Romance: The Billionaire Alpha Collection

by Ward, Penny

  I whisper to myself, “No choice, Amelia. You have no choice.”

  My phone beeps from the kitchen, so I rush to silence it and to read the message:

  Be ready for collection in one hour. My driver will text you when he arrives. Do not wait for him in the street. Be clean, be alone, wear no perfume or underwear beneath a black evening gown, and wear heels. I also prefer minimal makeup. Do not keep me waiting. Bryce

  “Bossy...” The corners of my mouth creep up in spite of me. “No underwear, a black evening gown? He thinks I’m a tart?” My smile dies.

  Sneaking my way around the apartment, I rush to the refrigerator and fix myself a large glass of red wine before taking it to the bathroom.

  Damn Greg for leaving me in debt.

  I’ve never had to hide from a landlord before, never had to consider selling myself before either.

  “What have I become?”

  I gulp back the wine in a couple of mouthfuls and climb in the shower.

  Enjoying the buzz of alcohol and the hot soapy water as it cleanses my every crevice, I think of Bryce, of what he might want me to do for him, to him, and I touch myself until at least some of my anxiety spills down the drain.

  Then I dry off my hair, wondering whether I should attempt to style it instead of letting the crazy curls take over as usual.

  In all fairness, there is little to be done with it other than a ponytail, and that just seemed wrong for this event.

  Instead, I squirt it with defrizz oil, which at least sets it to manageable waves.

  Then I pull out my only black dress, a knee-length velvet tube-like thing I bought from a sales rack two years previous, and my only pair of heels—also black, suede, but too high for me—which appear new because I only wore them once before. Once dressed and strangely missing my padded bra more than my panties, I wait for the text from Bryce’s driver, as per his instructions.

  Ten minutes later and one more large glass of red wine, the driver texts me:

  Come down now.

  “Short and sweet,” I say, grabbing the purse containing my cell and my apartment keys, I move as quickly as my heels would allow down the stairs. When I step outside, I’m stunned. “He sent the limo, for me?” I say to no one, hoping the neighbors are twitching at their curtains. I climb onto the cream leather seat and face several crystal glasses, but an empty bar.

  “Ah, no alcohol.” I’m no alcoholic, but my nerves screamed for more wine.

  “Mr. Bryce doesn’t like his ladies to drink,” the driver says from behind a screen.

  “Oops.” I hide a hiccup behind my hand. “Just needed a little Dutch courage.”

  The screen rolls down and the smiling driver—in his late fifties —throws me a pack of gum. “Chew as many as you can. Drink several glasses of water. You’ll be fine by the time we arrive, and he doesn’t need to know nothing.”

  He winks and smiles. I like this guy straight away.

  “Thanks. Sorry, I don’t normally drink so much so fast.”

  “No problem. We all get a little nervous now and then. My weakness is Jack and Coke. What’s yours?”

  “Red wine. It’s the only alcohol I like the taste of.”

  “Bet you like champagne though, huh?”

  “Wouldn’t know, sorry.”

  Me, champagne?

  He frowns. “Right, this drive will take a little under half an hour. Sit back and relax. I’m under strict instructions not to speak to you while I drive, and to make sure you use your seat belt. Mr. Morgan likes things just so.”

  “Yeah, I noticed.” I search for the seatbelt. “Now where’s the...oh, here it is.” I buckle up and throw a large glassful of water down my gullet before removing my shoes with an appreciative sigh.

  “Ready to go?”

  I take one, large deep breath.

  “Ready.”

  Chapter 5

  Twenty-five minutes later, the limousine stops.

  I straighten myself up, pull my shoes on my feet, and prepare for whatever would meet me once I left the car.

  The driver opens my door.

  “Here you go, Miss.” He helps me out with a well-placed hand for me to hold on to. “You have yourself a lovely evening.”

  “Um, thanks.” I wonder if he thinks I’m a whore, or Bryce’s date. “Sorry, what do I call you?”

  “George. You can call me George, ma’am.”

  “Thanks, George. Please call me Amelia,” I say, standing before a huge, old building built with huge, pale stones, and my shaky legs make my heels sink into the pebbly driveway. Ivy almost engulfs the entire front wall of the mansion and creeps around each window frame, as if desperate to find a way in.

  “I’m going in there, George?” Bryce’s home is three times larger than my apartment.

  Not one apartment either, but three times bigger than the entire building. I am eager, and stand awkwardly, sinking further.

  “Mr. Morgan will collect you in a minute or so, ma’am. I have to rush off. Will you be okay?”

  I frown. This is it.

  “I don’t know, this is...”

  George rests a caring hand on my shoulder. “His bark’s far worse than his bite.”

  George offers a warm smile, and with a tilt of his head, he climbs into the limo and drives off.

  His bark is worse than his bite?

  Is he going to bite me? Or just bark at me like a dog?

  Shit. I have no idea what is going on.

  “What am I doing here? Am I really this desperate? Please don’t kill me and bury me in the grounds.”

  I scan the area and decide he must own acres of land.

  “They’ll never find me.” I whisper.

  Standing in the shadow of the great building, my outfit feels even more inappropriate.

  I glimpse down at my pale, pantyhose-free legs and at the sticking-out nipples of my braless boobs, and feel the air circulate my panty-less crotch.

  Dread makes my jaw clench and my muscles tense.

  Yet as I take my first steps towards the building, the breeze tells me I’m moist between my legs.

  Chapter 6

  Bryce opens the huge door and leans, arms crossed, against the doorframe. His face is stoic, giving nothing away.

  “Ah, Amelia.”

  “Hi, um...”

  What should I call him? Master? Bryce, Mr. Lover-man?

  “Mr. Morgan.”

  “Call me Bryce, please. Come.” He rakes one hand back through his black, wavy mane and calls me over with the other. “Let’s get started.”

  Get started?

  He’s so going to make me earn every penny.

  “Sure.” I struggle to move over the driveway, my heels sinking between the tiny pebbles and anxiety filling my stomach. “Give me a second. I’m not used to these shoes, and they don’t like gravel.”

  I try to laugh it off as he elegantly stands there staring, wearing a bright white linen shirt and pale blue jeans.

  He huffs and checks his timepiece. “I don’t like to be kept waiting. Could you move a little faster?”

  Control freak or what?

  “No, can’t you tell?” How rude. “If I take these things off, I’ll get to you much quicker. Wouldn’t want to keep you waiting.”

  “No!” he shouts, raising his hands. “Don’t take them off.”

  I stop what I’m doing.

  “You might cut your feet. There’s glass among the pebbles, you know.” He glares at me like I’m stupid and jogs down the steps from the huge double door entrance, to me on the driveway below.

  You can afford this sickeningly large house but not a smooth driveway?

  Why the hell did George drop me off so far from the damn door?

  Striding toward me, his gaze travels over my body like his eyes have tentacles and each one’s reaching out to touch me.

  Once he reaches me, without asking or hesitating, he lifts me up, one arm around my back, one under my knees, and my cheek falls against his shoulders.r />
  “I keep meaning to get this driveway paved. It’ll be done by next week. Why didn’t George drop you off at the stairs?”

  “He said he had to rush off. Maybe you’re keeping him too busy?”

  He smells intoxicating; a mixture of mint, lemon, and spice. When I risk gazing up at him, his skin couldn’t be clearer, smoother, more touchable.

  I can’t help but stare, enjoying the strength of his biceps around my back and under my knees, and the sound of his heart beating beneath my cheek.

  “Perhaps. Still, I’ll be having words.”

  “Thank you,” I say, the strange cocktail of emotions still bubbling in my stomach.

  Inside the building, he sets me down on a pale marble floor. I will my legs to stand and survey the many signs of wealth: the sheer opulence in all things, from soft furnishings and curtains to bronze statues and wall art.

  The attractive face of his maid appears from a room to our right.

  “Good afternoon, sir, madam.”

  “Hi,” I say, crossing my arms over my erect nipples.

  “Kelly,” Bryce asks, “Is everything ready?”

  Kelly did a little curtsy. “Yes, sir. Will there be anything else?”

  “No. Help the kitchen staff and the housekeeper with the arrangements for this evening.”

  “Very good, sir.” Kelly leaves, blushing, trying to avoid eye contact with me as she passes me and says, “Ma’am.”

  “You live in Downton Abbey,” I think aloud.

  Bryce snorts, surprising me.

  He shakes his head and smiles, and it’s like the sun came out indoors, warming the atmosphere.

  He checks the clock on the wall, grabs my hand, and drops his smile. “Quick, come with me.”

  We travel one of the two staircases up to the second floor’s swooshing landing and face a long corridor of around twelve doors. “Where are you taking me in such a hurry?”

  “To a bedroom, where else?”

  “Of course.”

  No wining and dining on this date.

  Shit, this is moving so fast. “I’m an idiot,” I say, again without meaning to say it aloud. “Crap, I’m nervous and...”

  “You’re gibbering.”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t. Here we are.”

  He opens the third door on our right, into the corridor, and leads me into a large, white room, plain other than a blood-red carpet and a bunch of red roses standing out on the large, white dresser.

  The only window is tall and wide, but the blood-red curtains are closed tight.

  “Go inside, strip, and lie face up on the bed.”

  What the...?

  “Really? Face up?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you going?”

  There might be a queue of men waiting somewhere to use my body while he observes. No amount of money’s worth that.

  “This arrangement is only between us two, no one else. Yes?”

  He frowns. “Of course. I’m no pimp. Don’t worry...I’m going nowhere. I’ll be watching.”

  “Oh.”

  Watching me strip?

  “So long as you know...no one else, and no pain. Yes?” I reiterate.

  “I signed the agreement. Now come, come.” He snaps his fingers and points at the bed. “Comply.”

  Oh shit, this is happening.

  “Okay.”

  My world becomes a blur and I kick my shoes off with another sigh of relief.

  But when I grab the hem of my dress, ready to drag it up and over my head, fear really takes hold.

  My mouth dries, my heart pounds, and my palms sweat. I stand up straight and glare over at Bryce, who’s taken a seat next to the bed to enjoy the show.

  “What’s wrong now?” he drawls.

  “I’ve never done this kind of thing before. I have never even had a one-night stand; give me a second to...to build up to it.”

  “Here,” he offers me a glass of water. “Try to calm down.”

  Water?

  Can he smell the wine?

  With a shaky hand, I take it.

  “Thanks.” After a few gulps, I close my eyes and enjoy how it cools me down from inside. “Right, let’s do this.”

  After setting the glass on the bedside table, I grab my hem and without thinking about it this time, I pull the dress over my head and dive on the bed, star-shaped and eyes closed. “Like this?”

  “Perfect,” he says, standing over me to appreciate my whole body blush, and to see me squirm too, no doubt. “And please,” he presses a finger to my lips, “Shush. No more talking unless I wish it, yes?”

  “What?” I open my eyes. “Fine.”

  He walks over to the white dresser and plucks out four red silk sashes from the first drawer down.

  “I’m going to restrain you for my pleasure. Do not wiggle or protest in any way. If you do, I’ll make them tighter, and you will have made me break the contract. Yes?”

  What the hell?

  Restrain me? This is my last chance to run. Once I’m tied up, it’s all over.

  He takes my hand and pulls the silk through my palm.

  “See, super soft and gentle. It doesn’t have to hurt one bit.”

  I glance at the door, at my clothes on the floor, my purse with the cell phone beneath the dress, and wonder if I could escape now anyway.

  Studying Bryce’s eyes as he starts tying one sash around my left ankle, I decide there’s nothing left to lose—other than my life.

  And since Bryce signed a contract saying he won’t hurt me, one he knows I had witnessed by a friend of mine who also knows I’m with him, so he’s unlikely to kill me.

  At least there’s that.

  “Okay,” I murmur. “Go ahead.”

  Slowly, deliberately, expertly, he ties each of my limbs to a post on the four-poster bed.

  It looks old, the bed.

  Antique even.

  I examine it, trying to block out the fear in my chest and the dread of what’s to come.

  Greg proved that anyone beautiful isn’t necessarily kind.

  Men rarely are kind.

  Bryce likes to own his women, to tie them up for his pleasure. It didn’t bode well for the rest of the evening.

  But it could be worse, and I need that paycheck.

  When fully restrained, Bryce stands wide legged at the side of the bed, hands shoved deep into the back pockets of his pale blue jeans, studying me from head to foot and taking in every goose-pimpled, shivering inch.

  I close my eyes again and try to remember Stacey’s reassurances that this could be fun as well as profitable.

  I doubt she’d still be saying the same if she saw me like this.

  “Excellent,” his powerful voice bursts through the silence. “I’m leaving you now for a while. I’ll be back...” he crosses his arms and leans back, inadvertently thrusting his crotch in my direction, “When I’m ready.”

  Without so much as a wink, he spins on his heel to leave.

  What, where?

  “Wait, you’re leaving? What about me? What if someone else walks in? They could do what they like, and I won’t be able to do a damn thing about it.”

  “I own you, remember? That means you don’t get to question my actions, but I’m also responsible for your safety. Be quiet, be patient, and most of all, be good.”

  With that, he leaves me butt-naked and star-shaped in an old bed fit for a king.

  As a typical good girl, I do as I’m told...for at least half an hour.

  The silence is eerie, and the cold nips at my flesh, especially my nipples, both of which only serve to further aggravate me.

  I think the contract over.

  I think of everything Stacey said to me, hoping it would reassure me for a second time. I just think, and think, and think.

  There’s nothing else to do.

  He said he wouldn’t hurt me, but he’s tied me up.

  Why do that if he doesn’t plan to hurt me?

  Why leave
me alone like this when he seemed in such a rush to get me here?

  I’m not exactly earning that huge paycheck.

  “This isn’t good. This is madness. I’m naked and helpless in the hands of a megalomaniac, in a mansion who-knows-where.”

  I wiggle, pull, and shove my limbs, considering my escape, but he’s tied them so that the more I do any of those things, the tighter they become.

  The ties at my ankles tighten so my feet throb with the buildup of blood.

  I stop wriggling and give up on escape.

  “Dammit, it’s useless. I’ll die here, tied up with beautiful red silk sashes.”

  Chapter 7

  The room soon warms up, and my body along with it.

  Perhaps he turned the heating up when he left me.

  He must have been gone an hour. Either way, I’m sleepy, trying to ignore the precariousness of my situation and remembering the financial ending to this humiliating experience. My eyes begin to close for a snooze, but the door handle turns with a squeak and I hold my breath, fearful of who might enter.

  Bryce strolls in and asks, “Would you like a drink?”

  “Yes… Yes please.”

  He opens a wooden cupboard to reveal a hidden fridge containing several bottles of spring water. He plucks a straw from the drawer above it and pops it into the bottle after removing the cap. “I’m going to lift your head, Amelia, and you will sip from this.”

  I do as he says, enjoying the cold water as it coats my mouth and cools my stomach. I shiver as it lowers my temperature again.

  “It’s good. Thank you, Bryce.”

  “You have wonderful manners, something sadly declining in the modern world.” He places the water on the bedside table and appears genuinely saddened.

  I admit: I agree with him, but I say nothing.

  Bryce sits in the large bottle-green leather armchair beside me, legs spread wide, revealing his crotch—much to my distraction. “Time for a talk.”

  “A talk? With me? You want to talk?” I shriek fragments of sentences, annoying even myself. “I don’t understand.”