Page 71 of How to Bang a Billionaire

Except the man barely had time to fuck me. And it seemed to be an either/or.

“You might like them,” I offered, all impressively noncommittal. “He’s superhot when he’s suffering.”

Caspian pulled back abruptly. Liberty had never felt so cold. “You have some odd ideas about what I find appealing.”

I nearly got sassy and retorted, Well, you won’t talk to me about it. But he looked …absurdly dignified, kneeling naked and affronted between my legs, and trying—for whatever reason—to pretend that he hadn’t just pinned me to the bed and coaxed my mortifying sexual fantasies out of me like a cat letting a mouse scamper between its claws. So, all I said was, “I just think it’s cool that a guy who’s like this massive symbol of masculine pride and strength is actually a raging masochist who spends quite a lot of his time naked, vulnerable, and overpowered.”

He was quiet for a moment, watching me. The intensity of it was shiver-inducing. But I had no idea what he was thinking. About me or about anything. Probably he was just going to tell me he had to leave. To my surprise, he trailed a finger along the outside of my leg, scraping lightly with the nail. “That is, indeed, quite interesting. But I believe I asked for a sexual fantasy, not your dissertation.”

“Maybe it’s both.” My blush was back. I was so obvious. But I’d been pretty chuffed with the dissertation: “I Just Wanna Feel: Masculinity and Masochism in the Works of Ian Fleming and Chuck Palahniuk.” Of course, it was Oxford, which meant it would probably wind up in the marking pile of someone who would give it a third for not being about Chaucer.

“Is that really what you do?” Caspian asked. “Imagine you’re Bond?”

“More that I’m like Bond. I’m still basically me, except for being a spy. And I get captured a lot.”

“That would make you a very ineffective secret agent.”

His teasing was sunlight and firelight and all the bright, warm things between. “It’s wankbait. Not a work experience placement.”

“I apologize. What happens after you get captured?”

I squirmed as if I’d fallen into one of my very own fantasies and was undergoing a rigorous interrogation at the hands of a committed sadist. “Well, my nemesis—”

“You have a nemesis?” His mouth had gone all amused and kissable. “This seems very intricate, Arden. However do you find time to come?”

“That’s what in media res is for. I jump straight to the bit where I’m sweaty, naked, and in chains, being threatened with naughty things.”

“And you enjoy that?”

My cock twitched excitedly, slutty little minx that it was, giving me away. “Um, yeah. I mean…there’s a massive, massive difference between fantasy and reality. I wouldn’t really want to be tortured by the KGB. But being tied up and sexily menaced by someone I liked could be pretty fun, don’t you think?”

“I think,” he murmured, “the boundaries of fantasy are less permeable than people realize.”

“Um? What?”

“I just meant, it probably seems glamorous and edgy and exciting in your head. But in reality, you would most likely feel frightened and degraded. It’s an ugly thing—the will to hurt someone you love.”

So much for flirty pillow talk. I shuddered, suddenly cold, despite the heat of his body. Turned out, there were conversations I didn’t want to have either.

“It can be,” I said finally. “But not all hurt is abuse.”

“Pain is pain, whoever inflicts it.”

“That’s…just not true. Context matters. And so do people.” I closed my eyes—discovering abruptly that talking about sex acts got even more revealing when you tried to articulate the feelings behind them. “The thing with my imaginary nemesis is that…I’m special to him.”

“You don’t have to earn someone’s care with suffering.”

“Oh my God, no.” This was turning into the conversational equivalent of the way we’d just had sex: a hideous combination of mutual goodwill and incomprehension. “The kink is there because I think it’s hot. And the rest is because…it’s a never-ending movie that’s all about me. It’s got exotic locations, a supporting cast, lashings of sex and violence, and a love interest who’s part villain, part hero, wholly infatuated. I know this is going to make no sense to you, but for someone like me? It’s fun not to feel ordinary sometimes.”

I’d said too much. I’d said way too much.

He was quiet for ages. Long enough for my insides to curdle.

And then, in the sharpest tone he’d ever used with me: “Arden, I find your persistent conviction that you’re ordinary extremely irritating.”

I stared at him, jolted out of self-consciousness about my masturbatory habits. Somehow I’d annoyed him. And it was terrifying. Like when he was aroused—the same ferocity, but none of the heat or the thrill. He was giving me frostbite in my heart.

“I’m sorry?” I tried.

---