Shades of Submission: Fifty by Fifty #1: Billionaire Romance Boxed Set

by Hunter, Adriana

  * * *

  The sleek Mercedes arrived promptly at eight. The driver knocked on her door, and Syria, who had been watching from a window, counted to five before opening.

  The older gentleman bowed, tucking his hat under his arm. “I’m here to take you to Mr. Andrada.”

  Syria turned to the side table. “Let me grab my coat.” She picked up the faux sable wrap and a small black purse, all purchases from that day. The driver took the fur piece and helped her in it, covering her bare arms in the glimmering charcoal sheath dress. She’d selected it because it was knee-length and simple, so she could almost pass for an ordinary night out, but the shimmer gave it enough glamour to not be out of place if they ended up some place where everyone was decked in actual gowns.

  The outfit had taken a small chunk of that five thousand dollar check from yesterday, but splurging a little had felt nice, just like buying the backdrop. She still had plenty for traveling to India, and enough to go to Seattle, if seeing Tyson was still an option. He’d texted her twice that day, random things about the weather and some funny link he’d found. She didn’t know if he wasn’t aware of the video chat from the party, or if he was trying to gloss over it.

  She’d talk to him later.

  The driver held the door to the car. She peered in, but the back seat was empty.

  “Mr. Andrada will be waiting for you at La Fontaine,” he said.

  Syria grinned up at him as she took the seat. “Do you always read people’s minds?”

  He smiled back, toothy and genuine beneath the crinkle of hazel eyes. “I’ll never give away my trade secrets.”

  Syria tried to relax as they sped across town. She’d been to La Fontaine once before, not as a patron, but to photograph a bride in an elaborate lace nightgown in the exact spot where she would be getting married a month later. She wanted the image as a wedding gift for her groom, a lovely idea that Syria had suggested to other brides ever since.

  La Fontaine was both a five-star restaurant and a venue for signature events. Syria did not photograph weddings, but the photographers who got on the elite list of preferred vendors generally were set, as those jobs could easily command twenty grand a piece.

  Syria watched the gray winter streets roll by. She’d never planned to become that sort of photographer, although if she had the opportunity, it would make sense. Maybe whatever Erik would offer could fast track her on that path.

  The Mercedes pulled up beneath the silver canopy of the restaurant entrance. Syria leaned forward. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  A valet opened her door, but still, the driver came around the car and gave her a flourished bow.

  Syria laughed. “Do you always bow like that?”

  “Only for pretty girls.”

  “Will you be taking me home?”

  He set his hat back on his head. “That will be up to Mr. Andrada.”

  Syria held out her hand. “It was nice to meet you, Mr — I didn’t get your name.”

  He grasped her fingers gently. “Bill. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”

  The valet led Syria to the door and opened it for her. A rush of warm air made the loose tendrils on her forehead dance. Her hair was twisted up and pinned with an oversized comb. With every step she feared it would tumble down. She was just one head bump away from a comic explosion of curls.

  A perfectly groomed concierge stood behind a podium. “Ms. McMillan, I presume?” At her nod, he said, “Mr. Andrada is expecting you.”

  Syria had no idea how he kept up with everyone, but perhaps at a place like this, the regulars took up most of the tables, so the newcomers were easy to sort. He helped her out of her wrap and passed it to a girl in a black dress.

  Syria stared wide-eyed as he led her through the expansive dining room, white linens stretched across the round tables. Curved booths lined the walls. She’d only gotten a cursory glimpse of the dining area last time as she was led through French doors to the ballroom where weddings were held. This time, she tried to take in more of the soft blue walls trimmed with gold, the crystal chandeliers hanging at intervals from the elaborate pressed-tin ceiling.

  They crossed all the way through the tables and to a back wall where gold curtains hung every few feet. The concierge pulled one aside, revealing a private alcove with a table, two chairs, and Erik, smiling over a glass of red wine. He stood to take her hand and help her to her seat.

  “Syria. So lovely you could make it.” Erik pulled the chair out for her. “Every time I see you, it is such a pleasure.”

  Syria settled on the seat. The table was elegantly set with glassware, wine, and a tray of cheeses. “It looks amazing.”

  “We’re just getting started.” Erik sat across from her. “How are you with pheasant?”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  He nodded at the concierge. “Let Bertram know.” The man stepped away and pulled the gold curtain closed.

  “I’ve never been in a restaurant with private dining like this,” Syria said.

  “It’s one of the few in town.”

  “You said you were visiting,” Syria said, deciding not to mention when, since that had been at the exhibition, and she’d caused a scene that disrupted the solemnity of the event.

  “I am. You might be aware that the Philippines is undergoing some strife.”

  “You wanted to escape the turmoil?”

  “It seemed best for the moment.”

  Syria wondered how involved he might be, if he were part of the politics there, but she didn’t know enough about it to ask the right questions. “So you will return eventually?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Did your — did Aliara come with you from there?”

  “Yes. She has been with me for five years.”

  “Is she going to go back?”

  “No, I have secured a visa for her here.” A waiter appeared, left two small cups of soup, then silently vanished through the curtain.

  “And the other one — Malin. Is she from the Philippines too?” Syria laid a napkin across her lap and studied the silverware, reminding herself outside, in for the order to use them. Still, she waited for Erik to pick up a fat round spoon before selecting hers.

  “No, I met her shortly after I arrived. She was at the exhibition as well, although you may not have recognized her.”

  Syria thought through the women who had been bound. A Japanese girl. A saucy blonde. And her friend Mia. “I don’t remember her.”

  “She was the one in black.”

  “Oh, yes. Her face was covered.”

  “That’s right.”

  Syria bet she hadn’t liked that, judging from her eagerness to get on the set with Aliara. But a submissive probably had no right to complain.

  They sipped the delicate soup, creamy and full of flavors that seemed to separate and deepen as Syria savored it. She could live like this.

  The moment she set her spoon on the saucer, the waiter arrived to spirit the dishes away. “They’re certainly attentive,” Syria said.

  “Until I tell them not to be,” Erik said.

  Syria’s heart hammered painfully. What had he meant by that? That they could do things and not be seen or caught?

  He reached over to squeeze her wrist. “I did not mean to startle you. I just meant that our conversation would not be overheard.” He sat back. “I think I mentioned I have a position open.”

  Syria drew her eyebrows together in confusion. “You didn’t mention a spot for a photographer, only your slave.”

  “Yes, as my slave. It is the highest position in my organization, including my business associates.”

  “I assume you are not married.”

  “I don’t have interest in a wife at the moment. When I want children, I’ll reconsider. But for the moment, I have the need of dedicated company, a woman I can count on to do exactly what I ask of her with elegance, competency, and pleasure.”

  “So, like a wife, but without her
own opinion.”

  Erik smiled. “Aliara had many opinions. She shared them with me often, and sometimes, loudly.”

  Syria couldn’t imagine the tiny girl shouting.

  He leaned forward again, his strong hands folded on the table. “I prefer this arrangement because I often need an ally at business dinners, someone who can rise to any occasion that presents itself, to possibly corroborate a story, agree about a point, or provide a prearranged counterpoint to help in a discussion.”

  “So a kinder, gentler second opinion.”

  He smiled, his teeth dazzling, his dark eyes alight. “You are very bright, Syria.”

  “Tell that to my teachers in junior college.”

  Erik took her hand again, running a practiced thumb across her palm. The tingle from his touch zipped through her body, settling in all the right places. Syria stuffed it down. He was an expert at seduction, but she was determined to keep this all business. She withdrew her hand.

  “But what about in private?” she asked. “Is Aliara still a wife then?”

  “Yes, we are lovers. That is an important element of the arrangement.”

  “And you can make her have sex with other people, like you did with Malin.”

  “I don’t share her often, but it was in her contract that I could pair her with other men or women.”

  This was so crazy to Syria. “But you have a submissive too.”

  “Yes, Malin stays on as long as I want her. She has an open contract, and either of us can terminate at any time.”

  “But there are even more, right?”

  He hesitated. “Yes. I have a lot of positions in my household.”

  “And you have sex with them all?”

  He laughed. “Not all.”

  Syria fiddled with the corner of the napkin. “I couldn’t picture you getting it on with Bill the driver.”

  “Oh, Syria, you are even more delightful than I thought. Your humor would be a great asset to some of the stodgier dealings that complicate my life.”

  Shock bolted through her as she understood what he meant now. “You are asking me to be your slave?”

  “I wanted to explore the option.”

  “But you’ve only met me twice.”

  “And both times I was completely entranced by you.” He reached for her hand again, persistent.

  She turned loose of the napkin and let him hold her fingers in his cool grip. “What about Malin? She seems to expect to take Aliara’s place.”

  “She isn’t right. You saw her. She’d too bold, too strong-willed. Plus, our play has gotten too rough, and she is marked.”

  “The scars on her back?”

  “And elsewhere. It isn’t suitable for quite a number of situations.”

  “But you did that to her.”

  “Some of it was me. Some were by others. She’s allowed to play with members of the household.”

  “So you dictate when and who they have sex with?”

  “I want everyone in my organization clean and healthy and safe.”

  Syria felt mildly repulsed by the idea of an endless orgy of people, even if it were within a marbled mansion. “I don’t think this would be for me.”

  He squeezed her fingers. “I haven’t even made my offer.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “Let me try.”

  He let go of her hand and tapped a single button on the cell phone that rested silently next to his glass. A man in an elegant white silk shirt arrived and placed a leather case on the table, then slipped back out the curtain.

  Erik pulled a sheaf of papers from the case. “I’m proposing a trial for 72 hours only. You can be in my company and play out some of the elements of the contract. Then we can decide exactly what our terms would be.”

  Syria stared at the pages. “Why would I do this?”

  “I can change your life. Give you anything you want. And be precisely the sort of man you’d like me to be.”

  Syria swallowed hard, picturing Tyson. “I don’t even know what that is.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “It wouldn’t involve having sex with the kitchen maids.”

  “You might be surprised at how much pleasure can be gained from a controlled environment, an expanded monogamous circle.”

  “That’s an oxymoron.”

  Erik laughed again. “I can see you are going to be a wonderful challenge. And I am prepared to rise to it.”

  He zipped the papers back into the case. “This is for you to consider later. For now, we’ll have dinner, and perhaps dance. I would love to have an excuse to hold you close, even in public.”

  For the first time, Syria realized music was indeed filtering through the curtain, some combination of stringed instruments. “I can do that.”

  “Good.” He pressed another button on his phone.

  Within moments, the waiter arrived with two silver-domed plates. The aromas that wafted up when he revealed the dinner made Syria’s belly rumble.

  “Bon appetite,” the waiter said, and backed out of the alcove.

  Erik held up his glass. “To our arrangement.”

  Syria lifted hers too. “To never caving.”

  Erik laughed again as he sipped the wine. “This is already a night to remember.”

  10: Ropes

  The dinner had been exquisite. Syria felt happy and calm as the waiter whisked away the contents of the table. Erik stood, reaching to help Syria from her seat. She thought the dinner was ending when two men arrived and took away the table and chairs.

  “Now, we dance,” Erik said. Another boy pushed a red satin chaise lounge into the room, and Syria’s heart sped up. Maybe he was planning to seduce her after all.

  The waiter tied back the curtain a few inches, allowing the haunting sounds of the violins and cello to enter their space. Syria peeked out. The clientele struck her as rather homogenous now, mostly elegantly dressed businessmen with beautiful women, sometimes one, others with two.

  Erik stepped close and took her hand, turning her to him.

  “I’m not a very skillful dancer,” Syria said, wishing she could wipe her clammy palms on something, but it was too late.

  “Just follow my lead.” His hand came around her to rest low on her back. He did not bring her in close, but left a few inches between them, his arms in a firm frame.

  The room was small, but Erik used every square foot in a sweeping waltz that moved in a fluid circle, keeping them within the confines of the walls. Syria felt no struggle at all in his arms as he guided her. He somehow managed to subtly communicate to her which direction to go and what step to take.

  He looked down at her, smiling and easy, and Syria let her tension melt. How easy it could be just to let someone else guide your life, especially someone wealthy and handsome and so good at it.

  The music slowed down and Erik pulled her into him so that the length of their bodies touched. Still, his legs directed her as they danced in graceful quarter turns. Syria felt positively light.

  His hand caressed her arm now, and while she was aware that his seduction of her was beginning, she let it come. They were in public, the curtain wasn’t even closed now, and she could see what he was like. She had no intention of being his slave or even doing the trial, but allowing herself to imagine this lifestyle might be a nice diversion for an evening, especially since all that waited at home was an endless amount of photo work and a tough conversation with Tyson.

  Just the thought of him made her tense. Erik must have felt her shift as he took his arms out of the dance frame and brought her in, fingers massaging the back of her neck. They didn’t dance now as much as sway together, feet shifting in small mincing movements.

  “Let everything else fall away,” Erik said. “Just live for this moment.”

  Syria laid her forehead on his shoulder, letting him work out the tension. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, even as his hands moved down her shoulder blades, curling to her waist, and squeezing her rib cage perilou
sly close to her breasts.

  The music wound around them like a ribbon, haunting and slow. Erik’s thumb moved up, sliding against the bottom of the swells and Syria stopped dancing, holding still. “I can’t do that,” she whispered.

  “I won’t press you,” he said into her ear. Then they were moving again, dancing with normal steps, out of their alcove and into the main room, which was in the process of being transformed. The dinner tables were wheeled away, other than the ones on the periphery. No one ate any longer, but sat at tables or danced in front of the small orchestra.

  Erik led her to the center of the empty space as Syria tried to look around. “I didn’t know it became a different sort of place.”

  “Many restaurants convert into dance clubs. In New York, there are many famous ones.”

  “Do they have to kick out all the diners?”

  “Generally reservations are only given to those who know how the restaurant will transition.”

  Additional musicians were arriving and taking seats, a saxophone, trumpet, and trombone. More of the couples were coming to the dance floor. Syria relaxed again. This was going to be fine.

  The new instruments jumped in, and the music began to speed up. Erik led her into a more riotous dance, and Syria found she could just let go and have fun with it.

  Some of the other couples were full-on swing dancing, waving their hands and rolling in and out. A few were quite good, going up in the air or spinning around their partners.

  “Wow,” Syria said. “I had no idea something like this was so close.”

  Erik spun her out to the end of his arm and reeled her back in. Syria felt her hair falling a little loose, but had to laugh. She hadn’t been so light-hearted in a long time.

  After a minute, the music began to slow again, and now the sax player stepped forward for a sexy solo that made Syria swallow hard. She felt it piercing her, poking holes in her resolve as Erik pressed in behind her so she could watch the man play. His arms crossed her waist, and his hands splayed across her belly in an embrace that felt protective and secure.

  Syria closed her eyes. She wanted to drink more, to just get lost in this. Erik’s body shifted with hers, back and forth in a gentle rocking motion. He held her hard against his hips, his mouth near her ear. “I can’t keep my hands off you,” he said. “But I will not do anything you do not want.”