Bartered Proposal: The Billionaire's Wife, Part 1 (A BDSM Erotic Romance) (3 page)

Oh yeah. This guy wanted to
buy
me.

That thought cut through the strange spell he seemed to have placed on me, and for a brief second I was able to distance myself from the situation and break free of his gravitational pull.

“God, you're rude,” I said. “You want to marry me and you haven't even asked me to sit down. Usually guys try to get me drunk first.”

The only reaction he had to my words was a slight tightening around the eyes. When he got to the place where most people stop and respect personal space, he took two more steps.

He was
tall.
He loomed over me, and his scent filled my head. It was cool and calm, like ice, but underneath it there was the subtle, rich tang of his skin. The smell of a man.

My heart, already doing double time, picked up the pace. My blood rose. His body was only inches from mine. If my tits had been bigger I could have inhaled deeply and brushed them against his chest.

This is not going well,
I thought, but it was a fuzzy thought. Slippery. Hard to hold on to. Other thoughts were coming to the fore, thoughts like,
kiss him!
and
grab his crotch!

Not helpful.

The faint smile returned, and he lifted an arm. For a split second I thought he was going to crush me to him and my heart leaped.

But he only gestured toward the couches off to my left.

“Please,” he said. “Sit.”

Man,
I thought.
I
really
hate him.

I whirled in place, making sure to give him a good smack with my shoulder—not in a sexy way, but in a good old you're-in-my-way-asshole way—and stomped to the couch. The effect was somewhat marred by the gasp I had to stifle; the touch of his body on mine sent electric shocks through me.

I really,
really
hate him.

I made sure to flop down on his perfectly appointed couch without ceremony, and propped one of my flip-flop clad feet on the table. My chipped toenail polish was, I thought, a nice touch. Subtly, I squirmed, hoping to grind dried clay into the fabric.

Anton Waters didn't even move. He stood in the center of his office, regarding me coolly.

“Aren't you going to sit down?” I asked him.

“Yes,” he said, but he didn't. He tilted his head, studying me. I sat on his couch, feeling awkward and horny. At last he seemed to be satisfied, and walked over.

However, instead of sitting on the opposite couch, he sat down next to me and crossed his legs, exposing the fine, well-made lines of his suit pants. He was close to me. Too close. I didn't want to shift away and show him he made me uncomfortable—in more ways than one—so I busied myself with fishing the contract from my purse.

“So what's this?” I said. I brandished the contract at him like a knife. It would have been far more effective if he'd been sitting across from me, like a
normal
person. Instead I sort of had to flap it under his nose.

That faint smile creased his face again, and he turned, propping one arm up on the back of the couch in an overly intimate manner, and tilted his head again.

“It is a contract for marriage,” he said. “I thought your father would have told you that much.”

Oh my god. He was infuriating. And sexy. The heat of his body radiated across the small space between us. My shoulder nearly brushed his chest, and I wished I had worn a thin skirt, because I was almost positive his knee was touching mine, but my clay-stained jeans were too thick to feel it. My knee tingled anyway, sending shivers up my leg. They wrapped around and under, curling at the hot apex of my thighs.

I did my best to push the feeling away. “Yeah, I
know
that, but
why?”

He shrugged. “I would like a wife,” he said.

“And you're willing to take on my father's bad debt for it?”

He pursed his lips, a gesture too delicious to not be purposeful. Which, of course, didn't stop my gaze from being drawn to them. I wanted to run my tongue against the seam of his mouth and tease it open, snake my tongue inside and do battle with his. Unconsciously, I found myself licking my own lips as I stared at his face. When I realized what I was doing I stuffed my tongue back behind my teeth and raised my eyes.

He stared back at me, cool and knowing. “Your father's debt,” he said, “is not insurmountable. His company is still worth something in name and... contacts.” Almost absently he reached out and took the contract from me, angling his wrist so that his fingers slid over mine. Over the sudden sound of my blood pounding in my ears I heard myself gasp.

Deliberate and controlled. That's what he was. He laid the contract on the table and turned back to me. His gaze drifted up to my hair, a messy birdsnest of dark chestnut curls that I could never tame and settled for piling on top of my head in the most haphazard manner possible. One hand reached out and teased a curl from the mess I'd pinned it into today.

I should have stood up and walked away. I should have slapped him. I should have screamed.

Instead, I let him.

Boy, was that dumb.

His fingers twined around the lock of hair. It was as though he were twisting me around his fingers, up and over and under. My skin burned and my lips—both pairs—were swollen and aching for his kiss. I tried to think through the desire unfurling in my belly.

“So... you get my father's company and me. I, uh, I mean... it, uh, seems like a guy like you would have no trouble...
whoah!”

Anton Waters had leaned in and buried his nose in my hair. This was a little too far, even for me.

I staggered to my feet, snatching the contract from the table.

“What do you think you're doing?” I demanded.

For the first time, he seemed vaguely surprised. “Seeing if we are sexually compatible,” he said, as though this were obvious.

“That's awfully presumptuous of you. I haven't even said I would marry you yet!” I exclaimed. My legs trembled and I wished I could sit down again, but I didn't want to show weakness.

A faint line appeared between his brows as he frowned. “But why would you agree to marriage if you did not desire me sexually?” he said. Like he was a fucking robot. A fucking
hot
robot. “It seems wise to get such things out of the way to begin with before anyone makes a decision they regret.” He lifted his chin and ran his eyes over me appraisingly. I felt his gaze like a blowtorch, blasting away my resistance, exposing my skin, melting my bones. “I believe we would do quite well in that regard.”

I didn't want to think about this man desiring me. No, I didn't
let
myself think about it. It was too tempting. I had to stay focused on my goal. Which was... what again?

“Wait... why do you want an arranged marriage? You could get any woman you wanted.” Yeah.
That
was my biggest problem with this whole thing. God, I was an idiot. But at least it was a question and not me ripping all his clothes off.

He shrugged. “I do not require love or emotional attachment,” he said. “But a wife—as outlined in the contract—would be ideal for my personal needs.”

I hadn't read the contract. I didn't need to. There was no
way
I would marry this guy.

“What made you think
I
would agree to this?” I said.

He raised his brows. “I believe you can evaluate the benefits for yourself,” he said. “There are generous clauses within the contract for your own use.”

Rage bubbled up in me. “Fuck you,” I said. “Like I would ever get married for money. My father had money, and it left my mother with
nothing.
”

The vague smile returned. “Not money for
you,
Miss Dare. Money for certain... pet causes of yours.”

My breath caught. “What?” I said. “How could you know anything about me?”

“I know a lot about you,” he said in that same cool tone. “I know you enjoy knitting but abandon your projects frequently. I know you sometimes leave very cruel anonymous comments on other artists' websites. I know you often feel bad enough to go back and anonymously attack your own criticisms. And I also know you recently posted the phrase
'eat the rich'
in response to the latest financial crisis on a certain left-leaning website.”

My face burned. “Wh—what? You've been... checking
up
on me?”

The barest expression of confusion flitted across his face, as though he could not comprehend why I would ask such a question. “Of course,” he said. “If we are to wed, I should know the sort of person I will be marrying.”

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
What else did he know? What was he
not
telling me?

Anton Waters could see right through me. He knew
everything.

He knew it, too. I could see it in his eyes as he stood lazily and walked toward me.

“Of course, you would have all the time in the world to work on your artwork, as well. No more working as a bartender. No more taking gifts from your mother. No more shoving your creations down a flight of stairs because you have to move and can't afford to take the big pieces with you.”

My chest constricted. That had only happened once. But it had hurt. Oh, it had
hurt.

He drew closer and closer and I backed up until I hit the floor to ceiling window behind me and flattened myself against the glass.

He reached out, running a finger over my cheek, down my throat, down between the valley of my breasts.

“There are a few small clauses in the contract that I thought you might find... distasteful,” he said. His voice had taken an almost dreamy quality, but I could barely hear him over the roar of blood in my head. “But given how much you want me, I don't think that will be a problem.”

How much you want me.
Yes, I did. Oh god, more than I had ever wanted anyone. If kissed me, I was sure I would spontaneously combust.

“I don't want you,” I said. Even to my own ears, I could hear my throaty arousal.

His lashes fluttered. His finger traveled across my breast, and when it found my nipple, he rested his thumb and forefinger around it.

“What did you say?” he asked me.

I swallowed around my dry tongue. “I don't want you,” I told him, louder this time.

He pinched my nipple and twisted.

The effect was electric—painful pleasure shot from my nipple, through my heart and straight down to my clit. I cried out and my legs buckled. My purse and the contract slipped from nerveless fingers.

“Don't lie to me,” Anton Waters said.

I didn't answer.

He moved in.

He didn't touch me. Not really. He ran the tips of his fingers over my body, but he avoided my skin, as though touching my directly would cause him pain. His lips traversed the fabric of my sweater, over my waist, traveling over the outside of my hip. His hands skimmed against my ass, finding the sensitive creases where my ass met my thighs. He scraped dull fingernails down the backs of my legs. I could barely feel them through my jeans.

I wanted to grab his face and shove it into my crotch. I needed his mouth on me, his cock in me. My hands hovered near his hair, at the tips of his ears, but I was afraid to touch him.

The tip of his nose met my hip, scraping over the front of my jeans. He stopped, just at the cleft of my thighs, and inhaled deeply.

Putting his hands against the glass behind me he stood up and leaned in. His lips brushed my ear and his body moved forward until, at last, I could feel his cock, trapped in his pants, push against my belly.

“I can smell you,” he whispered in my ear. “Your pussy is already begging for me to fuck it.”

Yes.
God,
yes. My clit ached, and my cunt felt like it was about to explode. I couldn't even try to hide my arousal any more. My breath came hot and fast. His body hovered over mine, furnace-hot, and the thick swell of his erection pressed firmly against my stomach.

I couldn't get enough air. I was going to pass out.

“Sign the contract, and you will have everything you desire.” He rolled his hips, rubbing his cock over me, almost but not quite brushing against my pussy. My panties were soaked and slick with my juices. Then his lips found my throat, brushing over my hammering pulse.

Flames licked over my body, radiating out from where he touched me. My hands came up, gripping his shoulders. He felt as good as he looked, all hard planes and firm muscle underneath that white linen shirt. My hands curled into fists as he let his fingers drift along the hem of my sweater. Then, slowly, torturously, he slipped them beneath and trailed his fingertips against my stomach.

I wanted to tell him to stop. I couldn't tell him to stop.

His wrist rotated and he flattened his palm against my belly, sliding his hand down, under the waistband of my pants, past the elastic of my panties.

My head lolled and I pushed against his hand. Smoothly he parted my outer lips and slid his fingers along the outside of my slit, but he didn't touch my swollen clit, the place where I needed him most.

He curled his fingers, coating them in my juices. Withdrew his hand, slid his other two fingers along my slit, grazing against sensitive flesh, but not quite touching.

Mad with need, I tried to maneuver my hips over his hand, trying to capture him, but he avoided me deftly. His teeth scraped against my collarbone, and he spoke into my skin.

“Beg me to take you,” he murmured. His voice was rough, reverberating through my bones. “Beg me to bend you over that couch and fuck you.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could think about them. “Oh, yes,” I whispered. “
Please.”

He paused.

Then, to my everlasting dismay, he pulled back, removing his hand from my pants and leaving a wet, cold trail behind. A deep chuckle rumbled through his chest, turning my knees to pudding.

“No,” he said.

It took a second to register. “What?” I cried.
“Why?
You asked me to...
why?”

And he laughed. He
laughed
at me.