The Billionaire's Wife (23 page)

I was wearing a skirt again, a heavy wool thing, and again I wore
no panties. I was so thoroughly his that I didn't even think about it now. I
was so trained to want his touch that I almost never wore jeans any more. The
realization sent a tiny spark of apprehension through me, but then Anton ran
his fingertips lightly up the backs of my thighs and I pushed it away,
unwilling to examine it.

Slowly, he lifted the hem of my skirt and planted a warm, chaste
kiss on my mound, letting the skirt fall over his head as he moved his hands to
my ass cheeks and began to massage them in an insistent rhythm. The rhythm of
sex, of thrusting. I moaned as his tongue escaped his mouth and dipped into the
delta of my thighs, hot and wet against the nub of my clit. He took up a soft,
relentless pattern, thrusting his tongue over my clit where it hid, mashed
between my closed legs, until my knees weakened and I parted for him.

Pressure on my hips had me backing up into his desk, and he
lifted me up until I sat on the edge. Parting my thighs with the palms of his
hands, he exposed me to the cool air, my soaking pussy quivering with the
sudden change in temperature.

"Lean back," he instructed. I
did so, placing my palms flat on the desk behind me as he spread the lips of my
pussy with one hand.

I watched as he studied my inner folds,
almost clinically, but the darkening of his eyes told me all I needed to know.
If I reached one foot down, I would find an erection as hard as a rock in his
trousers.

"You are beautiful," he said
then, breaking the tense anticipation of the moment. Placing one long, lean
finger on my clit, he traced small, slow circles around it with the tip. Each
stroke sent a shudder through my body, and I couldn't resist. I was putty in
his hands. Throwing my head back, I let him circle, circle, circle me,
commanding my pleasure with a single point of contact. I sighed and moaned,
spread out on his desk like a banquet, until his tiny, sweet, merciless circles
spiraled out, out along my limbs, curling in my belly, and I came in small,
short bursts.

He stood, undoing his trousers with a
practiced motion, then reached up and helped me out of my skirt, letting it
fall to the floor as he inched my shirt up over my stomach until it bunched
beneath my breasts.

“Lie back,” he said, and I did. Defying
him didn't even cross my mind now. All I wanted was pleasure—his and mine. His
hands circled my ankles and brought my legs up, perpendicular to my torso, and
pressed them together so my pussy was open and exposed to him. Languid and
content, I lay on the desk as he coated his cock in my slippery juices,
preparing myself for entry.

But he didn't enter me. Instead he slid
his cock between my legs, letting it glide against my sensitive clit, and began
to fuck my thighs. His arms wrapped around my knees like iron, and I gripped
his desk as he pleasured himself with my body. The soft head of his dick
slipped against my clit over and over again, my world narrowing to the point
between my legs. His belt buckle slapped against my ass with each thrust, and I
writhed, aching for him to fill me. He was like a drug. I was an addict.

Then he stuttered in his stroke and
grunted, thrusting harder. Warm cum spurted from his cock in quick, short
bursts, spattering up my stomach, marking me as his. I wiggled, needing
completion, and without comment he reached down and plunged a finger into my
pussy, pumping me hard and fast as his cum cooled on my skin, his cock still
rigid and hard on my clit.

I strained and arched, and within
moments I was coming a second time, the world melting around me, my body
melding with his.

When I was finished, he lowered my
shirt down over his cum and plastered it to me. He helped me to my feet and
steadied me as I worked my skirt back up over my trembling legs. I closed my
leather jacket around my upper body and tied it in place so no one would see
the stain on my shirt. Anton kissed me again before releasing me.

"I'm sorry, Felicia," he
said. "I will be more mindful in the future. In the meantime, I'm betting
you should update that blog of yours and tell all. I wouldn't be surprised if
you made some sales out of this."

Why was everyone concerned about my
sales? I hadn't put hand to clay in almost two weeks and I was married to one
of the richest men in the world. I didn't need to agonize over my art any
longer. And I didn't have any ideas anyway. Anton had anesthetized the turmoil
inside me. There was nothing for me to say at the moment.

I nodded and gave him a smile.
"All right," I said. "I'll do my best."

He showed me to the door, gave me
another kiss, and I left. I held my head high the whole way home.

*

Anton wasn't home yet when my mother
came barging into the second floor reading room where I was camping out with a
fire, a blanket I'd liberated from my still-packed things, and a mug of Irish
coffee while I scrolled through my emails and texts from all my friends.
Contrary to my fears, very few people I knew seemed to have lowered their
opinions of me. Most of my art friends expressed envy at the publicity, and my
former coworkers at the bar were mostly surprised that I was so kinky. I didn't
bother to correct them, because as far as I knew I had always been kinky, I
just hadn't known it.

I looked up when my mother entered the
room, her feet meeting the floorboards as though she held a personal grudge
against trees. "Felicia!" she exclaimed when she saw me curled up in
an armchair. "Felicia, what are you thinking?"

The whiskey in my coffee was making me
feel quite good, so I smiled at her instead of shying away. "I'm thinking
I should get another cup of coffee," I said.

She stared at me, dismayed.
"Felicia," she said again, "you are on display all over the
internet and on the newsstands. Everyone is peering into your most intimate
moments with your husband. Your husband is treating you without respect. Did
you know he was into this sort of... perverted sex play before you married
him?"

Well, I had signed a prenup that had
explicitly detailed all of Anton's favorite kinks, so technically I suppose I
had known. "Yes," I told her.

She threw her hands in the air and
collapsed in the armchair across from me. "Really?" she said.

I nodded.

She put a hand to her eyes and shook
her head. "I can't believe this is happening."

Annoyance ran through me.
"Why?" I said. "Because it makes you look bad to all your
country club friends?"

She glared at me. "You know that
is not true, Felicia. You know I have only wanted you to be happy. I have only
ever wanted you to find love with a good man."

I sighed. For all her faults, I knew
this was true. She really did want me to be happy. She just... didn't realize
that people could be happy in different ways. Was I happy now? I didn't know,
exactly. I was, at the very least, content to see where this hedonistic
relationship could go. And if I wanted to end it in the future, I could. But I
could lean on Anton. I could depend on him. And, weird as it sounded, I trusted
him. I'd trusted him since I'd first read through his contract. A man so open
and forthright with what he wanted and what he wished to do to me... it was
refreshing. No surprises with Anton.

Well, none except the small
vulnerabilities he let me see, sometimes inadvertently. All things considered,
arranged marriages could go a lot worse. A lot worse.

"I don't know, Mom," I said.
"I enjoy Anton's company. He's... he's not a bad husband."

A pained look passed across her face.
"That's what you have to say about him? He's not a bad husband?"

I was aware of how it sounded, but I
didn't want to commit to more than I knew I was able. My growing affection for
Anton was well-guarded. I took it out at night when he slept beside me and
turned it over in my mind, letting myself explore its edges and contours before
putting it away again. It was small now, but with care it could be something
very real.

"Yes," I said. "That's
what I have to tell you. He is not a bad husband. I know you wante me to be
happy with the man I marry, and right now I'm feeling okay with the way things
are going."

My mother sat back, somewhat mollified,
but clearly unwilling to let this go. "I don't know," she said.
"I don't like the changes I see in you."

I frowned. "What do you
mean?"

Waving a hand she attempted to
encompass all of me. "Your clothes. Your attitude. I haven't seen you do
your art the whole time I've been here."

I shifted, uncomfortable. I knew what
she was saying, because I had the same feelings. Misgivings, really. But I
tamped them down. I depended on Anton to keep her alive. I leaned on him when I
felt weak. Which was more and more often.

I stared at the fire. Before I knew
Anton, I'd lived alone. I'd worked hard. I'd been my own person. A messy,
unkempt person that my mother always lamented of ever learning glamorous
personal grooming, but my own person all the same. Now I was falling into Anton,
fading into the force of his personality, of his dominance. It sheltered me.
But shelter can be an awfully small space.

I couldn't let my mother worry about
me, though. "I'm fine," I said. "I'm just stressed out. When
this whole wedding thing is over, I'll go back to working on my art and
stuff."

With a sigh, my mother deflated.
"Felicia," she said again, "please, take this seriously, and
answer me honestly: why did you marry this man?"

I couldn't tell her it was for the
money, and I certainly couldn't tell her it was for love. What could I say to
the woman who gave me life, and now feared I was throwing that life away?

I gave her a wan smile. "For the
right reasons," I said. "Trust me."

She held my eyes for a long time in the
dancing light of the fire. "I will trust you," she said. "And I
hope you are right."

*

The fallout of the tabloid pictures
wasn't half as bad as I'd feared. Most people just acted faintly embarrassed
when they recognized me, but my blog saw a huge uptick in traffic and, true to
Anton's predictions, I sold everything that was for sale in my storefront.
Unfortunately, I couldn't find time to go down to my old apartment to package
everything up and send it out because wedding preparations—and Anton—took up
all of my time.

Dress shopping, gift registry, gift
bags, decorations, catering, drinks, bridesmaids, colors, flowers, silverware
patterns, and getting tied up and fucked each night and most of the days took
up a lot of time. Getting married, it seemed, was a full time job that did a lot
to alleviate any obsessing I might have done. Besides, after a few days the
embarrassment of being photographed in intimate positions wore off, especially
when tourists from out of town stopped me on the street and asked to take a
picture with me. Of course, they never asked while Anton was there. Anton gave
off a forbidding vibe.

By the time the week was up, I was
feeling better about the world, but I was still looking forward to fresh
tabloids so my picture would get off the cover. Sadie and I were walking to the
nearest drug store so I could grab myself some Midol—my period was coming up
and the beginnings of crankiness and cramps were making themselves felt—and
discussing how to get her picture in the tabloids so she could sell some of her
work.

"We should kiss," she said.
"The next time you see a papparazo, you have to tell me so I can mack on
you."

"I'm not kissing you to get you
into the National Enquirer," I said. "Why don't I just advertise your
shit on my website?"

"Because," Sadie whined,
"I want to get autograph requests, too!"

I laughed. She didn't really want this
kind of scrutiny, and besides, there was no telling what Anton would do if he
found out someone had touched his property, for publicity or not.

Ducking out of the rapidly chilling autumn
air—now creeping into winter—we browsed the aisles in the Rite Aid.

"Do you need enemas?" Sadie
asked loudly from two aisles over as I looked for the Midol.

"Sadie!"

"Just asking. You never know. What
about laxatives. Laxatives and enemas?"

I groaned and put my head down as she
rounded the corner, grinning.

"Hey," she said. "Those
tabloids are going off the shelves. Someone has to keep you humble."

"I'm plenty humble," I said.

Unzipping her hoodie, Sadie bared her
chest to me. "Really? Then I dare you not to sign these."

"No problem," I told her as
we headed toward the checkout. "I don't have a pen with me."

"God, Lis, you are absolutely no
fun at all." She zipped back up and followed me. "Come on, let's see
which poor sucker is on the front page of the Star now that it's not you in a
dog collar and leash.

"Sadie!"

"What? Everyone knows!"

Cheeks burning, I tried to pretend I
didn't know her as I approached the checkout. I let my eyes pass over the
colorful tabloids next to the counter as I neared, and a pang of relief lanced
through me when I realized that none of the pictures there were mine. Thank
god.