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

by Hunter, Adriana

  She wouldn’t know anything at all. Not ever.

  Her head fell against the satin cover of the bench, cool and firm. Maybe it was for the best. She could nurture this fantasy of him all her life now, and the real thing could never disappoint her.

  She should call her mother. Or Mia. Someone. She had to tell someone. Maybe Erik. He said he would contact her today.

  Her heart thumped against her chest. No. She wanted Tyson.

  She tugged her phone from her coat pocket. Maybe all this would be all right. He’d have some explanation about the call from the party. They would laugh about it. Then she could tell him about her father.

  Or she could talk about her father and forget the video ever happened.

  She laid the phone on the bench. This was all so impossible.

  Syria pushed herself up and walked back to her desk and woke up her computer. She started the looping slideshow of images she’d taken of Tyson from the first shoot, and a few others she had accumulated on his visits. Three times she’d seen him. Just three. How could she know him any more than her mother had known her father?

  A close up shot of his face came on screen, and she paused the show. She stared into those gray eyes tinged with blue, earnest, merry, open. She couldn’t see anything about him that made him look like a liar. He was open about his work, the stripping, the parties. He had told her on that first day, or maybe later, that he didn’t have sex with his clients very often, but that certainly left room for the possibility that sometimes he did.

  She picked up her phone, her finger hovering over his name in the contact list. Rather than go directly for video chat, she called him normally on the voice line.

  Each ring seemed to last an hour.

  Finally, he picked up. “Syria?” he asked, sleep thick in his voice.

  “The grannies kept you up late?”

  He chuckled. “Those women were live wires. But they had trouble deciding which to do first — make me a sandwich and sit in my lap.”

  “Sounds like you had fun.”

  “Gigs like that are a nice break from the aggressive ones.”

  He’d handed her an opening. “Like the night before? The bachelorette party?”

  He was quiet a moment, then said, “Yeah, like that one.”

  “You want to talk about it?” Maybe he would just tell her, and that would be that.

  He sighed. “I’d rather forget the whole thing happened.”

  Syria hesitated, the news about her father heavy on her heart. She could bring it up now, and forget the party. Or she could tell him about the video chat.

  But he cut in. “Apparently they called Mia using my phone. Did she tell you?”

  “I knew about that, yes.”

  “They seemed to think they were busting me.”

  “Who all did they call?”

  “I don’t know. My phone never turned up. I got a new one yesterday and had the other shut off remotely. I was able to keep my number, thankfully, and my contacts were backed up.” He paused. “Did they call you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we switch to video?” he asked. “I need to see you.”

  Syria gripped the phone. “Okay.” She pulled the screen away and saw the Facetime request come up. She accepted it and Tyson’s face, hair every direction, made her heart flip. “Hey,” she said.

  “You’re all bundled up,” he said. “You just come in?”

  Syria looked down at her coat. “I went for a walk.”

  “So did you answer the call from the party?” His eyes were earnest again, like in the photo.

  “Yes.”

  “I take it she asked if you were my girlfriend. She asked Mia.”

  “She did.” Syria didn’t really want to volunteer what she had seen, to see if he offered it up.

  “That party got out of control.” He ran his hand through his hair, and the phone dipped so she could see his muscled chest.

  Syria set her phone on the desk and peeled out of her coat, feeling overwarm as her anxiety rose. “It looked pretty crazy.”

  “I’m not so sure about staying in this business,” he said.

  She sat down, her heart beating faster. “Really?”

  “I can’t do it forever, obviously. I should plan.”

  Syria twisted a long piece of hair around her finger. Tyson watched her a while. “I’m sorry she called you. Were you upset? Is that why I couldn’t get in touch with you last night?”

  “I went to dinner with a client. The one who paid me a lot of money to photograph his two women.”

  “Two! Wow. Sound like a fun shoot.”

  “It got a little wild.”

  His face sobered. Syria wondered if he was comparing his version of wild with hers. “Did something happen?” he asked.

  “One was his slave, and the other his submissive. The slave is retiring, apparently.”

  “Hardcore BDSM then.” He sat on his bed, the black sheets of his bed filling the background behind him.

  “Yes.”

  “You seem upset now. Can you talk to me?”

  “Oh, I just...” This wasn’t working. Not at all. “I’m just tired. Maybe I should go.”

  Tyson stood up and held the phone again. “I wish I could come down there.”

  Emotion flooded through Syria, but as soon as she touched on the grief of her father, and the impossibility of wanting Tyson, something rebounded and blossomed into rage. “Why! You clearly can have sex with any number of hot bachelorette girls you want!”

  Tyson squeezed his eyes closed as if she’d hit him. “I worried about this.”

  “About what? That I’d find out? That I might mind?”

  “No!” He brought the phone so close to his face that the image got blurry. “I thought that you’d think that!”

  “I saw you, Tyson. I saw your naked ass pumping into that girl.”

  His face contorted, as though he were trying to get control. “I didn’t have sex with her. I didn’t. I know it looked like I did. I can see that girl called you at a very inopportune time.”

  Syria couldn’t take it anymore, and switched off the video to return only to voice. She pressed the phone to her ear. “I’ll say!”

  “They said they were making videos for fun. I went along. But nothing actually happened. We just made it look like it did.”

  “Why should I believe that?”

  To his credit, he didn’t bring up their lack of agreement that they were exclusive, or Syria’s relationship with Mia, or even ask her what happened at the shoot that had gone wild. He just said, “I love you, Syria, and I want out of this job if it means it upsets you.”

  Syria sank to the floor. “What?”

  “I mean it. I know it’s how we met. And I know we thought we were getting so open to new things. But I can tell this isn’t for you. And it’s getting hard for me.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’ve been applying for things in New Mexico.”

  “You what?”

  “That’s why I was there that second time.”

  “You applied for jobs after having met me only once?”

  She could hear the smile in his voice. “I think we did more than meet.”

  They had. Syria lay back on the floor of her studio, where she’d been with him that first time, spontaneously, without hesitation. He’d changed her life.

  “My father is dead,” she blurted out.

  “What?”

  “That rich client? He found him. I guess he has some sort of legal team that can find this stuff out fast.”

  “When?”

  “About a year ago. Heart attack, according to the obituary.”

  “I’m so sorry, Syria.”

  “I know. I thought I’d get a chance to know him.”

  “I wish I could come down. I’m so stuck. Two gigs tonight. Something every night this week. Christmas is so close.”

  Syria rolled on her side and drew up her knees, the phone resting on her ear. “I k
now. It’s okay.”

  “What can I do?” he asked.

  “Just talk to me,” she said. “Tell me stories about your dad.”

  And Tyson did, regaling her with tales of t-ball and track meets and failed fishing expeditions and barbecues gone awry, until she calmed down, and morning moved into afternoon, and Tyson had to prepare for work.

  “I meant what I said earlier,” he said.

  Syria knew what he was talking about. That he loved her. She needed to get used to this. “I know.”

  “I’ll text you when I’m home, see if you’re still up.”

  “Okay.”

  She ended the call and glanced at her phone. Erik had called her too, while Tyson was talking, but she’d ignored it.

  She’d decline his offer. She had other plans.

  13: Seattle

  The building didn’t look like much. Syria peered out the taxi window at the snow-covered parking lot. She handed the driver his fee and stepped out. She didn’t have any baggage, just a change of clothes in her backpack, and long satin scarf from her bed, the one Tyson used when he tied her up for the first time.

  It was Christmas Eve, and while her heart hurt a little for her mother, who was taking extra shifts in the 911 call center, she would see her in a couple days. Today she was surprising Tyson.

  Her boots crunched in the snow as she approached the front door. A middle-aged woman in a flowered dress, her hair tucked neatly in a red beret, sat just inside with a little metal box. “Have you already bought your ticket?” she asked.

  “I was told I could get one at the door,” Syria said.

  “You certainly can! Tickets are $20.” The women opened her box. “You are a single lady, right? This club is for single ladies only!”

  Syria smiled and pulled out her wallet. “This sounds like a fun way to spend Christmas Eve.”

  “It’s my favorite night of the year! We love getting together since many of don’t have much family,” the woman said, accepting the money. “And we have a super hot show this year.”

  “Really?”

  The woman whispered conspiratorially. “Some of the members thing it’s tacky, but they secretly love it. This year we have a professional Santa stripper. St. Nick is his specialty!” She fanned herself with her hand. “I already met him when he checked in. He’s a hottie!”

  Syria had to stifle her giggle. “I bet he is.”

  “Right through there!” The woman pointed through the door. “Your first drink is free and there are snacks on the side table.”

  Syria opened the double doors to a room throbbing with music and light. A four-piece jazz band played in the corner, and a number of round tables festooned with poinsettias dotted the room. Some fifty or sixty women sat throughout them, chatting amiably, eating from little plates. Syria slipped into a chair at an empty table to look around, tucking her backpack beneath her seat.

  A bartender served colorful drinks at a portable bar. As promised, a line of tables boasted a number of finger foods, shrimp and vegetables and little cakes decorated like presents.

  Most of the women seemed to know each other, but none minded her presence. Syria sat comfortably alone and waited.

  The band finished their number and a man in a white tuxedo stepped to a microphone. “And now, I know it’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Introducing, Naughty Santa!”

  The spotlight shifted to the opposite corner. Two bulky women in sparkling dresses opened the double doors, and there he was, Tyson, resplendent in his full Santa gear, hat, beard, jacket, pants, boots. His hands in white gloves went into the air, and some of the women jumped to their feet, cheering and clapping.

  Syria stood with them. Tyson leaped forward to the beat of the music and pulled his velvet bag off his shoulders, swinging it suggestively in front of him.

  The women began shouting, “Me! Me!” as he moved to the tables. Tyson selected an elderly woman in a gray hat who was still sitting in her chair. He kneeled in front of her and smacked his thigh. The lady shook her head, but the chorus of women around her shouted, “Do it! Do it!” and as soon as she seemed less resistant, Tyson scooped her from her chair and deposited her on his knee.

  Syria laughed out loud. He was so great. Tyson whispered in the woman’s ear and her eyes went wide. He pulled a small bottle from his bag and handed it to her. She looked at it more closely and jumped off his lap. “Santa!” she said.

  She set the bottle down like it was hot and another woman snatched it up. Even from a distance, Syria recognized it as lube.

  Tyson got up and moved in through the tables. Syria stepped out of any of the lights so he wouldn’t see her too soon. He selected another woman, this one very eager to get near him. She danced with him a moment, then Tyson spun her around, holding her carefully at the waist and gyrating behind her. The whoops and shouts grew so loud, they almost drowned out the music.

  Tyson reached in his bag and presented her with a small box. Syria couldn’t make out what it was, but when the woman figured out the contents, she clapped her hands over her face. A few rips of cardboard, later, she was holding up a mini-bullet triumphantly.

  Tyson danced through the tables a little longer, handing out a couple more gifts, until the chorus of “Me, me!” started to shift to, “Take it off!”

  Tyson pulled back from the tables then, away from the groping hands and wiggling bodies of the women, who were already reaching in their purses to extract dollar bills. Syria leaned against the back wall, trying to contain her amusement. This was fun, and he was really good at it.

  The music shifted to something more driving, the drum beat steady. Tyson turned away from the tables and ripped at the velcro of his jacket. Syria couldn’t hear it over the pulsing music, but she remembered it well from his first shoot. He opened it wide, facing away, and the women cheered so loud, it made Syria’s ears ring.

  He tugged the jacket off his shoulders, shimmying like a girl might, making the women all laugh. The sight of his muscled biceps made the women all shout again, and Syria watched them for a moment, how their eyes lit up like girls, and even the stodgy lady in the gray hat was shaking her head and smiling.

  The jacket flew across the room and slid along the polished floor. The women were on their feet, stomping with the music. Tyson whipped around, pointing to his chest and winking as if to say, “Look at this!” With the beard and hat, the effect was hilarious.

  He pulled something from his pocket, and Syria squinted in the flashing lights. She wasn’t familiar with this part. A long leather strap came out, festooned with silver bells. He shook them, the tinkle barely penetrating the din, then slid them between his legs, rubbing them from front to back with an expression of bliss.

  The women were shouting encouragement, and Tyson jumped forward again to the beat. He snapped the leather and wrapped it around another women’s waist, waggling his eyebrows at her.

  He withdrew back to the center of the room and acted as though he was easing his pants down. The women’s cheering erupted again, but he stopped, looking over his shoulder, and Syria smiled, knowing exactly what was coming next.

  In one swift jerk, he yanked off the breakaway pants, revealing his absolutely perfect round ass and the tiny red satin g-string.

  Some of the women covered their eyes, then looked back. The noise was deafening. Syria had to laugh at their delight. Even when you know it’s coming, that particular stripper trope was a wonder to behold.

  She felt her blood pumping as Tyson strode swiftly through the room, thrusting his hips at random women, who now were coming forward to touch him and slip money inside the tiny band. A few got more bold, dropping the money in the satin pouch. Tyson went along, pretending ecstasy, and making the other women laugh. When it seemed all the women had come forward who were going to, Tyson continued to make rounds, dancing with them, letting them run their hands along his bicep, and sometimes, spank him as he bent over a table.

  Syria pulled a hundred dollar bill from
her pocket and finally stepped out of the shadows. She came up behind him, waving the money. The other women saw her and pointed, and one finally turned him around.

  He saw her and froze for a moment. She couldn’t see his smile behind the beard, but the way it spread wider made her know he was glad to see her. He pointed to the bill and turned back to the crowd, gesturing with has hands with how big it was. Then he pointed at his pouch to show how small it was.

  The women were on his side, encouraging him to go get it anyway. He ducked his head, as though he were shy and sheepish. Syria held the money up.

  So he danced for her, spinning in circles, gyrating his hips. The women clapped and cheered. Syria felt like she was in a vortex of sound and light, everyone happy and having fun. When he got close enough, his eyes never left hers. She danced with him, moving side to side, then holding on to his hips. He was hard, sweating, and putting off heat. She tried to convey to him how proud she was, how pleased. She tucked the bill in the top of her shirt and pointed to it, as if to say, “Come and get it.”

  The women whooped. When he reached with his hand she backed away, waggling her finger as if to say, “Nope, not that way.” She pointed to her mouth.

  Tyson turned to the woman and shrugged as if to ask, “Should I?”

  They all cheered and he turned back around, hopping toward her in that thrusting way he’d done the whole night. She leaned forward, letting her chest get closer to him. He bent toward her, next to her ear, and said, “I love you,” then turned his head and snatched the money with his teeth.

  The room went crazy, and Tyson swooped around the room, blowing kisses and collecting his clothes and bag. Syria waited until the room settled down again to sneak along the wall for her backpack, and when no one was looking, followed him through the doors.

  He was sitting on a chair to one side, pulling money out of his g-string. He looked up, and when he saw her, jumped up to pull her in a hug. “Syria! My God! What a crazy surprise.”