Page 11 of The Billionaire Submissive
She let out a shaking sob and he realized what he’d said. Horror washed the color from his face and he started to babble. “That’s not what I meant at all, Miss Harrison. Not at all. I’m sorry, please, forgive me.” He jerked at his tie until it hung askew and ran his other hand through his hair until he looked like he’d been mugged on a subway. “It seems I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
“Yes, yes you have.” She laughed softly. “Like I said, a critical error in judgment, Mr. Morgan.”
It took him a moment to realize it was laughter and not tears after all. His cheeks flushed scarlet and he stared at her, his jaw working like he was chewing on gravel. But he said nothing.Probably because he’s so furious he’s afraid he’d say something even more unforgivable than accusing me of being a prostitute.
“Good boy, Donovan.” She turned without glancing back to see how he reacted. “I’ll bring my contract in tomorrow morning and you can see how Mistress L handles her business. Good night.”
In the safety of her house away from his prying eyes, she let down the Mistress L facade. The way he’d jumped to such conclusions hurt. It said a lot about his needs, though. Some men could separate BDSM from the sex. It wasn’t intercourse they were after at all, but rather the release of control. They needed someone else—preferably a beautiful woman—to take them in hand. To take away their choice and all the pressures of their daily life. And for one hour a week, Mistress L gave them exactly what they wanted. She told them to strip, and they did. She told them to crawl, and they dropped to their knees. She told them to kiss her, and they pressed their mouths to her prettily painted toes. Not her lips.
It was the submission and yes, humiliation, they craved.
Some men wanted to be punished by a woman. They needed the release of pain, of being bound and forced to submit just for a while. Mistress L could give that to them too. And yeah, sometimes the men came in the midst of the pain because it was a release. If not, she was sure they jacked off in the privacy of the hotel room she’d left them in, but she was very clear about what she would and wouldn’t do.
Mistress L didn’t touch her submissives sexually. Ever.
So it said a lot about her own needs when it came to Donovan Morgan if the first thing she wanted to do was grab his cock and bend him over that sleek black Jaguar to see if she could make him roar like the powerful engine under the hood.
With a sigh, she texted Marie the all clear, even though her thoughts about the man were far from it. She wanted to accept his challenge. He was an incredibly complex man, and she suspected he was on the edge. He had to be pretty desperate to hire a private investigator to find him a Mistress. There had to be dozens of Mistresses in the Twin Cities area alone and they would have been at the clubs, easier to contact. Easier to negotiate exactly what he wanted. Yet he’d come after her with the single-minded purpose that had made him a billionaire.
Why me?
She knew. The same reason she wanted to accept even though it went against her carefully constructed rules.
He’d looked at those pictures and seen a Mistress he also wanted sexually. He saw the womanandthe Mistress and he wanted them both.
She looked at him in all his arrogant pride and explosive temper, and saw a man she’d love to muss up. She wanted to knock him off balance and watch him stammer. She wanted to make him so furious he’d explode with lust. And then she wanted to bring him to his knees with the force of his need.
Only for me.
With a sigh, she flipped open her laptop and began going through her contacts, clients and colleagues on both sides of her professions. Donovan Morgan was right in one regard. If she was going to accept his BDSM contract, it was a one woman/one man job. On the other contract, though, she’d need every stained glass artist on call that she knew.
I’ll need all my focus on him if I’m going to survive both of his contracts.
Chapter Four
Just before ten the next morning, Donovan paced frantically back and forth in front of the windows of his office. He’d been up since five and hadn’t slept well the few hours he’d tried to rest. He’d jogged on the treadmill until he wanted to drop. He’d jacked off twice last night and again this morning, trying to take the edge off. To gain a little control. A little separation from the desperate aching need like a bowling ball in the pit of his stomach. But all it took was one thought of Lilly Harrison and he went rock hard again.
Damn it.
He reached down and adjusted himself.This is ridiculous.He glared at his eager dick pushing against the seam of his trousers.You’re not a randy teenager getting a woody every time a pretty girl walks by. You can control this.
The intercom buzzed and he sucked in a deep breath, his cock surging so hard he was afraid the material wouldn’t hold. He threw himself down into his chair and pressed the answer button. “Yes?”
His voice vibrated with what he hoped his secretary thought was fury.
“Mr. Morgan?” Miss Wruthers squeaked, if possible even higher and more irritating than normal. The way every one of her sentences seemed to end in a question put his teeth on edge, but he didn’t respond. Shouting at the poor woman to stop being so hesitant surely wouldn’t help. “Miss Harrison is here?”
“Thank you.” He forced himself to speak slowly and calmly. “Send her in.”
This time, he wouldn’t rise and greet her politely.I can’t. Or she’ll see the massive hard-on threatening to tear my pants. She’ll just have to assume I’m being my normal arrogant self.
When Lilly walked into his office, he frantically thanked every deity known to man that he’d remained seated. Because he would have thoroughly humiliated himself. As it was, he nearly came in his pants.
She wore a high-collared, low-cut red blouse the same color as her painted toes, a tight, black pencil skirt hugging every inch of her glorious hips, and those shoes. The ones from the pictures. So high he didn’t know how a woman could possibly walk in them. But she did, each step swaying her hips in a hypnotic dance that made his mouth go dry with lust. When she sat down and crossed her legs, the short black skirt rode up enough to show him the top of her stockings.
He gulped, sweat breaking out on his forehead. Real thigh-high stockings and a garter belt. A thin strip of bare thigh tantalized him above the silk. It made him think about sliding his hand up that skirt, seeking what else she might have on beneath the material. Or better yet, nothing at all.
“Good morning, Mr. Morgan.” She leaned down to set her portfolio beside her on the floor, giving him a good, long look down her shirt. No bra met his gaze, just plump breasts lifted by what looked like a black corset. “Did you sleep well last night?”
