The Billionaire’s Pet (A 'Scandals of the Bad Boy Billionaires' Romance)

by Ivy Layne

  For the next few hours, I occupied myself browsing on the Internet. Jacob had said to cook him my favorites, so I pulled up my recipes for pot roast and lemon icebox pie. Not gourmet, by any standards, but they were both delicious, and I loved them. If he didn't agree, I'd find out soon enough. Those would do for tomorrow, since they took a day of prep.

  Tonight, we'd have salmon with a light Dijon sauce and fresh green beans, along with the leftover chocolate cake from the night before. Once I had my shopping list and had placed my grocery order online, I picked up a few of my favorite yoga videos as well as some cute matching yoga outfits, a pair of sneakers, and some other clothes I thought I'd need.

  I was leaving the best for last. Books. Reading was another thing that had been curtailed by my husband. He preferred that I read literary fiction, the kind of books you showed off on your coffee table and dropped in the conversation at cocktail parties. I liked those books well enough, though they could be depressing and a little boring. My favorite type of fiction was romance. Needless to say, the husband who had married a 'perfect lady' did not approve of my reading books with half-naked men on the cover.

  I was fairly sure Jacob wouldn't give a damn. In fact, I thought he'd be perfectly happy if I got myself an e-reader and filled it with books that would keep me thinking about sex. I already knew he wouldn't be in favor of the 'happily ever after' part of romances, but I could compartmentalize.

  I had almost soothed myself into thinking my new life was going to be almost normal when I heard a knock at the door. Panic hit first, my heart thumping in my chest before I remembered we were in a secure building. I sat frozen in my chair for a long moment before a second knock reminded me that I had a visitor. I rose and went to answer it, knowing it couldn't be Jacob and hoping it was all the same.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ABIGAIL

  * * *

  I wasn't supposed to open the door to anyone but Rachel or Jacob. I knew that. And I wasn't going to. Fortunately, Jacob's door had a discreet peephole hidden behind a white metal disk that matched the paint on the door. I rotated it out of the way, suddenly thinking of the action movies I'd seen where the bad guy shoots as soon as he sees someone put their eye to the peephole. Not going to happen, I told myself. Jacob said this building was secure.

  I was a little nervous anyway when I looked, my shoulders tight with the anticipation of bad news. It was with relief, and some disappointment, that I saw Rachel standing on the other side of the door, an unfamiliar older man beside her. Aware that I had made them wait, I unlocked the door and swung it open, saying, "I'm sorry it took me so long."

  "Don't worry about it, dear. This is Dr. Whitmore. He's going to give you a quick examination, and then we'll be out of your way."

  I stepped back to let them enter, reassured by Rachel's polite efficiency. I'd tried not to think about what this must look like to her—a strange woman showing up in her boss's office, moving in less than an hour later, and Jacob sending her shopping to buy me clothes. It was all very sketchy. At first glance, I would have said Rachel wasn't the kind of woman to do sketchy, but now, she seemed unflappable. If Jacob hadn't already told me I was the first woman he'd kept, I would have wondered if she did this every day.

  Dr. Whitmore, on the other hand, seemed less comfortable with our circumstances. As I followed Rachel down the hall, I noticed that the older man couldn't seem to look at me. He carried a black leather bag that looked like the stereotypical doctor's kit and walked beside Rachel, saying nothing, his posture stiff, his jaw clenched.

  "Will the kitchen work, Dr. Whitmore?" Rachel asked.

  "That's fine," he said. Turning to me, he said, "Mr. Winters requested some simple blood tests and a very basic exam. Do I have your consent?"

  The doctor was still unable to meet my eyes. I opened my mouth to answer and found I couldn't get a word out. Instead, I nodded. That wasn't good enough. Narrowing his eyes, the doctor said, "I need your verbal consent, Miss." Condescension dripped from his tone. Clearly, he thought I was beneath him and was annoyed with Jacob for asking him to get his hands dirty with a woman like me.

  I'd had second thoughts about my deal with Jacob. I'd be even more of a fool than I already was if I hadn't questioned my decision to trade my body for Jacob's help. I refused to be ashamed. I was taking care of my mother and saving myself from a fate far worse than consensual sex with a smoking hot guy like Jacob. It wasn't for this doctor to judge me. Still, I felt a little sick as he prompted, "Miss?"

  Somehow, it was worse that he didn't seem to know my name. As always, when I was anxious, I defaulted to dignity, even in a situation completely devoid of that quality.

  Raising my chin, I said, "Jordan. Abigail Jordan. I had my last physical seven months ago, and everything was normal. After my husband died four months ago, I had myself tested and had my annual exam with my OB/GYN. I was clean and everything was normal. I have no reason to think that my health has changed since then."

  I met Dr. Whitmore's eyes and saw his disdain. I didn't need him to like me. At this point in my life, the only person who needed to like me was Jacob Winters.

  "Fine, that's good," he said. Opening his doctor's bag, he removed an old-fashioned stethoscope and gestured for me to turn around. He placed the stethoscope between my shoulder blades, over my cashmere cardigan, and ordered me to breathe deeply. Checkups never changed.

  I remembered being a child, sitting on the tall examining table in my pediatrician's office, legs swinging while my mother waited patiently, breathing deeply for the doctor and dreaming of the lollipop to come when it was over. I didn't think this disapproving man was going to give me a lollipop. Jacob was enough of a treat, and if he felt better because I'd had a few blood tests, that was understandable. He'd promised to provide me with the results of his own tests. As invasive as it felt, he was only being sensible.

  I tried to hang on to that thought as I removed my cardigan and held out my arm. Saying little, Dr. Whitmore prepared the needle and the collection vials. I looked at the ceiling as the needle pierced my skin. I was fine with minor pain. Apparently, when it was connected to orgasms, I was fine with more than minor pain, and I didn't mind the sight of blood, but that didn't mean I wanted to watch.

  The vials filled slowly, all three of us pretending that we were happy to be there together. Rachel was the only one whose act was believable. She sat at the island tapping away on her smart phone, and I instinctively knew she wasn't playing around on social media. She did not strike me as a woman who indulged in inappropriate use of her work time.

  Dr. Whitmore pulled the needle from beneath my skin with gentle hands, pressing a cotton ball to the small wound and securing it with a Band-Aid. It was clear he disapproved of my presence in Jacob's home, but at least he was being decent about it. Maybe my concept of what was decent had been warped in my years living with the Jordans. I tried not to dwell on that thought as I led my visitors back to the front door.

  Before they left I said, "Rachel, I ordered groceries, as Jacob suggested. They'll be delivered to the office." I trailed off, feeling badly about interrupting her day yet again for something as trivial as my groceries. Rachel shook her head and said, "Jacob already filled me in, dear. It's not a problem. I'll bring them up as soon as they get here." She turned to the elevator, Dr. Whitmore trailing behind her.

  I overheard him say, "Ms. Porter, Tell Mr. Winters I'm not available for this kind of thing. I'll get the tests done, but . . ." His voice trailed off. I couldn't hear Rachel's response, but the whole interaction left me feeling uneasy. Was this all a huge mistake? One more time, I tried to think of a way out of the trap I was in.

  Without money and the power to protect myself, I'd be in deep trouble. I had no way to get the kind of money I'd need to take care of my mother and no access to the power to get Big John off my back. Not without Jacob. It didn't hurt that I was attracted to him.

  If I could stop thinking so much, I could have my cake and eat it too. Or be the
cake and let Jacob eat me. Hearing those words in my head, I flushed. Jacob's no holds barred carnality was new to me. There was no denying that, with him, I loved it.

  I spent the next few hours doing a lot of nothing and enjoying every second of it. Rachel delivered the food the same way she'd delivered the doctor, efficiently and politely. I enjoyed unpacking my selections and filling the barren refrigerator. Based on the state of his kitchen, I was guessing that Jacob almost never ate at home. I loved to cook. It was one of the few places in my marriage that John and my interests had aligned.

  My mother had been known throughout the county as the perfect hostess. She never had her parties catered, preferring to do all of the cooking herself, though if the guest count was too high, she'd bring in kitchen help. I'd learned at her side when I was younger, and after my marriage, John had refused to let me work but had encouraged me to take cooking classes. College was out of the question. He didn't feel his wife needed to be particularly well-educated, and I'd already completed two years at Georgia State.

  To the Jordans, a woman with a college education, even one who'd never gotten her degree, was highly suspect. They didn't want me giving the rest of the females in the family any ideas, and I think John hoped that by sending me to cooking classes, he could make an open declaration about how thoroughly he had domesticated me.

  At the time, it had seemed like a fair trade-off. Maybe it was. My perspective on my marriage was too twisted up with grief and fear and tarnished dreams for me to make any judgments. But, if I hadn't walked out of my marriage undamaged, I had left it with some serious skills in the kitchen.

  I wasn't using all of them off the bat. Jacob had given me no hints as to what kind of food he liked, so I was guessing. Salmon with a Dijon sauce, herbed new potatoes, and green beans seemed like an easy place to start. Unless he hated fish. Surely, if he hated fish, he would've said something. I put that thought out of my mind. It was too late to question my menu. It was a fairly simple meal to prep, and it didn't take me very long to wrap the salmon in parchment paper and slide it in the oven along with the new potatoes, tossed with olive oil and herbs.

  I was setting out the ingredients to my Dijon sauce when I heard the click of the front door opening. He was early. My stomach clenched with nerves and need. At the sound of his footsteps coming down the hall, anticipation tingled down my spine. Jacob was home.

  He stopped in the entry to the kitchen. I turned from the counter, where I'd been measuring sour cream, and looked at him, my heart skipping a beat as I took in his tall form, devastating in a navy suit and crisp white shirt. His dark hair fell over his forehead and his silver eyes gleamed. When he smiled, my knees went a little weak.

  "I need to buy you an apron," he said, considering me. "I'd like to see you in my kitchen wearing nothing but an apron."

  I had the vision of myself in a 50s style, full-skirted apron. White with cherries and red trim, the bodice barely clinging to my full breasts, scraping my nipples as I cooked him dinner, my body almost covered from the front and completely naked from behind, my round ass exposed when I bent into the oven. I felt my cheeks flush. Swallowing the sudden rush of lust, I said, "Would you like me to order one?"

  Pacing closer, he said "Yes, I would."

  "I'll do it tomorrow," I promised, my nipples tightening as he came to a stop right in front of me. Taking the spoon out of my hand and dropping it into the container of sour cream, he said, "Is there anything in here that's going to burn in the next 10 minutes?"

  "No," I whispered. "The salmon has another 20 minutes and—"

  He cut me off with, "Take off your clothes."

  CHAPTER TEN

  ABIGAIL

  * * *

  My hands went to the hem of my cardigan, and I tugged it, along with the matching camisole, over my head. My breasts grew heavy. Heat bloomed between my thighs. I'd been a little wet all day.

  Just being in Jacob's house seem to do that to me. But this—stripping my clothes off for him, knowing he was going to touch me—that was all it took. Moisture gathered in my pussy. Feeling it as I shifted my weight to take off the clingy lounging pants only made me hotter. I tossed my clothes on the end of the kitchen island and waited for my next order. Jacob didn't disappoint me.

  "Turn around." I did, facing away from the stove. "Bend over."

  I bent over the island, not exactly sure what he wanted. I leaned over the granite countertop on the island, bracing myself on my elbows. Jacob corrected me, not with words but with light touches. He ran his fingertips down the outsides of my arms, gently lifting them from beneath me, raising me up and bringing them together behind my back, pressing my hands together until I caught the hint and locked my hands around my own wrists. With soft pressure, he pressed me back down until my breasts flattened into the cool counter, my face turned to the side, my hot cheek against the hard surface.

  "Beautiful," he said, his voice husky. His hand smoothed down my spine and over the curve of my ass. One long finger dipped lower to trace my pussy. "Spread your legs."

  I did, more than happy to make room for his hand. I drew in a ragged breath, my body tense, ready, trying to guess what he would do next, wanting whatever it was. He surprised me, yet again. His fingertip grazed the hot flesh between my legs just long enough to verify that I was wet before pulling away to drop a quick, impersonally affectionate smack on my rear end. "Don't move," he said. "I'm going to change. I'll be back in a minute, and I expect to see you exactly like that when I return."

  "Yes, sir," I said, the words slipping from between my lips as if I'd been saying them all my life. I had been, but never, ever like this. My mind raced as I listened to him walking away, his footsteps fading as he went down the hall toward the master bedroom. I couldn't believe he'd just left me like this, naked, arranged exactly as he wanted me.

  Jacob Winters was a tease. If I'd been in charge, I would have teased him back. I knew, deep down, that I wouldn't be half as aroused by all this if I'd been in charge. If I'd been in charge, there would've been no spankings the night before, no nipple clamps, no naked dinner. No Jacob eating dessert off my pussy and licking me until I came.

  No, I didn't want to be in charge. At the memory of his mouth on me the night before, I squirmed. My nipples were hard, tight points against the granite. The edge of the countertop was uncomfortable against my hip bones, and my arms were getting tired. I didn't move. I waited, quietly, if not patiently. My body was still, but my mind raced, thinking of all the things Jacob might do to me in this position.

  It seemed like a year before he came back, though it was probably only a few minutes. I caught a glimpse of him in my peripheral vision, and a wave of lust and something else, something warm and sweet washed through me at the sight of him. He'd shed his formal suit in favor of a pair of well-worn broadcloth pajama bottoms and an Emory T-shirt.

  This wasn't Jacob, the billionaire playboy, or Jacob, the cutthroat real estate magnate. This was just Jacob Winters, at home, relaxed, and ready to play. I could steel myself against all the other Jacobs, but this one was too real. He snuck under my guard, especially when he sent me an almost boyish grin, stopping beside me and resting a hand on my ass.

  "You take direction very well. Now we'll see how well you can direct me."

  Okay, then fuck me, I said in my head. I knew better than to say it out loud. The hand on my ass dropped down, his fingers again tracing around my pussy, collecting the gathered moisture until they dropped further and circled my clit. I gasped, the shock of direct contact sharper than it would have been if he'd touched me before all the teasing.

  "Do you know your recipe by heart?" He asked in a conversational tone as if he didn't have his hand between my legs, stroking my slick heat. I tried to answer the same way, but I heard the tension in my voice, the need bleeding through as I said, "I do."

  "Tell me what you were going to do next," he commanded. My brain scrambled to keep up.

  "Make the Dijon sauce," I stuttered.
r />   "Walk me through it." His fingertips left my clit as one long finger pressed inside me, slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. I resisted the urge to push back at him, knowing instinctively that wasn't the game. The game was for me to let him tease me until he decided to fuck me. I really wanted to win. Forcing my mind back onto dinner, I said "See the red plastic bowl on the counter? You need to mix the sauce in there and then heat it up in the pan on the stove."

  "And what goes in it?" A second finger joined the first, stretching me, taunting me with the prospect of being truly filled. His knuckle grazed my clit, and I jumped. His other hand came down on my ass with a quick swat, the flash of pain transmuting to pleasure, shooting straight between my legs.

  "One third of a cup of sour cream, two tablespoons of Dijon mustard, two teaspoons of the chopped garlic, and two teaspoons of lemon juice. It should all be out there on the counter."

  He repeated the recipe back to me, then said, "And what about these green beans? Are they done?"

  Crap. I'd forgotten about the green beans. It was a good thing I'd set a timer on the oven, or there was no chance the salmon and potatoes would come out in time. "No," I said, my voice breathy with arousal. "Turn them on low. On medium," I corrected, "and put the lid back on, please."

  I wanted to cry when his hands left my skin. After the heat of his touch, the cool air in the kitchen against the wet between my legs was freezing. I heard sounds behind me, the clink of metal against glass, the slide of plastic on the counter, the click, click, whoosh of the gas stove turning on under the green beans.

  "So I mix all these ingredients together in the bowl?" Jacob asked. He was only a few feet away, but it felt like a mile. I wanted to tell him to forget about the sauce and come back over here and touch me. If I thought I had a chance in hell of getting it to work, I would've done it. Instead, I said, "Yes, mix it all together with the whisk on the counter. When it's done, I'll tell you what's next."