Bound to the Billionaire PRINT

Excerpt From: Bound to the Billionaire

Bared to Him by Sierra Cartwright

"Which floor?"

"Twelve, thanks," Myka said slightly breathlessly. He’d patiently held the elevator door open while she hurried across the lobby of the downtown Denver office building. She’d been at lunch too long—the quarterly gathering with her college girlfriends had been too scandalously delicious to leave. As the waiter had brought a second glass of wine for each of them, they’d shared stories of their sex lives—the thrills and droughts—and now she was running late for a meeting with a client.

The man pushed the button for the twelfth floor and then fifteen, presumably for his. The elevator doors slid shut.

"How’s the book?"

Self-consciously she moved the bestselling paperback behind her. "I just borrowed it from a friend." Borrowed it? Prised it from Kathleen’s unwilling fingers was more like it. Everywhere Myka went, it seemed people were talking about the book, and, after some of her friends’ confessions over lunch, Myka had been desperate to read it. She knew little about BDSM, yet what she knew intrigued her. But where would she find a man into that kind of kink? Her last boyfriend had freaked out and left when she’d brought out scarves and asked him to tie her up.

"Do you know anything about the book?" he asked.

She took a second look at him. He was taller than her, by at least six inches, and that said something since she was unusually tall. In heels, she wasn’t used to looking up at many people.

He appeared to be in his late thirties. His dark hair had a smattering of appealing grey at the temples. It added to his distinguished good looks.

His eyes were a startling green. She had the odd sense that he saw through her tough exterior into her innermost secrets.

She knew she was staring, but she couldn’t look away. His scent seemed to brand the air—something crisp and outdoorsy, a stamp of primal male power and intrigue. Even his clothing captured attention.

Myka made a decent living as a financial adviser, and she recognised quality. The suit that had been exquisitely tailored to fit his toned body cost at least a month of her salary.

"So, do you?"

She was lost. "Do I what?"

"Do you know anything about the book?"

He captured her gaze. Instinct told her to look away, but she couldn’t. Unnerved, she stepped forward so she could exit quickly. "It’s hard not to," she said. "It’s being talked about everywhere." Realising she was in danger of babbling, something she did not do, she countered, "Have you read it?"

"I haven’t read it, no. There’s no need."

A bell dinged, signalling that she’d reached her floor. "No need?" she asked.

"I live the lifestyle," he said.

The doors slid open.

He moved forward, crowding her space. She’d have to brush past him to exit. He pressed the button to keep the doors open. "Look me up if you’re curious."

This man, tall and broad, had an air of easy command, as if he was accustomed to issuing orders and having others obey. She had an insane urge to treat him with respect he’d yet to earn. She felt her body grow warmer.

He stepped aside, and she exited the elevator. The doors slid closed.

Made for Him by Desiree Holt

I’m not making a mistake. This is the chance of a lifetime. Everything will be fine.

Teri Choate locked her fingers together in her lap, watching through the helicopter window as the Friday afternoon sun lit the waters of the Atlantic Ocean below her. A representative of Micah Sheridan’s had arrived at her condo in San Antonio at noon to take her to the private airstrip where the Sheridan Worldwide helo awaited her. Now, as they got closer and closer to his private island off the coast of Maine, as the weekend loomed before her, she forced back the case of nerves that kept trying to take over her body. This weekend was a test, for both her and Micah Sheridan. He wanted to push her, to see if she could fully match his needs as a Dom. What would he ask her to do that would show him she trusted him completely?

She wanted desperately to unlock his heart, because she’d had the misfortune to fall in love with the man and that was a disaster in the making. Could she submit to him as completely as he demanded, no matter what level he took her to? And could he finally unlock the shackles he kept around his emotions to make their relationship emotional as well as physical? Commit to something long term?

She had struggled for so long with the clash between her submissive nature and her strong personality. It had been a big step for her, even before she’d met Micah, to blend those two parts of her. Two sides of the same coin. The result had been some less than satisfactory relationships, leaving her to constrain her sexual activities to impersonal sessions at The Castle, the private bondage club she belonged to. It never ceased to amaze her that while she ran an executive employment agency that served clients everywhere, making decisions that involved power and money, once she took off her clothes she turned into someone else. She was sure that was the reason she’d never been able to build a lasting relationship.

Until Micah Sheridan. The man she knew could take control without controlling her.

At thirty-eight he had amassed a global fortune and was both respected and feared in business communities all over the world. The world saw him as a man in elegantly tailored clothing with a sharp business mind and a ruthless attitude, yet still playing with all the toys a man of his wealth accumulated.

She’d done her homework on him. She was aware that this home she was on her way to was only one of many. He had a villa in Cannes, one in Acapulco, a condo in Hong Kong and a chalet in Switzerland. He raced cars for fun, skied both the Alps and the Andes, kept fully outfitted yachts at each of his villas, and never carried a suitcase because every one of his homes was outfitted with his needs.

Waiting for Him by Natalie Dae

Shara twirled a lock of her dark hair and stared across the spacious penthouse living room at her Dom. Naked and spreading her legs, she leant back on their black leather sofa and waited for him to notice her. To say hello and smile. To give her that look, the one that told her she was his world and he’d left work behind.

He’d swept in minutes ago, long black hair streaming behind him, and dumped his briefcase on the walnut sideboard that housed alcohol and crystal glasses, napkins and their best silver cutlery. He’d seemed preoccupied, acting as though she wasn’t even there. That stung a little. Hadn’t she been eagerly anticipating his arrival? Hadn’t she been glancing at the clock, seeing only a minute or two had passed since she’d last checked? Hadn’t her heart been hammering, her pulse racing, her mind conjuring images of how their evening would go? Yes, she’d experienced a pang of hurt, of regret that, despite their talking to one another via computer for the best part of the day, his mood had changed rapidly since they’d last had contact.

Something had happened in between. Someone or something had upset him.

She could only hope he still wanted to play. Still wanted her.

He appeared lost, leaning his folded forearms on the top of the armchair like that, gazing into space somewhere in the vicinity of the large mirror hanging above the roaring fireplace. She wondered what he was seeing, what he was thinking, and whether she could erase it, make it all vanish so he never had to go through a moment’s hurt for the rest of his life. People thought because they had money they had no worries, but they didn’t know a damn thing. Life still went on for them much as it did for those who earned less, except their cash could solve the minor issues or remove boredom by allowing them to disappear on their boat for the day or dine out. He’d had a hard morning at the office, she knew that much, preparing for a meeting later in the afternoon, and all the money in the world wouldn’t take that tired, strained look from his face. Only she could do that by preoccupying him, or listening to what was on his mind and suggesting ways to solve issues.

I want to hold you, John.

She couldn’t, though. She’d have to wait as she’d been instructed, until he pulled himself back to the present.

His hair fell forward off his shoulders, partially obscuring his features, the rise of his cheek and the tip of his nose the only things she could see. The light from the chandelier caught his hair, giving that dark sheet a silver glimmer. She longed to touch it, to sift her fingers through the softness then fist it tight, forcing him to look at her, to acknowledge that she’d been waiting for him like this for an hour. To let him know if they needed to abandon their plans that was all right. It would be a letdown, considering she’d worked herself up into a state of frenzied excitement as he’d told her to do, but she was prepared to forgo play tonight if that was what he needed.

Look at me, John. Speak to me. Tell me what’s on your mind.

But that wasn’t the way it worked—the way he worked. He would only tell her what was wrong once he’d mulled it over, once he had to admit that he couldn’t find the solution alone. He hated to burden her.

Come to Him by Justine Elyot

She should have expected a lot of paperwork, but somehow the number of times she was required to sign on dotted lines still came as a shock to Erin.

"And the non-disclosure agreement," said the lawyer smoothly, passing another sheaf of printed material across the desk.

She read it through, trying to take her time and be level-headed, but her vision skittered across the page, picking up legalese phrases here and there. The gist was that she was never to discuss what passed between her and the lawyer’s client with any third party—most specifically she was never to publish any account of her experiences with him, nor ever mention his name in connection with hers.

Picking up the pen and signing, yet again, she let her eye fall on the printed-out copy of her original advertisement on MasterMe.com. That nervous moment of pressing the button and making her plea live to hundreds of thousands of fellow fetishists seemed a million years from today. She could barely read it without cringing now.

"You’ve all heard of the girl who auctioned off her virginity. Well, I’m no virgin, but I do need funding for my MA in Women’s Studies, and I can offer something that might well appeal to those dominant men among you.

I’m offering my submission.

Subject to agreement of limits etc. for a period of one calendar month—will probably have to be August owing to academic commitments—I can obey your every command and satisfy your every whim.

Tempted? Please apply to downcasteyes@submail.com.

I look forward to hearing your orders."

A blizzard of interest had buffeted her inbox, most of it spurious, but in the end she had narrowed down the field of bidders to three.

The winning bid had taken her breath away.

One million pounds.

Enough to fund a lifetime’s research, let alone the tract she intended to write on the contrast between Victorian and medieval attitudes to female sexuality. She had almost vomited when she had seen the email with the offer.

Of course, it had to be a hoax. Nobody would offer that. Nobody in their right mind, surely.

But communication over the telephone with ‘Mr Nobody’s’ legal team had convinced her that it was serious, and now she was meeting his solicitor in his London office to finalise the arrangement.

It didn’t help that a couple of journalists had seen her advertisement and posed as bidders themselves, hoping to get a story about what kind of woman might do such a thing. Erin had sniffed out their misogynistic agenda straight away and blocked them, but she was wary all the same.

Play to Him by Wendi Zwaduk

"You’re going on another date with him?" Kayla wrapped a lock of Rhiannon’s hair around the barrel of the curling iron. "I didn’t think he dated anyone twice."

"This is our third date, but who’s counting? And, really, what’s a date? We’re not going anywhere special. I’m just playing music for his customers. Nothing exciting." Rhiannon stared at her reflection in the mirror. Talk about scoring the best stylist in the business. She trusted Kayla to make her look beautiful before each show. Rhiannon pursed her lips and pinched her cheeks. The fat curls accentuated the sunken qualities of her face. She frowned. At twenty-seven, she already looked old. The black liner made the blue in her eyes pop and contrasted with her ivory skin well and paired with the inky colour of her hair nicely, but she worried everything looked too dark and moody. She shrugged. She played moody music, why not look the part? "Do you think I should ramp up the liner?" She squinted. "It’s too light, isn’t it?"

"You’re nervous for a not-really date, that’s a very-much-so date."

"I’m not nervous." What a liar. Rhiannon rubbed her sweaty palms on her thighs. Hell yes, she was nervous. Sebastian Chastain, billionaire playboy and owner of Rock Hard Toys and Gear, didn’t give second engagements. Unless the woman really tickled his fancy, he rarely offered a first chance for a play date. He’d signed a contract with her to play whenever he wanted and she’d agreed.

She shivered. Tingles radiated over her back from the memories of his whip spread over her skin. Her pussy creamed and she clenched her knees together. Besides, there was a chance the concert wouldn’t lead to more.

"Whatever." Kayla rolled her eyes. "Your hair is done. Thoughts?"

Not bad. Rhiannon twisted the cascade of curls on the top of her head. "I like it." The updo would keep her hair out of the way during the session with Sebastian. "Thank you."

"Cool." The stylist gathered her brushes and the bottles of hairspray. "Good luck. Maybe this guy will be the one who gets you to settle down."

"Settle down? Kayla, I don’t want to be tied down to a family and responsibilities. I want to be free and figure out who I am."

"And not be lonely." Kayla winked and strolled out of the room.

That word. Lonely. Rhiannon frowned at her reflection and sighed. She’d been without the affection from a man for so long. But she had a reason for keeping things separate. She stood and turned away from her image. Sebastian, though detached in the emotions category, gave her the kink she needed. And he was stable. He understood her boundaries.

Die for Him by Amy Valenti

What kind of billionaire holds a business meeting in a nightclub?

I put the finishing touches to my lipstick and clicked the cap back into place, then put it back on the dresser, not without reluctance. I’d have loved to take a purse with me, but it would just get in the way if I needed to move quickly.

"You ready?" Rick called from the living room.

"Think so." I picked up my only essential item for the evening, my trusty Glock pistol, and tucked it into its holster at my hip. After taking a last look around me, I headed out to meet Rick, who was staring, perplexed, at the collection of extreme sports gear piled in the corner.

"I thought you were on jury duty this week, not snowboarding and skydiving."

"Oh." I eyed the corner distractedly. "I keep meaning to pick that up, but I use it all so often that there doesn’t seem like much point."

He shuddered. "Man, I don’t know how you keep throwing yourself out of planes and down mountainsides and stuff. That would freak me the fuck out. Aren’t you scared of dying or something?"

I should be so lucky. I bit back the words before they emerged. I didn’t want the guys I worked with to know I couldn’t find much to live for these days and needed a good jolt of adrenaline to get my kicks. That’d get me suspended on psych leave, or worse, fired. I could hardly handle two days of jury duty, never mind a life of leisure with no wages to fund my need for extreme sports.

Rick turned and looked me up and down. "Nice. I love the way the Kevlar brings out your eyes."

"Thanks." I rolled my eyes and adjusted the vest below my black shirt. Said shirt was the loosest piece of what could pass as clubwear I owned, but to a trained eye like Rick’s, the body armour was easy to spot. Luckily, I wasn’t trying too hard to pass myself off as a civilian—I was only covering up the vest to avoid freaking out the rest of the club’s patrons. It wasn’t a sexy look, but it was functional. "Remind me where this club is, again?"

"Just off Miller Street." Rick switched to businesslike, heading for the door, and I followed, locking up behind us. "I’ll drive."

"And you’re sure it’s an invitation-only night?"

"Positive. While you were sitting around taking it easy on jury duty, we were vetting the guest list and checking out the venue. You’re gonna love it."

Judging by the grin on his face, I wasn’t too sure about that.

I slid into the passenger seat and buckled up, waiting for Rick to do the same on the driver’s side before continuing the conversation. "So why is he having a business meeting in a nightclub anyway? He’s only got one more night until the big meeting that’s put his life in danger to start with. Wouldn’t he be safer waiting until this is all over?"