Green (The Safeword Series: Book Three) (An Alpha Billionaire Romance)

by Ava Claire

  And then I saw a woman in a fluorescent, highlighter yellow dress. She wore a tie dye beanie, tuffs of blue hair sticking out. There was no jealousy or curiosity to be found on her face.

  She was enraged.

  She stopped directly in front of us, putting both hands on her hips like she was a guard and we were going no further.

  "Just where do you think you're going?" she snapped at Desmond.

  There was clearly only one right answer and I swore that Desmond was practically giddy about giving her the wrong one. "Home. Didn't you get the message?" His smile stretched from ear to ear. "I'm ill."

  The blue haired woman grabbed both sides of her head, covering her ears like she couldn't stand to hear one more word. "Ill?" Her volume ratcheted up to full on screech. "Ill?!"

  I almost plugged my ears to keep her from shattering my eardrums. Desmond was completely immune to her. He leaned in and pressed a kiss against my cheek.

  "Where are my manners, Kara, I'd like you to meet the love of my life, Sophia."

  Love of his life?!

  I was too busy swooning, staring deep into his eyes to realize that Kara was definitely not pleased to meet me. A few of her words cut through the bliss on cloud nine. Words like 'schedule' and 'insane' and 'are you kidding me'. I cast a sympathetic glance at her as Desmond guided me away from her and toward the exit. The guard shack had struck such fear in my heart when I first arrived on set, but this time, Frank waved as we passed through the exit.

  I slipped into the passenger side of Desmond’s BMW, leaning back into the leather seat. Once we'd pulled away from the studio lot, I wouldn't let myself relax. I didn't drink in the way the leather seat attempted to massage away my kinks and nerves. I didn't grip his hand as tight as I wanted when he reached for me at red lights.

  I gasped when he pulled to the most elite stretch of properties in the city. Sky rises that I'd only seen through the eyes of photographers were spitting distance. It was still too early for the socialites to be doing their thing, strutting down the sidewalk in couture and heels, but the businessmen were out in full effect. How much money hung so casually, so effortlessly on their bodies? Hell, how much money was swaddled around the babies that the moms pushed down the street in their coordinated, expensive yoga outfits?

  And I was sitting beside a man that was worth billions. That called me the love of his life.

  Was I dreaming?

  I had to be dreaming.

  There was no way I was in some top-of-the-line luxury car, pulling to the curb of The Paragon LA, where the valets snapped to attention immediately and smiled like they meant it. A place where residents like Desmond handed them a couple of twenty dollar bills as a tip while the rest of us scrambled to find a single dollar to tip the barista at Starbucks.

  It made sense that the lobby for his apartment building sparkled and gleamed and that my sneakers squeaked on the polished marbled floor. I couldn’t help but compare every shiny square inch to the broken tile and scuff marks at my own apartment building. The chandeliers, that’s right, plural, glittered, the crystal casting rainbows all over the room. It was a far cry from the dull fluorescent lamps that cast a yellow glow over peeling mailboxes.

  As soon as we walked through the door, there was a massive desk with signage indicating that the concierge was available 24/7, along with signs pointing towards a mail room, a theater, and elevators that I bet didn’t break down or require a prayer that you’d safely reach your destination.

  Desmond powered ahead of me, but I hesitated in the center of the lobby, an intricate compass etched into the ground beneath my feet along with a quote about home and following your dreams in gold, embossed letters. And even the concierge snapped to attention, probably ready to get me some water with cucumber in it, or arrange for medical assistance or a buff, muscled man to sweep me up to my high rise apartment. The house man-servant wasn’t required because Desmond had noticed that I was no longer following close behind and making his way back to me, but I was still in some form of shock, nonetheless.

  He was like some magazine spread, clad in a dark jacket, hypnotizing green eyes, a light dusting of scruff on his jaw, and lips that I wanted all over my body. A half hour ago, I was ready to jump his bones, but being here, being in his world, just reminded me that I didn’t belong in his world at all.

  “I’d ask if you were okay,” his deep voice caressed me while his fingers swept through my hair, tugging at my dark strands. “But I hate that question,” he continued. “It’s passive aggressive.”

  When I tried to look back down at the floor, retreating into myself, he clutched my chin and forced my eyes upward.

  “And generally, when people ask that question, it’s because they’re not okay,” he finished. “So instead, I’m gonna say that if something’s wrong, and you want to talk about it, I’m a pretty good listener.”

  I chewed on my bottom lip, almost wishing everything wasn’t so perfect. Everyone knew who Desmond was and I clearly wasn’t a fellow celebrity, so something juicy was going down in the lobby at The Paragon LA. But the concierge kept her eyes on her computer screen, not intruding, not snooping, though I had a feeling that she was essentially a fly on the wall and saw all manners of scandal and intrigue on a daily basis.

  “This is just all-”

  “Too much?” he offered, jaw clenching tight. “Too fast?”

  I scooped my arms around his waist, already relenting when I felt his muscles pressed against me. I felt protected and safe. As safe as I felt when I first entered Dungeon #3.

  “It’s not that,” I assured him, squeezing tight. Who cared if we were being that gross, PDA couple? Who cared that in terms of a celebrity, I was a no one and he was an A-lister? None of that mattered when we were together. None of that changed the way we felt about each other. “Since we’re doing the open and honest thing-”

  He cleared his throat, pointedly reminding me that he’d been doing the open and honest thing all along.

  “Okay, fine,” I rolled my eyes. “I’m doing the open and honest thing. Finally. Better?”

  He nodded, his eyes holding the grin that his lips teased. “Much better.”

  “I was kind of feeling like I didn’t belong,” I explained, letting my tiny voice build. Embracing the grandness of the room and the fact that I was here, and had every right to be. “It felt like I was Cinderella and at any moment, the clock would strike midnight and all of this would disappear. You would disappear.”

  People milled around us, but Desmond didn’t take notice of any of them. His eyes never left me. “That’s funny, I was gripping your hand so tight on set, reaching for you at every stop light because I was worried that if I let go, I would be roused awake. This would all be a dream, because in why do I get the girl?” He brushed my cheek softly. “What did I do to deserve someone so amazing?”

  I was stunned, looking into his eyes, looking at a man that harbored my same insecurities. That he wasn’t enough. That he didn’t deserve happiness. But he was. And he did. And so did I.

  I popped on my tiptoes and kissed him like it was the first and last time. Like I wanted to make an impression, packing all the love inside me into my lips, laying my bloody, beating heart on my sleeve. Giving him all of me and taking all of him.

  When our lips finally parted and my breathing slowed, I whispered, “If you don’t get me to your place, I’m gonna have to jump your bones right here.”

  He contemplated that for a moment, and I could tell from the redness in the concierge’s cheeks and the smiles on the faces of the other people in the lobby that we had quite the audience.

  “Some other time,” he said aloud, reclaiming my hand and pulling me toward the elevator.

  I stood in awe as a bonafide elevator operator in a sleek black suit greeted us and asked for our desired floor. Desmond told him the penthouse and he typed in the access code. After a second hearty tip, the elevator doors retracted, with a slender corridor stretching before us. A silver door wai
ted at the end and I gaped as Desmond typed in a second access code.

  “Are you secretly some covert government agent?” I joked.

  “No,” he chuckled, “But this building has had some breeches in security, thanks to some determined paparazzi and reporters, so this extra layer was added, just in case.”

  When the door opened and I saw Desmond’s place, I saw why. The walls were blood red, loud and visceral. Before me stretched a view that had to be pretty close to the view from a plane with plush clouds and breathtaking skyscrapers. Black and white nude photographs and drawings and sketches of crosses and whips were hung with care. All manners of kink surrounded us, the space wide open and complete, with the necessities like a bar top and what I was sure was top of the line appliances in the kitchen. A leather couch and a silver and gold coffee table rounded out the living room space, with an extra large flat screen TV affixed to the wall. But it was the St. Andrew’s Cross that I gravitated to, along with a rack of whips and floggers. Right there. Out in the open. Not hidden in plain sight or tucked away in some secret room. Bold, unashamed, and in your face.

  I was getting wet just taking it all in.

  He stood beside me, quiet and gauging my reaction. Before he could ask me if I wanted a drink or some other form of small talk, I leapt into action.

  I practically ran over to the cross, sliding my fingers over the grooves. The mahogany had a scooped texture, soft to the touch, so stark compared to the harsh metal rings affixed to the four beams.

  Remembering that the last time we'd been in a playroom, I'd revealed that it really was a role for me, I paused. Submissive. But what did that label mean anyway? The only thing that was real was the excitement that filled me until I was overflowing. Ready to do anything to be strapped to his cross. Ready to submit.

  I was so lost in my excitement. I expected him to hold steadfast to where I'd left him, silently condemning my boldness and complete disregard for boundaries and rules, that I gasped when he dropped a kiss on my shoulder. Even through the fabric of the T-shirt, my skin tingled when his lips brushed against me.

  "Let me guess," he purred in my ear. "‘Can I, can I, can I please?’. Or something along those lines?"

  I tried to catch him with the end of my elbow, but he was too quick, dodging out of the way and using that same elbow to wrangle me and pull my body crashing into his. There was just muscle, lust, and those eyes stripping me down.

  Even though I wriggled like I wanted to break free, my eyes gave me away and I finally stopped fighting, settling for sighing, extra loud. "Am I that obvious?"

  He released me, but his hands gravitated to my breasts, fondling me through my shirt. "Or maybe I'm just that good."

  He got no complaints from me. His hands did feel good on me, the power, the hold he had on me, unlike anything I'd ever felt. But when I moaned, when I called him 'Sir', his hands fell away.

  I whipped around to face him and I could see the struggle whip across those chiseled features.

  "There's nothing I want more than to tie you to that cross, Sophia. I'm a Dom. That's what turns me on." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "But you were pretending before. Curious. It's unethical and selfish for me to ask you to go along with this just because it's what I want."

  I gripped his hands, bringing his knuckles to my lips. "It's not like that, Desmond. You're right. This is a new world to me. But my fascination with D/s is not some passing thing. Or some ruse to placate you." Just in case I wasn't being clear, I let go of one of his hands and unbuttoned my jeans and unzipped my fly. Before he could give me one of those scolding looks, I slipped his hand inside my pants. I didn't put his thick fingers where I wanted, letting him take the plunge. His eyes were unsure, his lips slightly parted, and then I sucked in a breath when his fingers pulled aside my panties and brushed my quivering slit.

  "Fuck, you're wet," he groaned, his eyes widening. He was still on the fence, hesitant. "You want this. You want to submit to me?"

  I nodded. "Yes, Desmond. I want you to show me how."

  That got his full attention and he took a step back, drawing his finger to his lips, the fingers that he had buried inside me, and brushed them across his lips. He licked them like I was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted, closing his eyes.

  When he spoke, his eyes were still closed like he was gathering his strength. “Take off your clothes and wait for me at the cross.”

  Like a starting shot rang out, I stripped, practically dashing over to his wall of kink. He joined me, after he tugged off his jacket, rolling the sleeves of his charcoal gray button down shirt to his elbows. Beside the rack of whips was a small gunmetal colored box. He lifted the lid and pulled out a set of velvet cuffs. He attached a set to my wrists, then my ankles.

  I perked, ready to back up and into position, thrill making me tremble with all of the possibilities. His eyes stroked me from head to toe, then he made a circular motion with his pointer finger, signifying that he wanted me to turn around. A pang of fear flashed in my gut. He was essentially blindfolding me. I’d have to trust him.

  Wasn’t that the point?

  I flexed my toes on the hardwood floor and obeyed. He attached my wrists first, then one ankle at a time.

  “Sophia, you have no idea how fucking sexy you look right now.” His tone was reverent as he drew his fingertips down my spine, bringing me alive with lust and desire. He set me on fire with need, teasing the curve of my ass, then skated toward my opening. I was spread eagled, completely exposed, and completely at his mercy.

  The not knowing what was coming next, not being able to see my fate made every touch, every pinch, every breath like some beautiful, erotic torture.

  And then I felt the warmth of his tongue, deep inside me. I wanted to buck, to take more of him, but all I could do was moan and beg for more. Every inch of my body belonged to Desmond O’Connell.

  Just when I felt my orgasm threatening to take me under, he took a breath and I was panting, trembling uncontrollably.

  “Desmond...Des...Sir...”

  He unhooked me and I was still a shuddering mess. “I made you a promise, didn’t I?”

  I smiled against his chest as he climbed the stairs to the loft. For all the shiny, luxurious, and naughty furnishings in the rest of his penthouse apartment, only one piece of furniture was in the bedroom, a simple four poster bed.

  He laid me on the mattress and slowly removed his clothing until he stood before me in all his muscled glory.

  “We’re pretty good at the whole fucking thing, but I need more than that from you now. I need to make love to you, Sophia.”

  If I wasn’t completely in love with this man, waiting for someone like him to come along and make me whole, then I knew that truth when he pushed inside me. His eyes locked on my eyes, his heart beating in time with my heart.

  Sex had never been beautiful with anyone else but with Desmond, it was poetry.

  We were still catching our breath, sweaty and wrecked when I tilted my head and realized that I’d been mistaken. There were two pieces of furniture, a bed and a nightstand. The nightstand was a slender onyx piece that was connected to the bedpost.

  A smile dashed across my lips when I saw something familiar perched on top of it. It was the black mask he wore the night we met...and my mask was nestled beside it.

  “I was sure you’d burned all the evidence after you kicked me out of Hush,” I kidded, turning back to him.

  “Never. How could I erase the night where I met the stubborn, un-sublike, secret reporter who stole my heart?”

  I pressed my lips against his cheek, breathing him in. “I would have understood if you walked away. The secrets, the lies-”

  “Shh,” he murmured, nuzzling closer. “I’m right where I’m supposed to be. Besides-” His gaze turned downright mischievous. “I’ve yet to make you use your safeword.”

  He tickled me until I was breathless and gasping...and I still didn’t say it.

  I finally found my guy, and the o
nly word I could think of was ‘green’.

  ~

  About The Author

  Ava Claire is a sucker for Alpha males and happily ever afters. When not putting pen to paper or glued to her e-reader, Ava likes road tripping, karaoke, vintage fashion, and fantasizing about her favorite book boyfriends.

  Connect with Ava:

  Blog: http://avaclaireromantica.blogspot.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ava.claire.9

  Newsletter: http://eepurl.com/xhR39

  Twitter: @avaclairewrites

  Stay tuned to my blog for up to date information on my works in progress and release schedules!