looked
at me… I’m still adjusting to the woman I want to call my wife.

Now I’m going to meet her mother… without Kathryn’s knowledge.

Like she lied to me, I lied and said that I was also meeting a friend tonight. The restaurant is different from the one Kathryn saw her mother in, at least. A part of me wishes I had come clean and told her what I was doing. Maybe Kathryn would have come along. Then again, the things I need to talk to Marilyn about aren’t exactly the type of things you would say in front of your girlfriend.

Nothing is helped by my current mood. Letting Kathryn take the lead today and play a more submissive role in our public relationship has affected me in ways I could not have anticipated. Namely, I don’t think I will be able to snap out of this for Marilyn. The Ian she is going to meet is quite… demure.

Not a word I’ve ever used to describe a man before, let alone myself.

I won’t compromise my inner strength, of course, but the Ian Marilyn meets will not be as brazen with his dominance as the Ian most people know. It’s probably for the best. Based on what I know about Marilyn Alison, Alpha Ian is about the worst thing she could see for her daughter’s future.

I arrive first. She arrives fashionably twenty minutes late. The maître ‘d brings her to my table in a private corner of the main gallery, partitioned off from the rest of the quiet diners clinking their utensils against china plates and commenting on the live piano music. It’s a healthy mix of French and English in here. Some German, too. Marilyn should feel right at home.

She graces my presence looking nothing like the photos in Kathryn’s apartment or her father’s house. The Marilyn I see every time I go to those places is not only younger, but has longer strawberry blond hair and a style befitting the thirty and forty-something wife of a billionaire. The Marilyn I see coming in, however, looks a good twenty years older. She’s recently dyed her hair auburn brown. Her clothes cover every inch of her body, letting me only see her aging hands and the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. It’s hard to believe this woman is about the same age as my mother. She looks like a healthy seventy-year-old instead of a normal woman in her early fifties.

Dark sapphire blue glitters before me. Marilyn removes her wide-brimmed hat and peacock feather stole. Her wrinkled hands are covered in gold and bronze rings, few gems. The only way I can tell she’s biologically related to Kathryn is her jawline.

“You don’t look as intimidating in real life as you do in your pictures.” That’s it. That’s the first thing she ever says to me.

I stand up and extend my hand over the table. She waves it away. So much for cordiality.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” I say anyway. We both sit down, opposite from one another. Neither of us look at our menus. We might not be staying long enough for dinner at this rate. Good thing I ordered wine anyway. I’m gonna need it. “Kathryn talks a lot about you. Seemed only right I formally meet you at some point.”

Marilyn judges me with a heavy countenance. She’s wearing a ton of clothing, and yet she looks like she weighs about a hundred pounds. I don’t know much about her health problems. From what I understand, most of them are mental. As if she’s picking up on my thoughts, Marilyn candidly says, “I’m sure she’s told you plenty. Sometimes a young woman doesn’t know when to keep things in the family.”

To be fair, everyone back home knows about Marilyn Alison’s infamous nervous breakdown that led to her separating from her husband and moving to Europe, rarely to be heard from again. My own mother wouldn’t stop gossiping about it when it happened. Gossip that went beyond “We used to be good acquaintances at the country club and joked about you and Kathryn getting married one day!” Which I doubt.

“I like to think of myself as family by this point.” My voice is jovial, but inside I’m shaking like no future son-in-law has the right to. You would think I was having dinner with Spencer Alison – something I’ve done more than a few times, ranging from mediocre to rousing success – and expecting him to slice my dick off for coming within five feet of his virginal daughter. (The thought of Kathryn ever being described as virginal is pretty hilarious. By her own account she was her most promiscuous in high school, when I first met her. I don’t think I’ve ever known the Kathryn Alison that was a virgin.)