by Claire, Ava
His Love (The Billionaire Dom Diaries, Part Four)
Ava Claire
Copyright © 2015 Ava Claire
The Billionaire Dom Diaries Series
His Need (The Billionaire Dom Diaries, Part One): March 13
His Desire (The Billionaire Dom Diaries, Part Two): March 27
His Passion (The Billionaire Dom Diaries, Part Three): April 10
His Love (The Billionaire Dom Diaries, Part Four): April 24
**Please note: The Billionaire Dom Diaries Series is a sequel to to The Billionaire’s Wife series.**
E-book License Edition Notes
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Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter Nineteen
Entry #4
He had my mother's eyes.
The minute the lanky, wide eyed kid had shuffled up to our table, folder tucked under his arm, it was the first thing I noticed.
The swirls of gray. The familiar, dark intensity. The curvature and shape of his eyes as he pushed the blond locks that spilled into his view behind his ears. I'd spent my entire childhood looking into eyes that looked just like his, searching for something lost.
My mother's eyes.
I saw the love when she looked at my father, this glowing need that radiated from her when he spared a smile for her or if she was really lucky, a kiss. The gray would turn electric with pain when he left. She'd hold the phone and grit her teeth while he explained why a month in Italy was now two months. The stormy hue turned deadly when he was home, but clearly wanted to be anywhere else, already searching for some new project. Already plotting his next escape.
But for me, those eyes, my mother's eyes, held nothing but contempt, if they held any emotion at all.
So I mirrored the look. I hid my truth behind cold indifference. I pretended I didn't long to find something in the pewter gray hue that made me feel like I was more than a mistake.
I always came up empty.
And then I was hit with those same eyes, but for the first time, I saw something impossible. Something I thought I'd given up on.
Hope.
If that sucker punch to the gut wasn't enough, the kid had this goofy smile smeared on his face as he said the word that made everything else in the room go quiet.
'Brother.'
I had a brother.
I was with a colleague, who looked just as flabbergasted and uncomfortable as I felt. Before I let him see how terrified I was; how excited, I snatched the mask back in place. Admonished him for interrupting a business lunch that, let's face it, was boring me to tears anyway. My potential 'brother' had dropped a bomb that trumped any talk about expansion or concerns that board members had expressed. I had been proving myself to naysayers as far back as I could remember. The new clientele in LA would double our quarterly forecast earnings in the first two months alone. The board would just have take their blood pressure pills and watch me take Whitmore and Creighton's profits through the roof.
But this lanky, smiling, stranger had rendered me utterly speechless. The bomb started ticking the moment he saddled up to our table and met my eye. It exploded in my chest when he said that word.
After he left us, promising to meet at the cafe across the street, I'd phoned in the rest of my meeting. I walked across the street with my limbs filled with lead and my mouth dry as dust. I pulled on my best 'unaffected' mask and played the role I'd played most of my life. I was an emotionless, cold vessel.
I'd told Cole I didn't believe a word, and wouldn't until I confirmed it through my own means.
I'd lied.
Somewhere, I'd known it was truth.
I had a brother.
It was all in the eyes.
****
"Are you ready?"
It was a question I should have been asking her, considering her current state.
The question was so deliciously Leila that I couldn't help but lift one side of my mouth in amusement. Amusement quickly became desire when she dropped her eyes and bit her lips in the vulnerable way that drove every drop of blood in me to my groin.
For a man that prided myself on control, especially when we entered our playroom, I couldn't keep the urge to bury my cock inside her, ceremony be damned, in its proper place.
The metal rings her wrists were attached to creaked and I took a sobering step backward, opting to focus on the unusually complex act of rolling up my sleeves. The creak repeated itself and just in case I missed that, Leila sniffed.
Her question was still unanswered. I had no intention of answering it. That would require exiting this space—even if it was only in my mind, and only long enough to assure her that I was ready to be her Dom. I had no interest in discussing the threat of Lars Eichmann or the slew of events that had transpired over the last couple of days. I refused to address my mother's role in all of it. What I needed, and what my wife needed, was the escape and freedom we found in these four walls. Where there were no half truths, no lies...nothing but us.
So I took everything else and I shoved it out the door.
I closed it. Locked it.
I gave her the only answer she needed.
"Did I give you permission to speak?"
Her eyes widened with excitement and relief. She wet her lips. "No sir."
I caressed her gaze, wanting to make sure that she knew that I would be present. I didn't tell her to meet me in the room because I was running away from what happened. I was running to Leila. Running to us.
She gave me the slightest nod and waited for my next command.
I took her in, at a complete loss for words. Leila was naked, her luminescent skin glowing in the dim light. Her body was spread out in the most beautiful way. I drank in all the parts of her that made my heart race: the big brown eyes that were always so open, so vulnerable. The curve of her lips. The line of her neck. The swell of her breasts; the way her blush colored nipples pebbled with anticipation. Her sex, open and waiting.
Her body was an erotic X, her fair skin poured onto the dark, rich mahogany wood. Every time I saw her this way it felt like the first time. The flash of wonder that she was mine; that she would submit to me willingly. The thrill of watching her writhe with impatience and need, wondering what dark and passionate things I planned to do to her. It was followed by the intoxicating moment when the curiosity that rounded her eyes was finally satisfied. I craved the way she gave me complete control and her body became mine to do with as I wished—and my wish was to find out what made her wet. What made her quiver. What made her a hitch a breath. What took her to the edge...and what pushed her over.
Her wrists and ankles were secured to the St. Andrews Cross. While the question she posed a few moments ago hung unanswered, her body had been responding for me from the moment I led her to the playroom. It was in the way she drew to the cross like a moth to a flame, looking up at me with her eyes wild with need. The way she bit her lip as she peeled off every stitch of clothing. The way the air was charged with lust as she watched me pull out the rope. She’d sucked in a
breath as my fingers skimmed her breasts, brushing her nipples before I bound her. Her body wanted my answer to be yes. Yes was the only option.
Luckily for us both, I refused to entertain any train of thought besides one that led to me finding out how many times I could make my wife come.
My heart seemed ready to burst from my chest as I took in how beautiful she was, how raw, so I pulled my gaze from her quivering breasts. I couldn't concentrate when I saw that her nipples were hard as rocks, clearly aching for the bite of nipple clamps. My gaze drew lower, which proved to be even more dangerous. Her sex was spread open, the desire that made her bite her lip when I stripped off my jacket coating her skin. I knew how wet the anticipation made her, lust seeping from her as she trembled and waited for my brutal touch.
She peered at me, her eyes urging me to pick her punishment. To touch her. To hurt her and hold her. To give her the dark release.
Her fingertips danced to some rhythm that made me pull closer to her, reaching for them to squeeze and check her circulation. She hadn't been restrained long enough for there to be any issues, but I slipped my finger beneath the rope that wrapped its way across her flesh. My cock throbbed when I conjured up the fragile pink impression that would be left on her skin as she pulled against the binds, arching toward my touch.
And considering she was in no position to run or escape from the situation, I couldn't help but smile.
I brought my hands to my lips as soon as it fluttered across my face, surprised that I even remembered how—then I turned to the intricate chest beside me. I lifted the lid, my eye immediately drawn to a small, rectangular, black case. I felt her gaze craning as I opened it, but she was too far to see the metal that gleamed against the red velvet. The Wartenburg Wheel was a tiny device, the slender handle cool to the touch. But it was the end of it that caught the light and made Leila gasp when I held it up for her to see. A circle of sharp pins would rotate as it rolled across her flesh. It would be the ultimate test in trust. In control. Neither of us could make any sudden movements or the pins could break the flesh.
I advanced toward her, needing to gauge her response with something more than verbal cues. "This is our first time using this device. It's different than the flogger or nipple clamps or any number of toys we've used." I used my free hand to tousle her curls, my fingertips lingering at her jaw. "You have to trust me. Trust that I know just how much pressure to apply and when to stop. Do you understand?"
She looked ready to bob her head in agreement, but caught herself and used her words. "Yes sir." It was enough for me to proceed, but she quickly added, "I trust you."
I saw it in her eyes, in the way her gaze was on me and not following the device as it inched toward her naked flesh. I started at her forearm, pressing the pins gently into her skin, watching the blood rush to the surface and fade as I skimmed to her shoulder. I retraced my steps with my fingertips, the goosebumps that fluttered beneath my touch echoing over me.
My hardened arousal pressed against my fly as my path drew toward her breast. I gripped her nipple with my fingertips, and the moan she uttered stroked my balls and hummed in my veins. When the spikes danced around her nipple, her mouth fell open in a cry of ecstasy. I cupped her sex with my free hand and teased her nipple with the wheel. The sound she released was filled with abandon.
One finger plunged inside her wetness, while my other explored the curve of her breast, the pressure deepening as she hissed a breath from behind her clenched teeth. When my thumb flicked her swollen bundle of nerves, she started pulling against her binds. The low whine of the metal rings joined the melody of moans and the wet lick of her juices as I plunged in and out of her.
"I want you to come for me." My voice was thick with need. I wanted to feel her lose control. When her body started to tremble uncontrollably, her face contorted in ecstasy, I thrusted the spikes over her nipples once more and put it aside, knowing that she was coming undone. Making her climax made me lose control and the chances of my hand remaining steady were slim to none. So I focused my energy on pumping, fingers knuckle deep inside her as she cried out to me, to God, to anyone that would listen.
Her body squeezed me for dear life, muscles twitching and spasming as she pulled and twisted against the cross. Watching her face go mad with lust fueled the fire inside me and I rushed to unbind her. She melted into my arms and I swept her up, carrying her to the bed.
Her breathing was elevated, her cheeks flushed as she trembled from her release. I wanted to feel her from the inside. I needed to touch her so deeply that she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she was it for me. There was no one in existence that moved me the way Leila did. No one I'd rather call my wife, my partner, my submissive, than Leila.
She collapsed against the pillows, her chest rising and falling. She stroked my swollen need with her eyes, licking her lips like she could already taste it inside her, then parted her thighs.
The Dom in me wanted to thrust inside her with no mercy. How could I not take her when she was so open? So willing? But I wanted to take my time. I wanted her to feel every stroke, every heartbeat while I took us to bliss.
I lingered at the sweet spot that made her lips round, her moan on the tip of her tongue. Her body embraced me and I plunged inside her warmth.
I claimed her lips, claimed her body as her arms wrapped around me, pulling me deeper. Holding me tight like I was the only thing tethering her to the ground. She vaulted her hips up to meet me and I was going deeper, filling her, stretching her and I saw my face reflected in her eyes. My own abandon spilled from my lips as I told her she was the only one. That she was my everything.
When she came, shuddering as her nails raked down my back, I let go and we lost ourselves together. Even panting, sweating, and delirious, we laid tangled in each other.
Her head was nestled on my shoulder, her sigh giving her away before she said a word. "I wish we could stay like this forever."
I knew I should tell her it would all be okay. And that we'd figure out this mess together. But I was too exhausted to look on the bright side; to pretend like I wasn't just as weary with it all as she was.
So I told the truth, lips pressed against her forehead.
"Me too, Lay." I inhaled her scent and held onto it. "Me too."
Chapter Twenty
You have twenty-four hours...then I'm dealing with her.
My brother sent the text message fifteen minutes after we landed, a one handed text probably composed as he sped to the hospital to get Brittany looked at. I'd left the thinly veiled threat unanswered, but the timer silently ticked away in my head.
I had four hours until Cole would rain holy hell on my mother.
I didn't white knuckle the steering wheel. My mother's home (and rescue) was far from the first thing on my mind once we landed back in the States. I connected with my wife, checked in at the office, and unpacked my clothing, pretending that fear hadn't taken up residency in my chest. Pretending like there wasn't a voice in my head urging me to get the truth. To save her.
It was my mother's voice...her words drenched in tears because Cole had a gun pressed to her temple.
My car pointed in the direction of the woman that brought me into this world, much to her chagrin. Despite my conscience battling it out with my disgust over the whole situation, I was in no hurry for the bullshit that awaited me. I knew equal doses of shock and awe would battle it out on her face as she clasped a hand to her chest and called for a glass of water. She'd sip it gingerly, then snatch her hand to her mouth and gasp about how terrible it all was. When I cut through the bullshit and asked her point blank if she had something to do with it, she'd try out her best appalled expression. She'd huff that she would never do such a thing and was insulted I'd even think otherwise.
She'd lie, because that's what my mother excelled at.
There was a depraved part of me that wanted to pull to the side of the road. Let the clock run out. Watch Cole zip past with blood in his eyes. But I'd seen th
at look up close and personal. There was a cold brutality in the way he killed several men—and would have blown Lars away without blinking. I saw that assassin-like precision as he offed the guard at the gate and disposed of the house staff before having a cup of tea with my mother.
So I kept driving.
For the staff's sake.
The thought brought a wave of guilt that left a bitter pang in my chest. Now I was lying. Despite everything that happened, all of the resentment that ate away at me over the years, I still didn't want my mother to be hurt. There was a disconcerting need to protect her against all rational need to make her accountable for her actions. We'd all done and said things that we regretted. Healing would take time, but I could envision a future where I thought of my brother and Brittany and didn't want to strangle someone. Murder doesn't allow healing...it leaves a gaping wound that never closes.
I knew better than anyone that revenge led to a dark place there was no coming out of.
I had no intention of stopping at the gate. The guard, Benjamin, knew my car and always retracted the gate long before I had to do more than tap my brakes. Today, the gate didn't make the familiar buzz that followed with the iron spikes parting like the Red Sea.
I slowed to a stop, turning toward the guard station. I scanned the tiny room with a frown, expecting to see Benjamin engrossed in The Price is Right or some daytime soap. He'd snap his head from the TV, pulled back to reality.
There was no Benjamin.
The room was empty.
The door was ajar.
Cole was here.
Heart storming in my chest, I punched the car into park and rushed into the guard station. Nothing seemed awry—the military-like order my mother ran everything from the staff to her closets rang true. Papers were still stacked neatly on the desk. There wasn’t a speck of dust or any indication that anything was out of order or slightly off center, from the framed watercolor on the wall to the clock that seemed to taunt me.
Tick...you should have come to her immediately...tock...now your brother has killed Benjamin and God knows who else because of your pride.
