Mastered 2: Ten Tales of Sensual Surrender (34 page)

“Perfect,” he huffs, acknowledging my request. “Come for me, pet.” Logan thrusts hard. “Come now.”

I slap my clit and break, my mind shattering, my pussy clenching my fingers, my lips closing tight around his cock. My billionaire roars, pushing deeper into my mouth, bathing my abused throat with his hot cum, rewarding me with his essence.

As my world spins around me, I swallow and swallow and swallow, coaxing every last drop from his tip, draining him dry. He shudders once, twice.

“Holy fuck,” Logan murmurs, sounding dazed. His legs buckle and he falls, his knees smacking against the tile, his cock slipping from my mouth.

That must hurt. I wince. He draws me into his fit physique, covers my lips with his, not caring that I taste of him, that his cum coats my tongue.

Moments pass. We kiss, caress, and Logan’s fingers spread over my back as though he seeks to touch as much of me as possible. The heaving of his chest levels off. My breathing slows and the room stops revolving. Rational thought returns.

I trust this man. I trust him to keep our relationship private, to not give my half-siblings the proof they need to destroy me. He’ll protect me, care for me.

My decision made, I tilt my head back and whisper, “I’d like one more night.”

My billionaire’s eyes glow, his face soft with an emotion that’s too tender to be lust. “Thank you, pet.”

Chapter Four

We prepare for the day, sharing the space. Logan shaves while I put on my makeup and fix my hair. Our shoulders bump. Our hands brush. He takes every opportunity to touch me and I love it, reveling in the contact.

I dress in a black bra and panty set, black heels, and a sky blue Chanel suit, the entire outfit purchased for me by my billionaire. Logan dons a matching tie, navy blue suit and crisp white shirt. We look like a couple, and this pleases me.

He cooks scrambled eggs while I prepare toast, his kitchen large and spacious, equipped with the best of everything. Although I know he must have staff, no one intrudes on our private time together.

We eat and talk, sharing more than I suspect either of us has shared with anyone else. Logan tells me about some of his deals, asking for my insights, and listens intently as I answer, viewing me as his equal, as a husband might treat a wife.

I want a lifetime of this, and I don’t know how to obtain it, the thought of spending the day or any time apart from him, depressing me. Why did he have to be my father’s enemy, and why did I have to be my mother’s daughter?

“No one will know, Arianna.” Logan folds his fingers around mine, his grip warm and sure. He thinks I’m fretting about today, not knowing I’m more concerned about our future. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“This will be difficult to hide. It’s almost noon.” I walk with him through his sprawling mansion, noting the ageless antiques and classic artwork. He likes things that last, that represent quality, as I do. “Everyone will wonder where I’ve been.” I don’t want to lie, not about us.

“You had an early morning meeting with a generous new donor.” He slides his right hand inside his suit jacket, extracts a check from his pocket, and hands it to me, his fingers grazing mine.

The check is made out to my family’s charity, the donation amount six figures. “Robert Reyes.” I read the account owner information. “Does this man exist?”

Logan smiles. “Yes, he exists. He’s a very good friend of mine.”

He opens a door. The sun shines through the tall maple trees. The morning breeze is tinged with the scent of freshly cut grass. The scarred man stands beside a taxi.

“Rob is looking forward to meeting you,” my billionaire adds.

Logan has told his friends about me. My chest warms. “Can the check be cashed?”

“It’s a real donation.” He chuckles, his eyes sparkling. “The check won’t bounce.”

His friend must be wealthy also. “Thank you.” I place the check in the purse Logan also provided, the man having thought of everything.

“Keep your head down until you’re told it’s okay.” He nods at the scarred man. “You’ll be picked up tonight after your father’s infamous dinner.”

Every Saturday, my father hosts a formal dinner at his estate. Only family members and his closest allies are invited, the guest list closely scrutinized, security tight. Even Logan can’t crash this coveted event.

I wish he could. The evening will be spent deflecting my half-siblings’ snide remarks, ignoring the gossip and the curious gazes. I turn, face Logan, fighting the urge to cling to him, yearning to stay with him, within his protective arms.

“I’ll see you tonight,” I remind myself.

“You will.” He smiles at me. “While we’re apart, I want you to wear these.” He takes the diamond nipple clamps out of his pocket, the precious gemstones reflecting the sunlight. “Open your suit jacket, pet.”

We’re not alone. I glance over my shoulder at the scarred man, his employee, my cheeks heating with embarrassment. He stares straight ahead, giving no indication he’s heard Logan.

My gaze returns to my master and my pussy moistens. He has that darkly serious expression on his angular face that I love, his eyes hard, his jaw set. Questioning his orders will earn me a punishment but, worst of all, it will disappoint him.

I don’t want to do that. Ever. I unbutton my suit jacket, revealing my black bra, and I stand semi-dressed on my billionaire’s front steps, waiting for his approval. If one of his men looks out the windows of the house or strolls along the grounds, he’ll see me, witness my deviant behavior.

“You’re such a good girl.” Logan’s praise makes this risk worthwhile. He clips the clamps to the bra’s underwire. “These will remind you who owns your orgasms.” He glides his fingertips over my silk-covered breasts and taps the clamps, causing them to sparkle.

“I would never forget, sir.” My voice is husky with emotion.

“You won’t have time to forget,” he says gruffly, closing my suit jacket. “It’ll be only a few short hours until I see you again. You’ll work. I’ll work.” He slowly buttons the garment, caring for me, his pet. “Then we’ll play all night long.”

“We will, sir.” I foresee a sleep-deprived future.

“I’ll think of you, Arianna.” Logan strokes his fingers along my cheeks, his touch whisper-light. “I want you to think of me.”

He dips his head and presses his lips to mine. Before I can open to him, he pulls away from me, his kiss frustratingly brief.

“Go.” He looks over my shoulder, unable to meet my gaze.

He wants me to stay, I realize. This parting is as difficult for him as it is for me.

A good sub wouldn’t test her master’s restraint. I force myself to move, to enter the taxi, my mind in a daze, consumed with thoughts of Logan.

“Head down, miss,” his man reminds me as he closes the door.

I lay on the seat. The vehicle is immaculately clean, smells and looks new, not a single crease marring the leather cushions. The ride is quiet and smooth, almost luxurious, unlike that of any taxi I’ve ever been in.

I wiggle on the leather, touched by Logan’s thoughtfulness, amazed by his planning. Passersby can’t see me. I’m hidden. They’ll believe the backseat unoccupied, that the driver dropped someone off at his house, that no one left his estate this morning.

This taxi gives me even more physical proof that Logan cares for me. No one goes to these lengths for a fast fuck.

If he puts this level of planning into all of our encounters, we might remain undetected. A wild, reckless hope flutters to life inside me. I might be able to have it all—my billionaire, my father’s acceptance, and the job I enjoy.

The driver’s partition slides open. “It’s all clear, miss,” the scarred man relays. “Here is your passcard.” He passes the piece of plastic to me.

A horrible photo of me is plastered across the surface. “How did you get it?” I straighten, clipping the passcard to my suit jacket.

“It’s a copy, miss,” he replies, as though this explains everything.

It doesn’t, but I accept his vague comment because I don’t truly want to know the specifics. I like having the illusion of safety. I like believing not everyone can walk into one of my father’s secured office buildings.

“Have you worked for Mr. Ross long?” I ask, wanting to know about Logan’s man.

“Nine years full-time. Two years part-time before that.”

“He trusts you.”

“He wouldn’t allow me near you if he didn’t trust me, miss.” The man meets my gaze through the rearview mirror. “He knows I’d protect you with my life.”

My eyes widen. “I’m a stranger.”

“You’re Mr. Ross’s girl.” He turns the taxi into a side street. “You’ve earned his loyalty, which means you have mine too. He doesn’t give his trust to just anyone.”

“I’m not just anyone,” I muse, staring out the window at the tall glass-and-steel buildings, the tiny slivers of green lawns, the people window-shopping and walking their tiny dogs. “And I’m no longer alone.”

I’m protected, safe, loved.

Shit. Loved. I love my billionaire. I suspect I’ve loved him for days, months, perhaps since the first moment I saw him.

My fingers splay over my suit jacket, the suit jacket Logan gave me. No one can know about this gift, about last night, about how I feel. This has to be my secret.

* * *

I’m dropped off outside St. James Communications’ main doors. It would be strange for a taxi driver to accompany me into the building, I suppose. And Logan must need his man for other tasks.

I won’t be alone. A couple of cars are parked in the company lot. There’s always someone in the building, even on a Saturday. Media never sleeps.

Tonight, I won’t sleep either. A wild, crazy joy zings through me. I’ll spend the night in Logan’s arms.

I wave my passcard over the security box. The light turns green. I step through the doors and someone hisses at me. Even this can’t penetrate my bliss. I’m high on good loving, ready to take on the world, to tackle the zillions of decisions waiting for me.

The hissing grows louder. I look around the white marble lobby, searching for the source of the noise. Benoit, my friend and co-worker, beckons from a dimly-lit hallway.

Why is he lurking there? I hurry toward him. That’s the hallway to the accounting department. They don’t normally work on the weekends.

“Walk with me.” Benoit pivots with a flounce and strides along the narrow space. “Speak softly and, for God’s sake, wipe that I-just-got-fucked-silly smile off your face.”

My face heats. Is it that obvious? “I received a big donation this morning.”

“Everyone has seen the video.” Benoit rolls his eyes. “We know how big Ross’s
donation
is.”

“What are you talking about?” I skid to a stop, my heels squeaking on the floor. “What video? What does everyone know?”

Nothing, they know nothing
. I wrangle my panic under control. Logan was thorough and careful, thinking of every possible detail. He gave me his vow and I trust him. I love him. No one is aware of where or how I spent last night.

“Everyone knows you banged Ross.” Benoit destroys my newly-restored calm with five simple words. “If you wanted to keep it a secret, you shouldn’t have made a sex tape, and you certainly shouldn’t have posted it on the internet, emailing it to half the world.”

“What?” I whisper.

“I’ve been sent the link at least fifteen times,” my friend grumbles. “Because that’s what I want to see—my boss and best friend bent over, naked, being fucked from behind by a billionaire.”

Bent over. Oh, God. I sway. Someone filmed us in the gardens.
They know.
Everyone has seen me naked, my ass in the air, diamond nipple clamps attached to my bare breasts. They have proof that I’m a slut like my mom and I had sex with my father’s enemy, that I betrayed him.

But how could anyone film us? It was dark. We would have noticed lights. Logan’s men were guarding the grounds. The cameras couldn’t have captured much. “Show me the video.”

“
Mais oui
, let’s watch your sex tape together.” Sarcasm smears Benoit’s words. “Because this situation isn’t awkward enough.”

“Benoit.” I hold out my hand.

He taps the screen a couple of times and places his phone in my palm. “Do you want to be alone?”

“Ha.” I glance down on the small display and I cringe. The video is labeled ‘Billionaire Logan Ross fucks Arianna St. James, daughter of St. James Communications’ founder.’ Someone wanted everyone to know damn sure who the participants were.

My fingers tremble as I press play. As I suspected, the video is grainy, fading in and out of focus. A couple of seconds pass before I comprehend what I’m seeing.

A blonde woman with big breasts and blue eyes is sprawled naked on a wooden desk. We look similar. If a viewer didn’t watch closely, didn’t know me well, he might mistake her for me.

The woman’s voice is close also, only an octave off, a difference that could be explained by passion, and the dialogue is damning, Ross’s name peppered between the moans. But the visuals should be enough to prove my innocence.

I exhale, lightheaded with relief. “This isn’t me, Benoit.”

I turn my attention to the man pounding his cock into the woman’s ass. He has Logan’s coloring, his pointed chin and broad shoulders, but that’s it. He’s paler, leaner, less of a man, not worthy of breathing the same air as my billionaire. “And this isn’t Ross.”

Benoit looks at the screen, looks at my face, and then looks back at the screen. “That’s your desk.”

I study the images. Son of a bitch. He’s right. Those are my business books in the background, my vintage penholder on the corner of the desk, my department’s photo hanging on the wall.

“This was filmed in my office.” I pace, clutching his phone with both of my hands, tempted to throw it, to smash the device against the wall. “Someone filmed a sex scene in my office.”

“Yes, yes, how unfortunate.” Benoit smiles.

I stop and stare at him. “What are you smiling about? Everyone thinks Ross and I had sex in my office.” My face burns with embarrassment.

“
Exactement
.” Benoit waves his hands in the air. “They believe you and
Ross
had sex. There’s no need to worry. Your super-protective billionaire will fix this.”

Shit. He
will
try to fix this and that’s not possible, not for me. I’m the St. James slut. Everyone in the Toronto business community will believe that’s my body sprawled naked over my desk. Nothing I could do or say will change that.