At Your Service

by Alysha Ellis

  They lay there, spread out in the open-air darkness, panting and covered with droplets of sweat. She looked at up at Michel then at Clarkson, both men sexy and flushed with exertion “Well, you certainly don’t seem to have any problem taking control,” she said to Clarkson with a mischievous grin, before kissing him.

  “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather take control of,” he said, giving her ass a squeeze.

  “Amazing.” She sighed contentedly. “I think this arrangement of ours is going to work out just fine.”

  About the Author

  A die hard romantic and former wedding planner, Kate has been writing stories about romance, from the sensual to the sinfully sexy, since she was in college. When she’s not writing or reading, Kate can be found on the tennis court—yes, there’s even “love” in that game too! And she found a sport she can play and still wear a dress. Born in England, Kate now lives in Arizona with her wonderful and very patient husband. Kate enjoys travelling and dreaming up new exciting stories. She’d love to hear from you.

  Email: kate@katedeveaux.com

  Kate loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

  Also available from Total-E-Bound Publishing:

  Sharing the Billionaire

  Elizabeth Coldwell, Rachel Randall, Jan Springer,

  Alysha Ellis, Cerise DeLand and Lauren Fraser

  Excerpt

  ‘Everything to Him’ by Elizabeth Coldwell

  “Shona, how many times do I have to tell these people I’m not interested?”

  Resting her head against the thick, tiled lip of the hot tub, letting the bubbling jets of warm water caress her body, Amber Meredith lay back and listened to her husband arguing with his PA. It wasn’t like Felix to come home in such a vile mood, but she knew he’d been under a good deal of stress these last few days. He’d been negotiating to buy an Internet radio station that specialised in classic rock, but the deal appeared to be on the verge of collapse. No wonder he was tense.

  But this phone call—at least the end of it she could hear as Felix paced the floor of their mini spa room—didn’t sound as if it had anything to do with that particular piece of business.

  “I know, Shona, believe me, but what part of my being unavailable for interview are they failing to grasp?”

  Amber closed her eyes, and did her best to tune out his voice. Whatever the problem, if it was important enough, he’d share it with her in due course. Felix might thrive on the adrenaline rush he got from being in stressful situations, but he knew the importance of letting off steam, too. It was far better for his blood pressure in the long run than keeping everything bottled up.

  At last, she heard him toss his phone onto one of the rattan sun loungers that stood by the side of the pool. Amber hauled herself halfway out of the hot tub. Resting her elbows on the cool, white tiles, arms crossed in front of her, she smiled at her frazzled-looking husband.

  “Everything okay, darling?”

  Felix ran a hand through his short, blond hair, causing it to stick up in tufts, making him look more like the teenager who’d started out running a record company from his university bedroom than the owner of the extensive multi-media empire he’d become. “Oh, it’s just Glitz! magazine. They’re still after me for an interview.”

  “I thought you turned them down?”

  “I did—twice in the last nine months. But they’re persistent. They keep telling me a feature in the mag would do wonders for my image.”

  Amber flicked through Glitz! occasionally, usually when she was in the hairdressers’ for maintenance of her dark honey and caramel highlights. She’d read the magazine more religiously in the days when she’d worked for a short-lived television shopping channel, doing her best to suppress any pangs of envy raised by the photos of all those perfectly groomed celebrities in their beautiful homes. Since she’d married Felix, she knew she’d become an object of envy in her own right, with no need to compare her wealth or status to that of anyone else.

  ‘Lucky for Him’ by Rachel Randall

  The problem with chasing rumours is that they’re nothing but whispers. Run down a rumour, and you might end up with nothing.

  Standing in a luxurious lounge within the megayacht Estrella, watching his quarry hold court, Rob feels the now-familiar bite of frustration. He’s been trying to make contact with Renzo Vega for weeks now, using every personal connection and favour owed. Now he’s come in person, leaving London, tracking him from Vega’s headquarters in Buenos Aires here to the harbour at Valletta, Malta. And still Rob has nothing to show for it—not one meeting, not much more than industry gossip fuelling his chase.

  Lucky, he thinks. Not so lucky for me.

  Rob snags another glass of champagne from the passing waiter and considers his dwindling options. The ship’s due to leave at midnight, like bloody Cinderella. With it go Rob’s chances of making what could be the deal of his career. All he needs is one conversation. One shot at convincing the billionaire that he and his tech consultancy are more than up to the challenge of taking on Lucky, Vega’s latest and very secret project.

  Yet Vega won’t take his calls. Won’t schedule face-time. Apparently he’s ring-fenced himself from formal business for the next six months to concentrate on ‘personal projects’. Which, given Vega’s track record of off-the-cuff brilliance, makes Rob even more determined to get in on Lucky.

  It’s proving more difficult than anticipated, though, to concentrate on the business at hand. One of the world’s wealthiest, most attractive men, Vega is always surrounded by the most beautiful people Rob’s ever seen. Not even his own bloody-mindedness can overcome distractions quite like these.

  A gorgeous Indian woman in a gold silk sari, like a Bond villainess with her painted eyes and crimson mouth. A young man with razor cheekbones and a designer suit. A busty blonde, poured into spangled sequins and the highest heels he’s ever seen. The party guests crowd around Renzo, drawn by his charisma and held by his uninhibited laughter, until Rob can only see tanned skin and expensive fabrics and the red of his own irritation.

  Am I so worked up because they’ve cut off my last line of approach or my view of the man?

  Downing the last of his champagne, he prises open a porthole and flings the flute overboard. Rob’s far from a fool, but Renzo is making him look like one.

  “Veuve Clicquot not your taste?” The question is soft, Irish, amused.

  “I prefer Guinness,” he says, and gives her his most friendly smile.

  She’s dressed in a figure-hugging little black dress, and he’s seen her before—across the room, always near to Renzo but not obviously part of his group. He first noticed her because of the confident way she holds herself. Now he’s wondering if she’s another possible route to Vega.

  She follows his line of sight across the room. “Ah. You want to join the admirers.” She pauses, her gaze tracking out of the porthole, at the distant lights visible from shore, before glancing back with an arch smile. “To be honest, I’m surprised at your restraint. Given that you’re already trespassing on private property.”

  Bodyguard? he wonders. Her bare arms are sleekly muscled, and she certainly looks capable. Trust Vega to have a beautiful ninja on his staff.

  ‘Pleasure for Him’ by Jan Springer

  Lily Rose Tiffany gasped at the intense pleasure created by her billionaire boyfriend’s oral lovemaking. Impulsively, she speared her fingers through his silky hair and her nails dug into his scalp as she desperately clutched at his head between her wide open thighs. The tip of his hot tongue lashed her tender clit and then he moved his mouth to lap at her labia. He took turns with each plump fold, sucking deeply until her senses became inflamed and the fire of need scrambled her self-control.

  “Ryland, please!” she cried, fighting to catch her breath as he hung her at the edge of bliss. The sensations he created with his mouth were so intense, so agonising that her thighs tremb
led and her belly quivered and she wanted him inside her, possessing her. But damn him, Ryland Walton ignored her pleas. He chuckled against her pussy, his warm lips melting over her clitoris. He lapped at her aching bud, taking his sweet time in making her come.

  He was being rougher than usual tonight and deep down inside her, she knew why. It happened sometimes, when he was away from her for too long, and when he wanted to experience his desire of sharing her with another man. But she couldn’t think about that. Not right now. She just wanted him to fuck her.

  He was as tense as she was. Tenser. She could see it in the muscles rippling across his tanned back and the muscles spasming in his broad shoulders as he held her hips tightly with his big hands while he devoured her pussy.

  The sexual tension had zapped through the air the instant he’d let himself into her twentieth-floor Manhattan luxury penthouse suite only a few minutes earlier. She’d become aware of his need for sex in his quick predator-like steps as he’d stalked into her bedroom. She’d been sitting on her bed putting together an arrangement of colour swatches for a new client who wanted her entire home redecorated.

  Lily hadn’t expected Ryland to be back in town from his business trip to China for at least a few days. She hadn’t been prepared for him. She wore no make-up. No sexy negligee. Only her favourite comfortable, frumpy lace nightie.

  He hadn’t said hello. Hadn’t acted his usual gentlemanly self by asking how his best and only woman was tonight. He’d just glared at her with lust-filled, sex-on-demand brown eyes that had made her shiver with excitement. He’d gruffly ordered her to open her thighs to him. He’d watched hungrily as she’d quickly removed her panties and lifted her nightie, tucking the hem above her breasts, bunching the material under her armpits. He’d slipped off his expensive-looking black suit jacket, untied his black Louis Vuitton tie and removed his shimmering white shirt, folding everything neatly onto a nearby chair.

  He appeared sexier than usual with a shadow of growth on his normally clean-shaven chin and cheeks. As he’d stepped out of his perfectly pressed pants and silky underwear, he’d looked needy—his jaw muscles twitching with self-control, his body tense and muscular, his breathing heavy and raspy. He’d given her a visual treat with his long and thick cock, before he’d climbed onto her bed and dived between her legs to feast upon her pussy.

  ‘Submitting to Him’ by Alysha Ellis

  Elise Cowdery stepped out of the limousine. The hotel gleamed in the hot Greek sunshine, the stark white walls contrasting with the blue of the domed roof. She smiled at her husband Blair. “It’s beautiful.”

  “If you like it I’ll buy it for you,” he said. “Hell, I’ll buy the entire island.”

  “I think the people of Santorini might object.” She squeezed his hand. “And no matter how much money you have, you’re way too canny to buy the hotel before you find out whether it’s going to be a profitable investment or not.”

  “If you wanted it,” Blair replied, “I’d get it for you.”

  Elise walked her fingers up the front of his shirt. “You know what I want, don’t you, baby?”

  “I do,” he said. “But it remains to be seen whether it can be had here.” The familiar hot burn of his hazel eyes sent shivers of anticipation skittering up her spine. She splayed her hand over his chest, and rubbed her index finger across the hard nub of his nipple.

  “May I take your bags, Sir and Madam?” The voice from behind them startled Elise and she dropped her hand to her side. The porter stood there, accompanied by three other members of staff, all eager to serve them. Blair winked at Elise. It didn’t take much to work out that Blair’s name had been recognised. His wealth made sure of that almost everywhere they went.

  The impression was confirmed when they were met at the door by one of the most striking men Elise had ever seen. Tall and dark, handsome as the gods that were said to once have inhabited Greece, he stepped forward and introduced himself. “I’m Nick Zervolos, the manager. Welcome to the hotel and to Santorini. Your check-in has already been completed.” His English was perfect, the slightest suggestion of an accent only adding an intriguing edge. “There is no need for you or Mr Cowdery to be inconvenienced.”

  The words were deferential enough, but his light grey eyes, startling in his golden-tan face, focused on Elise in a way that made her pulse flutter. She looked quickly at Blair to see if he’d noticed. He raised one eyebrow. She should have known. Very little escaped his attention, especially another man’s interest in her.

  Nick gestured to the lift in the corner. “If you would accompany me, I’ll take you to your room and make sure everything is to your satisfaction.”

  Elise went ahead of him, making sure she swayed her hips a little more than usual. She would have loved to glance over her shoulder to see his reaction. Blair didn’t have the same reluctance. He turned his head so he could see the manager as he walked just a step or two behind them. Her husband’s hand tightened on hers and he pulled her in closer to his side.

  In the lift, Nick pressed the button for their floor. “Have you been to Santorini before?” His question was routine, but those disconcerting eyes looked directly at Elise for a long moment. His pupils dilated, the black swallowing the grey, before his gaze flicked to Blair.

  “This is our first visit,” Elise said, making sure his focus came back to her. “What do you recommend we do here?” She smiled. “We don’t want anything touristy. What do you like to do in your free time?”

  Nick stared at a spot just over her shoulder. “I’m afraid my job keeps me very busy. I don’t have a lot of free time.” The lift came to a halt. “This is your floor.”

  ‘Cuffed to Him’ by Cerise DeLand

  Objective. How was she going to remain objective?

  Joanna Carter snapped shut her laptop, even though her notes on the delicious Spencer brothers swam in her brain. With a wince, she told herself to relax and sank further into the plush chair in the private jet terminal. She was about to leave known civilisation for a remote Caribbean island owned by the two brothers who were the third and fourth richest men in the States. On their island she would work hard, play never, and interview the two grown men whom she had adored since she’d been four. Her journalism career—her own self-esteem—depended on whether she could keep her cool and write the profiles like the award-winning professional she had once been.

  Could she do that? Hell. She had to, if she wanted to eat for the rest of her life. Too bad the only way to make that happen was to write an exposé of two men who had once been her best friends. And my fantastic lovers.

  She scanned the ultra-modern terminal and worried her lower lip over the prospect of seeing the famous—the infamous—Spencer brothers after fourteen years. When she had lived next door to them in dusty west Texas, they had treated her like a third wheel, their buddy, their chubby little tag-along. Then they had been as nerdy as she was girly. As skinny as she was chunky. As funny as she was dry. And when she turned eighteen, the two men had introduced her to games, sexy ones.

  And she had loved every minute.

  But now?

  I’m a wreck. She froze, ceased fiddling with the straps to her camera bag and dropped her cellphone in her briefcase. Her hands were sweating, for God’s sakes, like a kid’s. She wiped them on her slacks, trying to suppress comparisons of who she was today to the two men who were food for every magazine from The Economist to Cigar.

  Gifford and Joshua Spencer were the worldwide darlings of green technology. Billionaires from Giff’s invention of super-sensitive wind turbines and Josh’s investments in other energy-efficient systems, the two thirty-somethings were alternately recluses or playboys of the global social scene.

  And I am a washed-up investigative journalist trying to launch myself back into major publications. Trying to fill up my bank account by dishing dirt about my two old pals. Hoping to rebuild my credibility, which I so quickly destroyed being a sucker for a tycoon who played me for a chick who needed massive c
ock and thought with her pussy.

  She was not going to do that with the Spencers. Giff and Josh might have been gracious enough to consent to their interview, but she would bet good dollars they had done it for old times’ sake. Everyone knew—why wouldn’t the Spencers?—that she had been persona non grata at most magazines ever since she had done a hatchet job on her former lover, Renaldo Costas, the billionaire CEO of a huge Brazilian gas and oil conglomerate.

  Crossing her arms, she glanced out of the windows at the cream-coloured executive jet that Giff and Josh Spencer had sent to pick her up and fly her from Miami to their secluded island near the Dry Tortugas. She was going to write a sterling piece on the Spencer boys and make it accurate, make it insightful, make it sing with their own personalities.

  ‘Yielding for Him’ by Lauren Fraser

  “Miss Scott, you can’t go in there,” Donovan James’ secretary yelled.

  “It’s fine, he’ll see me, Marianne.”