Page 4 of Marked By the Billionaire
“Good. I like that. You’re a little lamb. What about clitoral stimulation? You must have done that.”
Her gaze lifts and meets mine for a fraction of a second before darting away again. “No.”
What the hell?“Really? You’ve never even touched yourself? You’re not curious what it feels like?”
Now her eyes have a little defensiveness behind them as she says, “I think I told you. I work nonstop. So, there’s not a ton of time left in the day for jerking off, or boyfriends, or anything else. So… no touching. I don’t sit around experimenting with myself. I just… I’m fresh. Totally untouched and never been kissed. This is what you paid for, right?”
“Yeah,” I groan, struggling to adjust myself in my jeans. “You, ugh, mentioned in your bio that you’ve got a protector kink. I’ve never heard that before.”
Her cheeks pink. “Oh… did I write that? I don’t remember writing that.”
“I could show yo—”
“No, that’s not necessary. I, ugh, yeah. I mean, the website asked me about kinks, so I listed off one that I like the idea of… but I’ve never really done anything about it. Obviously.”
“Google made it sound like a daddy kink. You looking for someone to call daddy, little lamb?” I can’t help but grin as I say it.
Her eyes roll to the side, and she glances toward me with a downturned expression. “I’m looking to make money. The website gave me an option for kinks, and apparently, I was feeling free that day.” She refocuses her gaze. “You said online you wanted to talk about the rules or something?”
I stare her down. That sweet curved frame, the way her tits round, her hair falling down her back, the pout in her lips when she speaks. She needs money for some reason. Here’s something she’s not talking about, and I want more time to put her in every position possible. Not only sexually, but psychologically. I want more from her than one night. I want space to play my game. “Two million dollars.” The offer slips out before I’ve thought it through.
Her brows narrow. “I’m sorry?”
“Two million dollars. Come back to my rental and let’s spend the weekend together.”
“What? No!” She narrows her gaze and laughs. “What? This was supposed to be done in a hotel. A place where someone could hear me screaming if you turn out to be a psychopath.Turns out you’re a psychopath.” She’s more adamant now, which I’m sort of impressed by. People don’t usually turn down money. “A million is plenty.”
Oh, this one is feisty. I like it.
“Okay,” I grin, “three million. You’ll be treated like a queen, fed whatever you like, sleep in luxury, and I’ll even let you call me Daddy. Keep in mind, though, I get the full experience. We watch a movie together on the couch, you kiss me like you mean it, and we make love when the mood hits.”
She hesitates. “Wow, that’s all so romantic.” Her eyes roll, but there’s also a glimmer and a shift in her posture, like the number reached something inside she isn’t ready to acknowledge. “You think you can just throw more money at me and rewrite the terms?”
“I think,” I say slowly, watching every move she makes, “that money has a way of softening the edges of discomfort. I think whatever you have going on demands cash, and you’re smart enough to know how rare it is for someone to offer three million for a weekend.”
She looks at me, and I can see the war behind her expression. Fear, temptation, pride, all tangled in one fragile breath.
“And what are the rules, Mr. Wilder?”
I clear my throat. “I require your full presence for the weekend. No outside contact, all requests I make must be honored immediately, no photos or recordings of any kind, and you must remain emotionally transparent at all times.”
Her lips purse and her hip hitches to the side as though she’s not buying any of this. “Emotionally transparent?”
“If you feel discomfort, fear, anger, happiness… anything, you must voice it clearly and immediately. No passive deflection. I want emotional data, not ambiguity.”
She scoffs gently, but her fingers twitch against her side like she’s working to keep still. “So, this is an experiment? To what end… see how far you can go before your crazy shows?”
I smile faintly. “Crazy or clarity. Call it what you want. You get paid either way.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the way her lips twitch like they’re fighting off something else. “And what do I do when we’re not fucking or watching movies? Make you muffins and dinner by five?”
“Be yourself. I want real. If you’re miserable, I want it. If you’re enjoying something, I want that too. Your life, your dreams, and your struggles. I want to know everything.”
She studies me with surgical calm, like she’s trying to determine if I’m fragile glass or reinforced steel. “And if I leave early?”
I don’t blink.This is the line.No begging. No maneuvering. “If you leave,” I say evenly, “the deal is off.”
A breeze slides past, ruffling the corner of the banner on the stage behind us that’s advertising some bar I vaguely remember passing on my way into town. The logo is a guy with a long mullet and a beer in his hand. It’s hard to forget.
