Dirty Billionaire

by Meghan March

  I slide my hands up his thighs and lean forward. Pausing, I look up into Creighton’s hooded eyes as I drag my tongue from base to crown. Salty precum beading at the tip urges me on. I make my first attempt at taking him in my mouth. On Christmas Eve, he whispered promises about fucking my face after he was sated with my pussy, but those promises never came to pass because of my stealthy early-morning departure.

  But I’m going to give it my all now. I wrap my lips around his cock and suck him in. My progress is pathetic, but he shows no concern that I can’t take him very deep. The stroking of his thumb along my jaw makes me want to try harder.

  I adjust my position and take him as far as I can, gagging slightly on his length. He groans as I retreat. The tears streaking down my cheeks show just what a beginner I am at this. Creighton’s thumbs wipe them away.

  “Don’t hurry it. It’ll take time for you to get used to me.”

  Time. The one commodity he doesn’t seem to waste much on women. But then again, he actually married me.

  Regardless, his reassurance buoys my flagging confidence, and I take him further again and again, tongue working him over with each stroke. His groans of pleasure make me wetter and wetter until my legs are pressing together to soothe my ache.

  I’m ready to climb on him in this fancy limo when he says, “Hold still, Holly. I’m going to fuck that pretty mouth of yours.”

  I still, and he guides my face to the most advantageous angle. And then his thrusts resume, picking up the pace until his rhythm slows and a wave of cum is unleashed in my mouth. I swallow as fast as I can, but I can’t keep up. It dribbles down my chin.

  When he finally pulls his softening cock from my mouth, his thumb catches the drips and paints my lips with them.

  “Can’t have my wife missing anything I give her.”

  The word wife is said with such possessiveness, I shiver and lick my lips. Reality sets in when he presses the intercom button on the ceiling.

  “You can head back to the hotel now.”

  Creighton tucks himself into his pants and rights his clothing before I have the presence of mind to stumble back into my seat.

  I can’t believe I just did that. I push off the floor, intent on returning to my own side of the limo, but Creighton grips me by the upper arms and hauls me into his lap.

  “Jesus, woman. You could wreck a man with that mouth.”

  His lips descend on mine before I can respond. His tongue delves into my mouth, fucking it just as surely as his cock had. I give myself over to the kiss, shocked that he’d kiss me after he just came in my mouth.

  But he must not mind, because he doesn’t pull back until the limo slows and stops. When the door opens, he carefully sets me on the seat beside him, steps out, and reaches inside to lift me into the cradle of his arms.

  My confusion must be branded across my features, because he says, “A bride doesn’t cross the threshold except in the groom’s arms.”

  I harden my heart against the erratic thump-thump his words produce. It means nothing. It’s a gesture of possession, just as surely as the ring on my finger is.

  As I tell myself these things, the exhaustion of the day sneaks up on me, and I rest my head against his shoulder.

  I’ll just close my eyes for a second, I think.

  I’m out before we even reach the elevator.

  “The country music world is reeling to learn that Holly Wix, a still-new addition to the scene who got her start on the show Country Dreams, married billionaire playboy Creighton Karas in Vegas last night. The couple was first photographed leaving an off-Strip wedding chapel, and then a short time later entering Caesar’s Palace, where Karas is known to have a villa on reserve. When asked for a reaction, JC Hughes’s representative responded with ‘no comment.’ Wix and Karas’s representatives were unable to be reached. But we might as well acknowledge the question on everyone’s mind: how long have Wix and Karas been sneaking around behind Hughes’s back?”

  I turn my head from the TV to the gorgeous woman passed out in my bed. In sleep, she looks even more innocent than she normally does. But she didn’t look shy after she took my cock between her lips in the limo. It ranked as the top sexiest sight in my life, as well as a perfect way to kick off a new year.

  My cock pulses at the thought. I picture myself waking her with my head between her legs. But for all that we’re married, I’m guessing it would still freak her the fuck out. I’ll give her until tomorrow.

  My wife.

  I didn’t truly expect to go the marriage route again, but once I locked on the impulse, it was impossible to shake it. But even with a wedding ring on her finger, I know I won’t get attached. I don’t ever get attached. This is about continual repeat performances of the hottest sex I’ve ever had, and the added bonus of keeping the gold diggers off my back. Nothing more and nothing less.

  My cell buzzes on the nightstand, and I grab it and head for the bathroom. Shutting the door, I glance down at the screen as I answer.

  “What do you want, Cannon?”

  “Holly Wix? You’re the luckiest fucking bastard on the planet. You knew all along, didn’t you? I mean, how could you not? Her face has been on TV enough lately that even I know what she looks like, and I hate country music. And then Jeanette doesn’t stop talking about her and that cowboy-hat-wearing man of hers. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me, you fucking asshole. Had me and the rest of the world thinking you didn’t have a clue who might show up last night. I should’ve known . . .”

  I grit my teeth as he refers to JC Hughes as her man. Holly fucking belongs to me—not him. There’s no disputing that as of the early hours of this morning. Even though I know the story behind it, I dislike the idea of another man thinking he has any right to lay claim to her.

  Shifting, I lean against the granite countertop. Leave it to my second-in-command to jump to the conclusion that I actually knew who she was.

  “And that’s where you’re wrong. When she’s not covered head to toe in sequins, fringe, and ten pounds of makeup, she doesn’t exactly look the same as she does on TV.”

  “Seriously? You really, truly had no idea?”

  “None. At least, not until she told me.”

  “Holy fucking shit.”

  “Indeed.” I’m already impatient with this conversation. “Anything else, or can I go about my morning?”

  “Sorry. I’m still processing.” Another moment of silence, and then Cannon asks, “Have you heard what the media is saying?”

  “I only caught a few seconds of the news this morning. Why?”

  “They’re tearing her apart on every station, and all over the Internet. You should probably care that they’re calling your wife a cheating whore. But then again, some of them are saying she made the right move because Hughes has apparently been fucking around on her since the beginning.”

  Rage burns through my veins, which might make me a hypocrite because I jumped to the same conclusion at first. But she’s my wife, and that’s fucking unacceptable. Holly said this would happen, and I told her I’d handle it. I’m not about to drop my end of the bargain.

  “Get the PR team on it. Now. Crush anyone who says a negative word about her. I don’t care what you have to do.”

  “How are you going to spin it?”

  I fill him on the story I want fed to every major media outlet in the country—fuck, the world—and the accompanying threats.

  Before we hang up, Cannon adds, “Since you’re in Vegas, you should probably know that they’re taking odds on how long this is going to last.”

  “They take odds on everything.”

  “Just saying. If you have any inside information, I’ll happily go place my bet and rake in some easy money.”

  “Are you asking me to bet on when my marriage is going to end?”

  “Come on, man. We all know this isn’t going to last. So, what do you think? I give it six months at the outside before you’re sick of her pussy and will be dying for some variety.�
��

  I grit my teeth because I don’t have time for this shit right now. “Thank you for your vote of confidence.”

  “Seriously, Crey—”

  “Fuck off, Cannon. Go fix shit.”

  I hang up, my morning mood turning dark as I open the bathroom door.

  “How bad is it?”

  Holly is sleep-rumpled and still wearing the undershirt I dressed her in last night after she passed out on me. Her legs and feet are bare, and her dark brown hair is tumbling down around her shoulders. She looks all of sixteen years old. Which apparently makes me a dirty old man, because I want that fresh-faced beauty staring up at me from her knees with my cock between her lips again.

  “It’s not good, but it’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it,” I reply before asking, “How old are you?”

  “You didn’t google me?” Her eyebrows inch up toward her hairline.

  “I prefer the truth, and not some shit made up on Wikipedia.”

  She looks down at her feet, and I almost miss her answer. “I’m twenty-two.”

  I’m too fucking shocked to school my expression. My eyes feel like they must be bulging from my head. I rub a hand down my face.

  “Are you fucking serious?” I never considered she might be that young.

  Her shoulders go back, and she straightens to her full height, a whopping five foot six or so. “If my age was important, maybe you should have asked me last night.”

  Holly has a point. Last night, I was so caught up in the hype of my own making that it didn’t occur to me to ask. When she’s wearing makeup and more than just my T-shirt, she easily looks several years older.

  She narrows her eyes. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  Her mouth forms an O. My morning wood rears up in my boxer briefs, and her attention drops to waist level.

  A hesitant smile flits across her face. “Do you . . . um . . . want me to . . . ?”

  She really might be the perfect woman.

  “Get in the shower, Holly.” I turn on the water in the palatial glass enclosure, but she doesn’t make a move to strip.

  The twelve showerheads begin to fill the room with steam. I hold open the glass door and wait. She still doesn’t move.

  “Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?”

  She shakes her head. “I just thought I’d shower alone.”

  Ah. There it is. Holly’s innate shyness that she can’t hide. As much as I get a charge out of guiding her due to her inexperience, the sexiest submissive women I know are also some of the most confident I’ve ever met. I caught glimpses of Holly’s confidence when she spoke about her career last night and the mess the record label pushed her into, and I’m determined to see if I can pull that from her when it comes to sex. An interesting and entertaining challenge.

  My words are calculated to do just that.

  “And I thought I’d fuck my wife in the shower.”

  Her eyes dart up to meet mine, spitting fire. “Is this how it’s going to be? You say when, and I just spread my legs? Because I missed that subsection in your massive contract.”

  Ah, there we are. She has attitude, but she’s untrained and needs guidance on how to channel it. And that’s where I come in.

  I cross the room and stop in front of her. “The only massive thing you need to worry about at this moment is my cock, sweetheart,” I say. “And when and where I tell you to take it.”

  Her fist connects with my jaw, and my head snaps sideways.

  Fuck. I guess I went a little too far. My new wife has way more attitude than I realized.

  Rubbing two fingers across the surprisingly tender spot just below and to the left of my mouth, I study her. She’s shaking her hand out and wincing.

  “Damn, that hurts more than I remember,” she whispers.

  I’m intrigued by her reaction and her words. “I’m not sure whether I should be more surprised that you punched me, or that this apparently isn’t the first time you’ve hit someone.”

  Holly peeks up at me from beneath long, dark lashes, as if the boldness of a moment ago has faded as fast as it flared up. She flexes her hand, and I don’t like the pain telegraphed by her movements.

  “Hold on.”

  I turn and leave the bathroom. My preferred villa at Caesar’s is five thousand square feet, so it takes me a moment to load up ice from the freezer into a hand towel and bring it back to the bathroom.

  Holly’s seated at the vanity with her back to the mirror when I return, still flexing her hand. I crouch in front of her, and her eyes dart up to mine in surprise. I reach out to take her wrist, but she snatches her hand away.

  “What are you—”

  I wrap my hand around her forearm, pull her hand toward me so it rests on my knee, and press the ice to her knuckles.

  “I would think it’s obvious.”

  Confusion creases her features. “I would’ve thought you’d pull out the contract and point me to the section where it states there’s an automatic annulment in this scenario.”

  My lips twitch at her statement. “I can’t say that either I or my lawyers envisioned this one.” My almost-smile fades away. “But don’t do it again.”

  “Then don’t say stuff like that to me.” She jerks her hand, but my hold on her forearm is unrelenting.

  “I think you’ll find that I’ll say plenty of stuff like that, and I’ll only get more demanding and blunt.” I swear I can hear her teeth grind. “What’d you really expect, Holly?”

  “I have no idea. I must be absolutely insane to think I could do this.” She laughs, and it echoes in the large master bath.

  The sound causes my balls to tighten and my dick to go rock hard. There’s something about this woman, and I don’t have a fucking clue what it is, but my body responds to her like I’m Pavlov’s fucking dog.

  As she’s sitting at approximately eye level, she doesn’t miss my reaction. She looks up at me and back down to the tent in my boxer briefs.

  “Ignore it.”

  “Um, easier said than done.”

  Once again, a smile creeps across my face, and I lift the ice from her knuckles. They’re red, and a foreign thought invades my brain. I don’t like her hurting, and especially not because of me.

  “Don’t do that again,” I order her.

  “Then maybe you should rethink how you speak to me,” she counters before meeting my eyes again and adding, “I’m sorry, though. I probably shouldn’t have done that. I just . . . reacted. Badly.”

  I set the ice on the vanity and rise. Crossing to the shower, I shut off the water and jerk my head toward the master bedroom.

  “Let’s talk.”

  I hit him.

  Holy. Shit.

  I hit him.

  I haven’t hit someone since I knocked Johnny Dagen on his ass for handing me five dollars and asking if that was enough to buy him a blow job because he heard that’s what my mama charged. I broke his nose, and he never asked again. I was fifteen at the time. That wasn’t the last time someone made me feel like a whore, but I certainly wasn’t going to spend however long this marriage lasts being treated like one.

  Burying memories of a past I’d love to forget, I follow Creighton out of the giant bathroom. Even though he brought me ice, I’m assuming this is when the annulment proceedings start.

  I wish I never got out of bed this morning. I need a do-over.

  Jesus. Why did I hit him? Something about his condescending tone just pushed me over the edge.

  I woke up this morning worried about what the record execs and the media were going to say, and he brushes my concerns aside like they’re nothing. And then I find out that he’s eleven years older than me, and suddenly the decision I made seemed to take on a whole new level of cons I didn’t anticipate. It’s no excuse, but it’s the only one I’ve got.

  Creighton pulls on a pair of lounge pants—I have no idea where those came from—and settles into one of the chairs in the sitting room portion of the ma
ster suite. I take the chair opposite him.

  “We need to lay out some ground rules.”

  I’m not sure I like the sound of that, because I assume what he really means is that it’s time to lay out Creighton’s rules.

  But what did I really expect? That I’d have some sort of bargaining power here? My leverage disappeared when I signed on the dotted line.

  I know it, and he knows it.

  Then again, we both want something from the other, which I suppose puts us on sort of even footing. Except . . . not really. He has the billions and I just have me.

  You can cover a girl with fancy makeup, false eyelashes, hair extensions, stage-worthy clothes, and strip off my extra ten pounds by starving me half to death, but it doesn’t change who I am at heart. I’m still a girl from East Kentucky with big dreams and an even bigger fear of failure—because I don’t want to go back to Gold Haven. There’s nothing left there for me anymore, much to my gut-wrenching regret.

  When I snap myself out of my impromptu trip down my pothole-riddled memory lane, I find Creighton waiting, that damn eyebrow raised.

  “Please, by all means, continue.” My accent comes out stronger, and I blame it on my thoughts of home and the fact that if his rules have any impact on my career, we’re going to have a problem.

  He narrows his eyes. “Rule one: I like sex. I plan to have a lot of it. With you.”

  Well, then. The man certainly doesn’t beat around the bush. “I got that one.”

  “If that’s going to be a problem for you, my lawyers can—”

  And there it is, the threat to end the marriage, which would put my career in jeopardy.

  “End this marriage faster than it started?” I say quickly, interrupting him. “Because sex isn’t a problem for me. I know what I signed up for. It’s not like I think you married me because you found my conversational skills riveting. I just didn’t realize I was going to be spreading my legs on command. I thought you’d at least, you know, pretend like I wasn’t a whore. Although I guess that’s all I really am. A really expensive whore.”