Page 11 of The Billionaire's Buy-In

As if he can read my thoughts, he kisses the top of my head in an affectionate, almost tender gesture. “Quit being stubborn, Abbie. Put the dress on and Ryker will be here to take you downstairs. We’re going to the club.” With that, he steps back, releasing my hips, and I hear footsteps along with the click of the door closing behind him.

Did he seriously just throw out instructions and walk out? That reaction was not what I expected. Where was the growling? The kissing? The orgasms I so desperately need? I poke the bear, and instead of snarling or kissing me senseless, he responds by giving me a gentle kiss on the head. Now, he expects me to dress up and follow his lackey, Ryker, like a good little girl.

Pissed, but knowing I should try to uphold my part of the bet, I go to his bedroom, inspecting it for the first time. Dominating the center of the large room is a dark, masculine bed with plush navy bedding and crisp white sheets. Deep navy velvet drapes are pulled back, revealing the familiar New Orleans skyline at dusk. The room is fitting for Chord, both dark and manly, with little personal decor like family pictures or knick-knacks.

Above his bed is a large framed painting. It’s mesmerizing. I step closer to inspect it. The frame contains the image of a nude woman in the throes of ecstasy. The painting is in oil, with blurred and muted tones and hues of navy and the color of flesh. There’s no denying the eroticism. Suddenly, I’m flushed. The framed art is classy and beautiful, not obscene, matching the decor of the room.

I find myself wanting to be the woman in the picture, reclining in the opulent bedding, arching up in the same pose, clutching my breasts, and stroking my nipples. I would be eagerly anticipating the thrusts of Chord’s long, beautiful cock as it brings me to the brink of pleasure, allowing me to feel the same rush of emotion the woman is experiencing in the picture.

Who knew a picture could evoke such a reaction? Feeling the need for a cold shower to calm my arousal, I glance at the dress draped over the ottoman at the foot of his bed, and draw in a shocked breath. It’s gorgeous, mind-blowingly sexy, and very much something I would wear if I could afford it. I’ll give the asshole credit; he has good taste.

How many other women has he clothed? The little green monster in me doesn’t like the idea of him being intimate with someone else. Maybe I’m being a petty, jealous bitch, but the thought of him being in this room with another woman makes me see red.

I should at least see what the dress looks like, right?

It’s seldom I get to see myself in something this pricey, so I convince myself to at least try it on as I step out of my functional black leggings and pull off my oversized New Orleans Cajuns football t-shirt. Both are things I would normally wear cleaning my apartment, but I wore the outfit today in a passive aggressive attempt to send the message that this weekend was not special. Unhooking the white cotton bra, I place everything on the ottoman next to the dress.

It’s edgy and daring. A gold, chain mail minidress with fine shoulder straps and a daring cowl neck, which drapes across my breasts, revealing my cleavage and barely covering the tips of my nipples. The only jewelry he’s chosen is a simple gold band meant to be worn on my upper arm. Simple, but I'm sure it costs a fortune and is definitely not the costume jewelry I’m accustomed to wearing when I go out.

The pièce de résistance for me, though, is the shoes. These shoes. I want to cry because the exquisite shoes crumble all my willpower and resolve. Determined not to wear the outfit out of stubborn pride, the pair of gold Christian Louboutins with the four-inch stiletto heels are a game changer. They are a work of art. Dainty gold strings wind up my ankles, ending mid-calf, accentuating my calves. These are not the fake red-bottom shoes I wore to the club last week, but the real deal. Did he notice my cheap knock-offs? If so, that’s kind of sweet, I think. He was paying attention. It’s almost as if he wants me to have the real thing.

No, Abbie.Do not think of him as sweet. He’s an ass.

Twirling in front of the full-length mirror, I’ll admit the entire outfit is hot as hell. Chord has come through on his end of the bet so far. He said we’re going to the club, so I’ll be able to get my story. If he’s doing his part, I guess I should do mine. Not a hardship when I’m dressed like this. I smile at my reflection in the mirror.

Chapter 9

Chord

Myraginghardoncould cut steel.

Despite my dick being as frustrated as I am, I walk away. Refraining from revealing too much about my intentions too soon, I separate myself from her. For that, I should be praised. She pretends she doesn't want to do anything for me, but I don't need to look in her face to realize she’s softening. When I embraced her, her hips fitting perfectly within the palms of my hands, I know she could feel the extent of my desire pressing long and hard into her body. She melted into my grasp. It was obvious her body has recognized what her mind denies; she’s mine.

When I stepped into the penthouse and saw her in her tight black leggings hugging her curvy ass and big, baggy t-shirt I knew her strategy. She’s hiding herself from me. Abbie’s stubborn and prideful, but she wants me as much as I want her. Her innocent mind is reluctant to accept it, so she shuts me out. She dresses unattractively, so I won’t think she’s caved to my demands. I can be a patient man in a game of strategy and chance, but my patience has worn thin at this point. Tonight is the night my little firecracker will acknowledge her feelings.

Standing at the bar in the club’s private VIP room, I’m pouring a drink when Ryker opens the door. He looks unusually flustered. “Boss, we have a problem,” he says in his no bullshit tone; his expression tight with strain. I know I’m not going to like where this is headed, but I have a pretty good idea who is responsible.

Dreading and already knowing what to expect, I sigh and ask anyway, “Where is Abbie, Ryker?”

“Seems she, uh, may have taken a detour when I turned my back. I thought she was behind me, but when I looked back, she’d bailed on me.” He looks as unhappy with himself as I am with him at the moment.

“How do you lose one small redhead, Ryker?” I growl at him. “One job. You had one fucking job.” I hold up my index finger, pointing it in his face. “And that was to take care of my girl.”

“Fuck,” he says, running his hand over his short, cropped military haircut. “I’m sorry. She's fast, man. There one minute, gone the next. I promise I have people looking. She has to still be in the building,” he assures me. “In that dress, she'll stand out like a sore thumb. Someone will notice her.”

Now, I’m seeing red- a vivid, vibrant blood red. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Nothing, man,” he assures me. “She’s dressed to kill tonight, that’s all. With all due respect, boss, not many women here fit her description.” He holds his hands up as if to ward off a possible attack or a punch to the face.

“I’ll go check the floor.” He turns and takes off like his ass is on fire. Good thing, because I’m close to breaking his damn nose for mentioning how hot she looks, not to mention losing her.

I’ve yet to even see her, but I know that the dress I chose will set off her auburn hair and amber eyes to perfection. Although, I’m a little worried about how much of her assets it will reveal. That’s for my eyes only.

Maybe I should’ve chosen something more modest?

Worried, I glance out the large one-way window overlooking the club’s interior. As soon as I see a crowd gathered around a small table close to the dancefloor, I have to fight the urge to smash the glass with my fist. Draped in the barely there, gold dress, she’s standing on the top of a fucking table, downing a shot, and swaying to the beat of the music thumping through the club.

Motherfucker. Someone might die tonight.

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