The Billionaire's Alibi: The Proposition (9 page)

His pen slides with fluidity across the page, making movements that are simple and soft, never abrupt or intrusive. When he hunches over his sketchpad, his hair falls across his eyes and I pretend I can’t see him peeking at me. But he does.

It’s my twenty-seventh birthday today, and I can’t get his image out of my mind. The drawing in front of me is a half-finished sketch of a party dress for my debut line of clothing. Next to the party dress, there is a sketch of a man who looks a lot like my boyfriend. We’ve been together for nearly six years, and he still hasn’t proposed. But he lets me live at his apartment while I pursue my dream of becoming a fashion designer. Plus, according to what I sketched, he looks good in a suit.

I promised myself several weeks ago that if I saw the blonde stranger today, on my birthday, I wouldn’t let him disappear without getting his name. My biggest fear is that one day I’ll show up and he won’t, and I will have never spoken to him, never taken a chance on him. I never take the chances I should. I want this year to be different.

I’ve never really dated as an adult, and I’ve only had sex with two men in my entire life. To be fair, one was my high school sweetheart. We broke up in college after the fabric wore thin on our long-distance relationship. That’s when I met my current boyfriend, Derrick.

We are the perfect couple on paper and all our friends would say so. I graduated from the Art Institute a few months ago, at the beginning of the summer. My degree is in fashion marketing, and I’m going to be a big success someday. Derrick has an MBA from Northwestern and works as a financial consultant for United Airlines. He makes good money, six figures, and he doesn’t mind spending it on me, as long as he gets what he wants out of the deal.

But behind closed doors, where only the two of us can truly know what happens, things aren’t as lovely as they are on paper. Derrick isn’t very affectionate. He doesn’t touch me unless he wants sex. When he fucks me, he’s always on top, always staring at the headboard behind us, never looking into my eyes. He doesn’t caress my breasts, doesn’t suck on the lips of my rose, doesn’t care if he gets me wet before shoving his dick inside me.

I know it shouldn’t matter. I have safety, security, everything a young woman could want. Derrick supports my career, even though I’m working in retail for now. He knows I have to build my portfolio and my network before I can see my designs on the runway. He is the rock to my wings. He keeps me on the ground, and because of him, I never float away.

But I also have longings. Like the blonde man who never speaks to me, but probably wants to. These longings eat me alive with guilt.

I sometimes wonder, if I just acted on what I wanted more often, would I feel so empty in my relationship with Derrick? Sure, he loves me, in the most sterile sense of the word, but would it always be enough? Would I spend the rest of my life wondering, wishing that I could be someone else for a few days?

I make a decision and pack my sketchpad and pencils into my backpack. I read somewhere that love at first sight doesn’t exist, that what we feel instead is the fantasy that we have projected onto someone, based on their looks. I am confident that if I talk to the blonde man, he will disappoint me. And once he shatters the perfect image I’ve created of him, I’ll lose interest. It’s much safer that way, anyway. I don’t want to jeopardize what I have with Derrick. What I have with Derrick is good. Why risk that?

I walk toward the blonde man. He looks up for just a second, and I know I can’t turn back without being obvious. It’s now or never.

I stand behind the chair across the table from him. “Is this seat taken?”

His eyelashes flutter at me. “Help yourself.”

I have never heard his voice before, not even him speaking to someone else, but I am pleasantly surprised by how deep it sounds. His husky tone tickles the hairs on my neck, and I am suddenly desperate for him to whisper in my ear.

That is not the only thing I’m desperate for. I want to touch him, want him to touch me. I imagine his finger trailing ever so lightly across my forehead, down my cheek, until it reaches the side of my mouth. I salivate as I stare at his lips. His eyes are bright, but there is a dark, dangerous hunger beneath the surface, lurking under the shadows of his thick eyelashes. We make eye contact, and I know he feels what I feel. I know he wants me too.

In my mind, I’m entering terrifying territory. I’m supposed to meet Derrick and our friends at Custom House for dinner in a few hours. I need to go home and change, and my long, golden mane needs to be styled in an up-do. I do not have the time or the emotional energy required to speak to this man. And most importantly, I do not have the freedom to speak to him.

I look down at his sketchpad, searching for something innocent to say. He has his arm across the top of it, obstructing my view.

“What are you drawing?” I ask.

The movements on his face are fascinating as he contemplates his response. His eyebrows move slightly up and his eyes dilate. His nose twitches and he brushes it with his free hand. The corners of his lips turn up in a small smile, and I see the whites of his teeth for the first time.

The energy between us is electrifying. Now that there is only a foot between us, we are pulled toward each other like magnets. When I first sat down, my arm was rested on the edge of the table, but it has moved closer to his without me knowing. Our attraction is nearly unbearable. My heart is trying to escape my chest, but my chest is tightening at the same time, perhaps trying to hold it in. Blood rushes between my legs, and I wish I had more time to get ready before dinner. I would need a long, sudsy bath to calm myself down after this.

The blonde man hesitates before moving his arm from his notebook. I look at his sketch from upside down and realize that it is a woman in an exquisite, fabulous ball gown.

The image shocks me. “Did you design this yourself?”

The blonde man nods.

I grab the notebook and pull it toward me, righting it so that I can see the image properly. The dress has unique sleeves and layers upon layers of fabric, and I imagine it coming to life in deep pinks, soft blues, perhaps with lutestring and moire. The gown is unlike anything I have ever seen, and I am a designer. I have studied all the greats—Coco Chanel, Charles Worth, Donatella Versace, Valentino, Ralph Lauren. I have studied the up-and-coming artists—Zac Posen, Phillip Lim, Cecilia Cassini, even the Olsen twins. The blonde man has incredible natural talent.

“The shape of the sleeves!” I exclaim. I am dying to bottle this man’s talent and place it in my pocket. “What was your inspiration?” For a moment, I am distracted from his lips. For a moment, I am all business.

But then his eyes bore into mine, and I can’t remember why his inspiration matters. My skin is on fire and I want him more than anything else in the world. My breathing grows shallower and without even realizing it, I leave my chair, scooting around the table to be nearer to him.

I sit in the chair next to his. He glances at me shyly. “What is your name?”

“Lily Briar. What’s yours?”

His cocky smile toys with me, withholding the information. “I’ll show you the book that inspired this gown.”

He stands up and walks down the rows of books. I follow him. A solitary woman mans the information desk, but other than her, the entire floor seems deserted. It is only he and I.

He ducks into one of the aisles and quickly locates a book with thick binding. He hands it to me and it’s heavier than a brick. I look at the cover.

“Grimm’s Fairy Tales?” My eyebrows shoot up and I purse my lips in confusion.

“Page 237,” he says.

As he opens the page, his fingers brush my hand and I get so excited, the book slips from my grasp. It lands with a crash that I’m afraid will draw attention. I pick up the book and shove it back into the opening on the shelf. I have a sudden urge to hide from other people, to protect another moment alone with him. From the looks of it, he feels it too.

His hands grab my waist and he pulls me toward him. Our lips crash into each other. His mouth is hard, unyielding, and he tastes like sugar. I can’t get enough. I press harder against him, but it only makes me hungrier.

My ponytail has fallen out and my hair is loose against my back. His fingers get tangled in the strands. He grabs a fistful and yanks down on my head, and I gasp. Luckily, no one has heard us.

He steps backward, pulling me by my hair into a small alcove with several desks. No one is working at them, and he does not feel nice anymore. He flips me around and shoves me against the wall, pressing my face into it. I am so shocked I yelp, but his left hand covers my mouth to silence me.

“Hush, hush,” he tells me huskily, his lips buried in my hair. A tingle shoots through my veins. I notice a small tattoo on his left hand, an outline of a bird that looks like a raven, just underneath his thumb. I am curious to learn the story behind it, but I am sure he will reward me for my silence. I won’t interrupt us, not now.

I nod, relaxing in his arms. I can be quiet, if only my heart will quit hammering against my rib cage.

His entire body presses against mine, and I can feel how hard he is in the crease of my ass cheeks. In my wildest fantasy, I imagine him bending me over one of the desks like his whore, forcing his manhood between my legs as he enters me.

But his movements are controlled, gentle again. They make me long for his roughness. His right hand moves steadily under my blouse, between the cups of my bra until he finds my left nipple. His fingers pinch it, hardening it. Then, he presses his thumb against it in a circular motion, stimulating me and setting my blood ablaze. My entire body prickles with delight. No one has touched me like this in a long time. He alternates between the pinching and the rubbing, and I feel my blood racing faster and faster.

His left hand leaves my mouth and caresses my other breast. I bite my lip, determined not to moan, not to cry out, no matter how much he pleasures me. His length, already hard, grows thicker the longer we play.

His fingers scrape against my belly as he moves below my waist. The elastic waistline of my panties snaps as his hand glides underneath them. He gropes gently for my opening and dips a finger in.

I am wet as hell. My panties are sticky, probably covered in my mess. He pulls his hand out and sticks his slick finger into his mouth.

“You taste good.” His voice is raspy, like he is at the edge of the cliff and can’t decide whether to jump.

“Please,” I beg. I don’t want him to stop.

For a split-second, Derrick’s image fills my mind. It occurs to me that I am cheating on him, but I know I cannot stop. I don’t have enough willpower, don’t have enough blood in my brain to make sense of what is happening.

The blonde man’s hand plunges back into my panties, and Derrick is forgotten in an instant. He takes his time touching me, watching my reactions, learning what I like the most. His fingers settle between the lips of my rose and he moves his fingertips in the tiniest of circles at the base where they meet. I dig my fingers into the wall, chipping the paint with my fingernails, sighing in disbelief at the pleasure. I know I must be quiet, not a single moan, or it will all end.

But it feels so incredible that I can’t keep quiet for long. He has to silence me. He moves his right hand from my breasts to my mouth, hooking the side with his finger like I’m a fish. My head turns sideways and his lips meet mine. Our bodies move in sync as he unzips his pants, getting hold of his member. He takes it in his hand and strokes himself, and I reach back to help him. All the while, he plays my rose like a flute with his masterful technique, bringing me to climax over and over again. I have never come this many times in my life, and every time, I kiss him harder in a plea to keep it going.

His fingertips slip into the back of my pants, just above the center. He stops kissing me and sinks his teeth into my shoulder, silencing himself right before he comes. I climax just as he does, and his liquid spills down my lower back.

That’s the last thing I remember until the next time I wake up. And I didn’t even get his damn name.

 

Beauty Awakened: The Queen and the Honey
is an erotic fantasy about 25,000 words long, or 130 printed pages. It is free in ebook format at all major retailers. Recommended for ages 18+.

 

TITLES AVAILABLE FROM MADDY RAVEN

Available in 2014 from Maddy Raven:

 

From the
Beauty Awakened
series:

 

 
  • The Queen and the Honey (Beauty Awakened #1)

  • The Princesses and Their Slippers (Beauty Awakened #2)

  • The Coffin and the Kiss (Beauty Awakened #3)

  • The Knight and His Brother (Beauty Awakened #4)

  • The Bride and the Blackness (Beauty Awakened #5)

  • The Princess and the Crown (Beauty Awakened #6)

  • The Sister and the Seven (Beauty Awakened #7)

  • The Raven and the Riddle (Beauty Awakened #8)

 

From the
The Billionaire’s Alibi
serials:

Other books

Their Reason by Jessie G
Sleeping with the Dictionary by Mullen, Harryette
Touch of Power by Maria V. Snyder
Ojos de hielo by Carolina Solé
Unbound by Kay Danella
Too Many Murders by Colleen McCullough
A Touch of Spice by Helena Maeve
Death and the Maiden by Sheila Radley
Grudging by Michelle Hauck