Bound to the Billionaire

by Natalie Dae

  “I said it,” she whispered. “I said it.”

  “You did.” He stroked her hair, her back, her arse. “And now you fully belong to me.”

  * * * *

  A little later, Shara lightly kissed John’s cheek, then climbed from the playroom bed, leaving him dozing. She walked into the living room, taking the phone handset from its base as she walked past, then went into their bedroom to make a call.

  The man on the other end was surprised to hear from her, but nevertheless she reminded him of his promise to her not so long ago. He had quite forgotten, he said. Sorry, I’ll fix things right away, he said.

  She responded with pleasantries, although they both knew he couldn’t afford not to do as she’d asked. He hadn’t forgotten—he’d simply thought she wouldn’t carry out her threat.

  He didn’t know her very well.

  It seemed she’d still held on to a sliver of that stubbornness…

  * * * *

  My pet,

  Good news. Jacobson has decided to work with us after all. What do you say we celebrate this evening? The paddle again? Or would you rather I visit the store and pick up something new? The choice is yours, my sub with a touch of Dom. All yours.

  About the Author

  Natalie Dae is a multi-published author in three pen names writing several genres. She lives with her husband, children, and three cats in an English village. She writes full time and is also a cover artist and blog designer. In another life she was an editor. Her other pen names are Sarah Masters and Charley Oweson.

  Email: nataliedae@googlemail.com

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

  Also by Natalie Dae

  A Gentleman’s Harlot

  Shadow and Darkness

  Fantasies Explored: Think Kink

  Fantasies Explored: Thinking Kinkier

  Fantasies Explored: Kinky Thinking

  The Coterie: Lincoln’s Woman

  Stiff Upper Lip: Minute Maid

  COME TO HIM

  Justine Elyot

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Bentley: Volkswagen Group

  LEGO: LEGO Group

  Chapter One

  She should have expected a lot of paperwork, but somehow the number of times she was required to sign on dotted lines still came as a shock to Erin.

  “And the non-disclosure agreement,” said the lawyer smoothly, passing another sheaf of printed material across the desk.

  She read it through, trying to take her time and be level-headed, but her vision skittered across the page, picking up legalese phrases here and there. The gist was that she was never to discuss what passed between her and the lawyer’s client with any third party—most specifically she was never to publish any account of her experiences with him, nor ever mention his name in connection with hers.

  Picking up the pen and signing, yet again, she let her eye fall on the printed-out copy of her original advertisement on MasterMe.com. That nervous moment of pressing the button and making her plea live to hundreds of thousands of fellow fetishists seemed a million years from today. She could barely read it without cringing now.

  “You’ve all heard of the girl who auctioned off her virginity. Well, I’m no virgin, but I do need funding for my MA in Women’s Studies, and I can offer something that might well appeal to those dominant men among you.

  I’m offering my submission.

  Subject to agreement of limits etc. for a period of one calendar month—will probably have to be August owing to academic commitments—I can obey your every command and satisfy your every whim.

  Tempted? Please apply to downcasteyes@submail.com.

  I look forward to hearing your orders.”

  A blizzard of interest had buffeted her inbox, most of it spurious, but in the end she had narrowed down the field of bidders to three.

  The winning bid had taken her breath away.

  One million pounds.

  Enough to fund a lifetime’s research, let alone the tract she intended to write on the contrast between Victorian and medieval attitudes to female sexuality. She had almost vomited when she had seen the email with the offer.

  Of course, it had to be a hoax. Nobody would offer that. Nobody in their right mind, surely.

  But communication over the telephone with ‘Mr Nobody’s’ legal team had convinced her that it was serious, and now she was meeting his solicitor in his London office to finalise the arrangement.

  It didn’t help that a couple of journalists had seen her advertisement and posed as bidders themselves, hoping to get a story about what kind of woman might do such a thing. Erin had sniffed out their misogynistic agenda straight away and blocked them, but she was wary all the same.

  And now she was really nervous. Her name stared up at her, in black and white, agreeing to do who knew what with who knew whom.

  “Okay, so is that everything?” she asked, working hard to maintain a veneer of self-possession in the face of this dispassionate bespectacled suit.

  “I believe so,” he said with a chilly smile.

  Her skin goose-pimpled. What on earth must he think of me?

  But she had a stern word with her inner voice. It didn’t matter what the lawyer thought. It didn’t matter what anyone thought. She was using her resources to achieve a desired outcome. There was no more to it than that.

  “And do I get to know his name at any point? I’m guessing Mr Nobody is a pseudonym.”

  “Good guess.” A more genuine smile this time. “My client is not a famous name and I doubt you would recognise his face unless you spend a lot of time poring over the Financial Times, but he is necessarily cautious—as you have been. He will decide if and when he wants to reveal his true identity to you. At your initial meeting, he requests that you know him only as ‘Sir’.”

  “Wow.”

  The lawyer nodded, as if aware of what a bizarre request this was, but powerless to alter it.

  “I will have these agreements sent on to him. He will contact you with details of your first meeting.”

  “What if he doesn’t like me?” She hadn’t meant to voice this anxiety, but the words spilled out regardless.

  The lawyer raised his eyebrows.

  “You might well ask that question the other way round. What if you don’t like him?”

  “That doesn’t matter. He’s paid for me. We have an agreement.”

  “Good, I’m glad you’ve fully understood the situation. If he doesn’t like you, he must still pay you. However, if you renege on the deal, the agreement is void, and you don’t receive a penny. You have backed up your position with plenty of limits and no-gos. My client will respect them all.”

  Erin nodded, looking down at her fingers, which she twisted in her lap.

  More gently, the lawyer continued, “He has seen the video you sent him. He knows he finds you attractive, and he enjoys your personality too. There is a very good chance that you will make an acceptable match. If you don’t, you can walk away at any time. But you will have to find another, perhaps less colourful way to fund your education.”

  “Good,” said Erin. “That’s good. So…I wait?”

  “Yes. You wait.”

  * * * *

  She didn’t have to wait long.

  Four days later, Erin sat in the back of a chauffeured Bentley, watching the London streets glide by behind the smoked glass.

  Sir had told her to bring nothing but the clothes she stood up in and her handbag, containing mobile phone, house keys and one ‘comfort object’ of her choice. She had decided on a framed photograph of her sister. It was her sister who had encouraged her to aim for her dreams, and Amy would be her inspiration if and when things got tough. It was also her sister to whom she had first whispered a confession of her sexu
al persona when she had discovered a battered copy of an S&M novel stuffed under the socks in her underwear drawer. She had been so understanding—she had even found the MasterMe website for her.

  She had held the frame in her hand the night before and whispered, “I won’t let you down, Amy.”

  But now Amy was a long way from her mind, especially when the car moved out on the fringes of the city without joining any of the major motorways. Where could they be going?

  When they drove through the barrier entrance of a private airfield, Erin’s stomach gave a lurch. Overseas. Private jet. Jesus. This is real.

  If she changed her mind now, what would happen?

  Nothing, probably. Just years of grubbing in McJobs until she could stump up enough cash to fund her dream. Fuck that.

  The chauffeur parked up past the rows of two-seater planes and small jet craft, at a helipad.

  “Oh,” said Erin, longing for the chauffeur to confide in her. “Are we not going abroad then?”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” said the chauffeur, and Erin noticed that he coloured a little, as if embarrassed to be lured into speech. “I’m driving back to London. You are taking the trip.”

  They walked over to the helicopter, battling through the stiff breeze its already chopping rotor-blades sent gusting towards them.

  “Miss Parkinson,” said the chauffeur, handing her up into the aircraft.

  The pilot merely nodded and helped Erin strap herself into the passenger seat.

  “Flown in one of these before?” he asked politely.

  “God, no,” said Erin, and he laughed.

  That was the extent of their communication—seconds later, they were taking off, climbing into the sky above the north-western tip of London and heading…which way? South. South-east? Or just south? Erin couldn’t quite work it out, and neither could she really concentrate on much, with her stomach tight and her throat tighter. She’d never thought of herself as afraid of flying, but this was so different to being cooped up in economy on a bucket trip to the sun that it was laughable. It felt dangerous and yet exhilarating, freeing.

  “Where are we going?” she shouted, but the pilot either couldn’t hear her over the deafening roar of the engines or chose to ignore her.

  She looked down for her answer, over the forests and green fields of southern England, trying to pick out any landmarks. Chalk downlands and a cathedral—could that be Winchester? And then they were approaching the coast and she saw dockyards, high-rise buildings, the iconic new Spinnaker Tower, even the masts of Nelson’s flagship, HMS Victory.

  “Portsmouth,” she said in surprise. Surely this wasn’t traditional millionaire territory. Perhaps he was some kind of sailor. An admiral or something.

  The helicopter was hovering lower in the sky, preparing to land, yet they were over the narrow strip of sea between Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight. Now she could see people on the beaches, a hovercraft zipping across the Solent, funfair rides on the pier.

  “Where are we…oh God! We’re landing in the sea?”

  But the pilot simply shook his head and wrestled all the harder with his controls.

  Erin saw now that they were aiming to land on one of the strange circular fortresses that stood in the sea off Portsmouth, presumably built as defences in time of war.

  “He lives here? In the middle of the sea?”

  Erin didn’t expect an answer and she didn’t get one. But despite the beautiful sparkle of the sea on all sides and the cheerful surroundings, she felt cold and fearful. This was true isolation. If she wanted to leave, how could she?

  This fear was momentarily overwhelmed by a dread of missing the helipad inside the tower roof and drowning, but the pilot knew his mark and he landed with perfect accuracy in the centre.

  “Bloody hell,” said Erin, feeling the need to unburden.

  The pilot simply powered down his vehicle, unbuckled his seatbelt and motioned for Erin to do the same.

  He was gruff enough, in his leather one-piece and pilot’s helmet, but he had a reassuring air of competence and eyes much bluer than the greyish Portsmouth waves. Erin, without knowing why, felt safe with him.

  He beckoned her to a hatch in the roof of the tower and she followed him down into a strange curved world.

  The chamber below the helipad was vast and circular with heavily reinforced windows that kept out the tang of salt and seaweed so much in evidence above.

  When the pilot left her there, she presumed he had gone to fetch the mysterious ‘Sir’, and she wandered over to the nearest of the arched windows to investigate. Far below, waves crashed against the grey walls and gulls flew by, on the lookout for their next meal. But it was the interior of the room Erin was most interested in. Was it every inch the millionaire playboy pad?

  It was certainly luxurious and there wasn’t much evidence of a feminine touch. But, despite the obvious quality of the furnishings, the room didn’t look styled. It would never impress a connoisseur of interior décor. It was eclectic, Erin supposed. That was what they called things that didn’t match or look right together. Eclectic. A roll-topped antique walnut writing desk and a black leather couch. A jumble of Egyptian-looking artefacts on a smoked glass coffee table. It was weird. Erin liked the concert-sized piano in the centre of the room, though, and she walked over to it and lifted the lid, first looking up to make sure she wasn’t observed.

  I’m not nervous, she said to herself. I’m excited.

  The bookshelves were what she needed to see. The bookshelves would give away what kind of man this was.

  She was only halfway over to them, though, when a voice halted her.

  “You won’t find much to help you with women’s studies there.”

  She leapt around, obscurely guilty, and stared at the windswept, handsome man who stood in the doorway, half smiling at her.

  The blue eyes were unmistakable.

  “Oh, it was you all along,” she said, favourably impressed after all the nights she had spent trying to imagine her purchaser. Old, she had decided, and jaded, looking for some new plaything to enliven his shortening span. Or so hideous that companionship could only be bought. She had steeled herself for the worst and now she wanted to laugh hysterically at how different the reality had proved.

  “Please excuse me for not introducing myself. I needed to see you outside the context of an established relationship, however briefly.”

  He sounded almost ludicrously polite and well educated.

  Erin had wondered if he’d swagger in and order her to ‘kiss his feet, bitch’, or words to that effect. Nope. Not yet.

  She nodded, appreciating his words.

  “Puts you at an immediate advantage as well,” she pointed out.

  “I think that’s part of the deal, isn’t it?” His smile glittered, suddenly altering the room’s character from comfortable to dangerous.

  “I suppose.” Erin’s skin chilled at this reminder of her situation. He had paid. Paid for her. She was the goods.

  “Anyway.” He stepped farther into the room, watching her intently with each pace forward. “We were talking about books. Women’s studies is your subject, isn’t it? Or is it psychology?”

  Erin shook her head, glad to be moving on to a topic she could happily discuss until the cows came home. Or the gulls.

  “History,” she said. “Social and cultural history, specifically—”

  He held up his hand, silencing her.

  “I don’t need chapter and verse just yet,” he said. “I was making conversation. I’m not good at it, I’ll admit, so it probably didn’t come over the way I intended. I’m not what you’d call a social animal.”

  “I could have worked that one out from this place.” Erin chuckled self-consciously and waved her hand towards a window. “I’ve heard of social phobia, but living in the middle of the sea…”

  “That’ll do.” His tone was sharp enough to pull her up short.

  She thought she might have offended him and she fel
t her cheeks heat.

  “I daresay you have questions about me and my life, but I have no intention of answering any of them. You know what you need to know—that I have bought your submission, which you now owe me. I don’t want a companion or a conversationalist. I want a toy.”

  Erin gasped. She knew she should have expected this attitude, and she tried to shrug it off, but it sounded so bald and shocking, expressed like that.

  “Don’t look so stunned,” he said, more gently. “I’m careful with my toys. I always have been. I wouldn’t even break up my Lego, once it was constructed. I’m careful with everything. You could say that was the secret of my success, in a way.”

  He drew a short breath and continued, perhaps sensing that Erin had seen an opening for more questions.

  “The bedroom is directly underneath this room, down the spiral stairs. I have laid out an outfit for you. I want you to shower, change and meet me back up here when you’re ready. Are you hungry?”

  She nodded, although she didn’t really know whether she was or not. Her body had temporarily forgotten its usual responses.

  “I’ll have some food brought up from the kitchen.”

  Brought up—there is somebody else living here. A servant of some kind.

  She stood a moment longer, staring blankly at his tall, athletic figure in open-necked shirt and expensive jeans. He looked normal, if a bit on the gorgeous side. He really shouldn’t look normal.

  “Are you waiting for something? The stairs are through here.”

  He chivvied her out of the room to the stone spiral beyond.

  He had been smiling at her, Erin recalled, using the knowledge as a token, something to make her feel safe.

  The stairs led down to another huge circular room with a glassed-off wet room directly in the centre.