Billionaire's Pet 3

by Christa Wick

  This is the final installment in the Billionaire’s Pet collection, which must be read in order.

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  Copyright Š 2012 by Christa Wick

  Cover art Š Sanja Naumov, licensed from dreamstime. All persons and entities are fictional. Not for sale to libraries. No lending outside distributor (e.g.

  Kindle/Nook) terms of service. Otherwise, re-distributing, lending, or reading this e-book without first purchasing a license to do so is illegal and subject to heavy fines.

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  Billionaire’s Pet 3

  Alone, Griffin Montgomery paced the wide length of his library. He had kept the room locked during Katelyn’s stay. More than any other place in the world, the house’s library was his sanctuary and had been from early childhood. Since his mother’s death, the room’s only other visitors were Philip and Claire and, once quarterly, a cleaning staff to dust and polish under his housekeeper’s watchful eye.

  Now, standing in front of an easel with a table of paints and brushes at his side, Griffin contemplated the unthinkable — bringing Katelyn to the room. More unthinkable, he wanted to paint her.

  His gaze scanned the room. His landscapes filled the spaces between floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Above the fireplace, a cleaner section of wall indicated the recent removal of another painting. His mouth twitched and his brows drew together in a scowl.

  Leaving the painting out on display was not an option. With Katelyn’s quick mind, she would have recognized its place of importance and that the painting was by Griffin’s own hand. Of course, as observant as she was quick, she’d notice the blank spot, too.

  He closed his eyes, picturing the object of the painting. Not a woman or a man but a dog. A sleeping bloodhound, to be exact, sitting on a thick fur rug with a quiet evening’s fire warming his backside. Maudlin, yes, but Jupiter and his handler had found a nearly unconscious Griffin lost in the woods on a winter night when he was thirteen. Undoubtedly experiencing guilt over why her son had run off into the estate’s woods, Griffin’s mother had convinced the dog’s owner to part with him for a very large fee.

  Jupiter was seven at the time, old for a bloodhound. He somehow survived another four years before age and bloat finally took him. Griffin had felt more grief at Jupiter’s passing than he did in later years when his father and then his mother died. Hell, at the end of their lives, he felt no love for his parents, but the painting of Jupiter still had the power to squeeze at Griffin’s chest.

  That was exactly why Katelyn couldn’t see it. Her beautiful hazel eyes would go all soft and knowing and she would ask him about the dog. Then her questions would venture into other areas of his past. As private and stoic as Katelyn was, the woman wanted to get personal with him. She wanted to know him beyond his cock and money.

  Not acceptable.

  His scowl deepening, Griffin wrapped his hands around the edges of the canvas he had finished priming a few hours before. He could not allow Katelyn into the library. Nor could he continue playing with her, not with her injured ankle and the blow to her head from when she fell on the jogging path. Teasing and loving her in bed through the night had been low risk — for Katelyn.

  He, on the other hand, had been infected with an unfamiliar weakness. Every step away from her that morning had clawed at his stomach and tried to hook and drag him back into the bedroom. Fuck if he hadn’t wanted to cuddle on the bed with Katelyn tucked in the circle of his arms, his nose pressed against her thick, fragrant tresses and his fingers leisurely stroking her yielding flesh.

  Releasing the canvas, Griffin rubbed roughly at his cheek. Giving her his bedroom to use had been his first mistake. He knew already that, when Katelyn left, he would have to switch rooms, maybe even throw out the bed and set fire to the sheets that had encased her willing body.

  At Griffin’s command, Philip and Claire would quietly erase evidence of Katelyn’s stay. Not once would they comment on his display of weakness, but they would know one of Griffin’s pets had finally burrowed under his skin.

  Hell, they likely knew already — he had brought her to stay at the estate overnight. His past lovers only came for business events — formal balls, the company’s egg hunts at Easter and the executive Christmas party. The women never stayed the night. If he fucked them after the guests were gone, it was bent over his desk, the grand piano or the billiard table and strapped down as often as not. Before his cum had time to dry on their thighs, he packed them in the back of the limo for Philip to chauffer home.

  Striding past the easel, Griffin dropped heavily onto the divan he had repositioned for Katelyn’s sitting. He pressed one of the silk pillows across his face to block the room even as his mind continued to race its perimeter in search of an escape.

  He couldn’t paint Katelyn and he couldn’t play with her as planned. He needed to send her home with a check for the agreed upon sum and return to the work he had neglected the last few days or rent a very experienced submissive to relieve his frustrations.

  He snorted and pulled the pillow tighter to his face. He would need to rent an entire dungeon of submissives to fuck Katelyn out of his system. With a dozen women plugged, gagged, bound and blindfolded, he might find one he could look at for an hour or two without seeing Katelyn’s face.

  Dragging himself into a sitting position, Griffin tossed the pillow aside and fished his cellphone from his pocket. He would call Martinique, a female dominant and half-owner of his favorite club. She would round up some lovelies, get their signatures, pay them and have them blindfolded and lubed before his arrival. While he played in one of the club’s private dungeons, he would have Philip return Katelyn home.

  He would never lay eyes on her again, even if he had to pay her to move to another part of the world.

  Half-finished dialing Martinique’s number, a timid knock at the library door stopped him cold. Only two people knocked on that door — Philip and Claire.

  Sometimes more like twins than husband and wife, they had the same crisp triple-knock no matter what reception they expected when he answered.

  The knock came again, a little bolder and more confident.

  He growled inwardly. It could only be Katelyn. She would have used her cane to walk the distance from the far side of the house, but how did she know where to find him?

  He considered waiting, frozen and mute, for her to give up. She couldn’t stand there forever, her hurt ankle wouldn’t allow it. But how long would she wait?

  Knowing deep down she would remain outside his door until she further damaged her foot, he rose with a sigh. He unlocked the door and opened it enough to see her but with no space for Katelyn to step inside. His gaze passed over her body, starting with the careful position of her right foot. From there, his eyes moved up. A silk robe colored a light cream covered her body. Lustrous brown hair cascaded down one shoulder. The long, likely painful, walk had flushed her cheeks and lips a dark red while leaving the rest of her skin pale and bloodless.

  Seeing the subtle strain on her face, he wanted to scoop her up and carry her to the divan. That would make matters far worse than they already were. Instead, he glared at her, his voice taking on an imperious tone. “Why are you here?”

  Confusion wri
nkled Katelyn’s brow. Her gaze tracked left, down the long corridor that led toward the kitchen then she caught herself. Griffin refrained from looking down the hall. Someone had brought Katelyn to his door. The cameras would tell him later just who had been so bold, but he would bet half his fortune on Claire having done so. With no children of her own, she thought Griffin needed mothering.

  He closed his eyes for a few calming seconds. He didn’t need Claire’s good intentions. He needed to be alone, without any meddling staff and certainly without the soft, pliant beauty staring expectantly at him with soulful, aching eyes.

  “I did not summon you, if that is what you were told.”

  A quiver trembled and died across her bottom lip in the space of a second. She lifted her chin then shrugged.

  Unable to read the message buried in that shrug, his hand tightened on the door knob. “I can’t exactly play with you in this state like I bargained for, can I?”

  Another quiver flashed and was gone. Katelyn gave a slight shake of her head then her face went dead. “You’re right. I can’t satisfy the contract if injured.

  I’ll collect my clothes and leave.”

  “No.” He caught himself before his voice turned desperate. Ten seconds ago, he wanted her out of his house, now he wanted his arms around her, her face tilted up to receive his kisses. He needed time to decide which impulse would lead him to the right choice. “You can’t walk that far so soon and I’m in no mood to carry you.”

  Stepping back, he opened the door and gestured her inside. “You will rest then return to your room.”

  She started to shake her head but then he saw her gaze freeze. He knew by the angle that she had spotted the blank canvas. Without remarking on it or the paints readied and waiting, she moved into the room and took a seat on the divan. Placing the cane on the floor, she laid back and laced her fingers low across her stomach.

  Seeing the shake that ran through Katelyn’s hands, Griffin shut the door and locked it. He would wait a little longer before sending her away. Perhaps he would still call Martinique and arrange for a late evening indulgence, burning away his weakness for Katelyn with the pliant mouths and cunts of paid lovers.

  Maybe that would clear his head.

  Yes. Deciding the matter, he nodded as he crossed the room to stand by the divan. He would fuck Martinique’s comely subs until his dick was too worn to become rigid at the thought or sight of the beautiful pet trembling before him in his library.

  Intent on not looking at Katelyn’s face, Griffin’s gaze drifted down her body.

  Her nervous hands clutched the vertical hems of the robe. He had left her in the bathroom that morning with instructions and supplies for removing the downy fur of her sex. She would have obeyed, which meant her mound was hairless beneath the robe.

  No reason he couldn’t take a brief look before he returned to his study and called Martinique. No reason at all.

  **********

  Katelyn watched Griffin’s fingertips skim the silk surface of her robe. Reaching her forearm, he redirected his touch until he reached her hands. Finding the edge of the robe’s front panel, he pulled lightly. “Show me how smooth you made yourself, pet.”

  She drew her bottom lip in, biting and wetting it before it slid across her teeth in retreat. Forcing her hands to relax, she parted the robe’s folds to display her bald pussy. Kneeling next to her, Griffin closed his eyes, lowered his head and brushed his lips back and forth against her flesh.

  “Hold the sides of the couch.”

  Slowly, she complied. When he had curtly instructed her to remove the hair that morning before stiffly leaving the room, she had doubted he would return. An entire afternoon had passed, each hour deepening her conviction that Griffin was finished with her. Joy had leapt inside her chest when Claire had appeared to escort her to the library. It had died just as quickly when Claire scurried away from the door and Katelyn realized that Griffin had not summoned her.

  She had knocked anyway. It was better to have him deliver the final blow in person. She would not permit him to dismiss her from his life through one of his staff.

  Now he wanted to touch her. From the appreciative purr rumbling through his throat, he wanted more than a mere brush of his lips against her sex.

  Griffin stood and walked toward the easel. “Remove the robe.”

  Katelyn obeyed, forcing her hands to move more slowly than the eager speed her heart demanded. She had forgotten herself in his presence and repeatedly broken her vow to coolly take the pleasure he offered without surrendering her self-respect. She hadn’t surrendered it entirely and she intended to reclaim what he had stolen over the last few days.

  His pet was gone. He would have to deal with the woman if he wanted her to stay.

  Folding the robe, Katelyn watched him reposition the easel at an angle that would have him staring up her body. Plucking a cushion from the floor, Griffin carefully placed her right foot atop it. He guided her other foot onto the floor, ensuring her labia were slightly parted and the darker pink of her sex exposed.

  “You’re going to paint me?” She watched his head lift from where he had stared down at her pussy. Confusion clouded his gaze. He looked over his shoulder to where he had placed the easel. His expression shifted to consternation, as if he didn’t remember moving the stand and canvas.

  “I guess so.” Standing, he walked to the table and carried it to the easel before kneeling at the edge of the divan once more. His hand smoothed over her stomach, his gaze studying the contours of her belly, hips and thighs. A groan left him and he dipped his head between Katelyn’s thighs, murmuring as his mouth sought her clit. “Once you are wet enough.”

  She was wet in a flash but that didn’t end his gentle grazing. He slowly worked her to a quiet, frozen frenzy, her muscles flexing and bottom squirming. She hadn’t released the sides of the couch because he hadn’t told her to do so. She didn’t speak because she knew her words bothered him. She didn’t reach for him, didn’t ask him to join in her pleasure because he would not give it.

  Lifting his head, his gaze caught hers. “Are you ready to come, Kate?”

  She nodded, her throat too tight for words.

  “Good, hold that feeling.”

  Katelyn watched in disbelief as Griffin returned to the easel and picked up his brush. He sat on the stool, wincing as he reached for the brush and palette. His hand moved to his crotch for a discreet adjustment.

  Really? He was going to sit there hard as a rock and paint while her pussy drooled and contracted with the need for him to fill her.

  Damn him!

  Fighting the impulse to close her legs and tell Montgomery to go fuck himself, she cleared her throat. “Are these other paintings yours?”

  His brows pinched together but he answered her with an affirming grunt.

  She studied those she could see without moving her head too much. Landscapes, every last one. Like his private garden in the city and the grounds of the surrounding estate, the images were serene and beautiful. She noticed something else. No fish jumped in the streams. No birds sang in the trees. No buildings, however small or distant, dotted the canvas. There was zero evidence of people or animals, just stone and raw nature.

  “They’re lovely. Have you ever painted a person?” She knew he wouldn’t welcome the question, but had an overwhelming need to know. She had seen photographs and videos of Griffin interacting with people. He had looked sincere in those pictures and he knew exactly how to charm, whether it was an entire crowd or a single person he focused his attention on. The complete absence in his paintings of life beyond plants unnerved her.

  When he didn’t answer, her gaze shifted from an autumn wheat field to the man in front of her.

  “Don’t move your head.”

  Frowning, she tried to relax against the divan’s plush cushion. Beyond her control, her pussy drew tight. She said a silent prayer of thanks that he hadn’t noticed and then he did.

  “Relax, pet.”

&nbs
p; She tried, failed. Griffin sighed, his mouth flattening as he shook his head. “I painted an anniversary portrait for Philip and Claire — their thirtieth.”

  Risking another observation, Katelyn braced herself against his reaction.

  “Painting never made it into your public dossier.”

  His nose twitched but he respond, although the voice — nasal and heavy — was not it his own. “The Montgomery family is a patron of the arts, never artists except in the most sacred art.”

  “What would that be?”

  “The art of the deal, pet.”

  Sympathetic pain bloomed inside her chest. Someone in the Montgomery family had looked down on Griffin’s love and obvious talent for painting. Her father had felt the same way about a “lady” running competitively and he had punished her by using her absence from home during the Olympic trials to commit her mother to a mental home. She had stopped competing after that, consumed at first with freeing her mother then caring for her. Griffin had cordoned off that part of his soul to one large sunny room that, Katelyn imagined, very few people entered.

  She would have been ignorant of his painting had Claire not intervened and brought her to stand outside the library door under the pretense of a summons from Griffin.

  Her chest hitched and she sucked a raw breath in. “So did your—”

  “I can’t paint that pretty little mouth when it’s moving.”

  **********

  Katelyn’s mouth snapped shut. She lowered her gaze, a fresh burst of color brightening her cheeks. Her lips flattened to a thin line as the rest of her body subtly tensed.

  Griffin’s grip on the brush tightened. He had predicted this — her probing questions and disappointment at his refusal to answer. Now he was forcing her silence. The downcast eyes irked him, so did the disappointment thinning her lips. Something else bothered him that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  Something had changed inside her since he left the bedroom that morning, the only clues minute physical shifts like the undercurrent in her voice and the aloof framing of her shoulders.