Page 58 of How to Bang a Billionaire

There he went again with the doomy pronouncements. But I didn’t really mind. It just made me more determined to prove to him that he could have all this with me. Normal, everyday things. Loyalty and happiness and sex. Maybe the loss of them was the price of everything else he had. But what was the point of having so much if it cost you so dearly? “Tell me these non-negotiable conditions.”

I was kind of, not braced exactly because it didn’t require bracing, but at the very least waiting for him to disclose the shocker that he was more than a little bit kinky.

Which I’d definitely already noticed. What with having two eyes and a clue.

And the memory of sore nipples.

“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I must insist upon a certain logistical inequality.”

I’d been indulging an exciting little fantasy involving handcuffs, a peacock feather, and one of those jeweled butt plugs I’d seen on the Internet. I stopped. “You what?”

“I’m a very busy man. And my schedule is both restrictive and inflexible. It’s not something I can change, and I’m afraid—selfish as it may be—I don’t want to be troubled by any disappointment or frustration that may cause you.”

“You mean, when you want me, you expect me to be available and you don’t want to have to worry about my feelings?”

He had the grace to look embarrassed. “I…yes.”

I thought about it. On the surface it sounded pretty unappealing but, then, in most of my attempted relationships, I’d usually been left feeling smothered and impatient by my partner’s apparent insistence that I live in their goddamn pocket. So maybe an arrangement like this would suit me better. And, looking at it purely rationally, it made a degree of sense. Maybe when I was a billionaire instead of a graduate, then we could live to my schedule. “Sure.”

“Are you quite certain?”

“Yeah, it seems fair. It’s not like I’m going to be busy. What’s next?” I grinned.

Okay, now tell me all the terrible, wicked, shocking, wonderful things you want to do with me.

“I expect our arrangement to be exclusive.”

“That’s fine. Next?”

To my surprise, he didn’t seem entirely pleased by my answer. “At least think a moment, Arden.”

“What’s there to think about?”

“Do you understand what I’m asking?”

“Yes. You don’t want me to fuck around while I’m fucking you, which is no concession at all because, frankly, if I’m going to be fucking you, I can’t imagine wanting to fuck anyone else.”

“And you’ll need to take the full battery of sexual health tests.”

Okay, that was going a bit too far. “What the hell are you implying? Yes, I’ve slept around but I’m not Alexander Fleming’s petri dish.”

“It’s nothing personal. I’ll be doing the same.”

“Or, alternatively, we could not perpetuate the stereotype that—”

“I have no intention of using a condom when I take you, Arden.”

Well, that was different. Exciting. And shiver-inducingly intimate in a way I wouldn’t have expected. I’d never…well, nobody had ever…it had never come up before.

His voice had turned husky, edging toward that growl I loved inspiring. “You’ll be mine, and I will not countenance even a scrap of latex between us.”

And oh good God. I was painfully hard, dripping into a hotel dressing gown on promises alone. I didn’t trust myself to sound even a little bit not desperately aroused, so I nodded. Yes. That.

“Then I believe the matter is settled.”

Was it? But what about the…the other stuff? Or did he just assume I’d be up for it? Which, considering I’d spent last night presenting my arse like a clay pigeon for him to take potshots at, was entirely reasonable.

I wondered if I should have been volunteering the fact that, barring a few not entirely successful experiments, my enthusiasm far outstripped my experience in this particular area. But I didn’t know what to say or how to ask him: Sooo, Caspian, are you just into pinning my wrists and roughing me up or will I be crawling on the floor and calling you master?

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