Venice Nights (The Billionaire's Girlfriend Prequel)

by Ava Claire

  He inhaled deeply, the exhale soundless. I bit my lip, my arms growing tired from the unnatural position. My knee caps were calling me all sorts of names.

  What was he waiting for?

  He finally spoke, his voice filling the empty room. “I’ll ask you once more. What are you doing?”

  I peered up at him in confusion. “What am I doing?” I felt the warmth of embarrassment flood me as his cool eyes waited for my response like he had all the time in the world. And he does. He’s not the one kneeling on a hardwood floor!

  My voice picked up some of the warmth that turned me beet red as my shame transformed into anger. “What am I doing?” When he didn’t answer, or even register how upset I was, I faltered. “I’m...submitting?”

  “Submitting?” His chuckle was dark and unnerving. Still, there was something about the danger in it that made me clench with want. Turned on by the fear.

  “You walked through the door,” he continued, circling me. “Stripped your clothes from your body—”

  “And dropped to my knees,” I cut in. I unhooked my arms from behind my back, holding them out in case he missed the gesture. “I was trying to show you I’m ready for you.”

  “But you’re not ready for me.” His tone was eerily calm, but his face was far from zen. Anger whipped across every feature, the lash of it making my throat knot.

  “Five seconds ago, you interrupted me.” His eyes narrowed in displeasure when my mouth opened defensively. “And even now, you’re about to mouth off, aren’t you?”

  I snapped my lips together, swallowing my retort. Heck yeah, I was about to mouth off! I tried to be what he wanted me to be. What more could I do?

  He took a step toward me, reaching out to fondle my curly tresses. “And now you chose to be silent—when I ask you to speak.”

  Before I could blink, he grabbed a fistful of hair, yanking my head backward. Tiny sparks of pain lit up my scalp.

  “You want to submit to me?” he growled. “When I ask a question, you answer.”

  My nostrils flared defiantly, and his grip tightened.

  “Okay!” I cried out, wincing. “I’ll answer you.”

  His hold slackened, but his eyes were just as fierce and unyielding.

  “I thought...” I trailed off, frustration building in my chest. With it came tears; tears I couldn’t keep in my eyes. “I just wanted to do this for you.”

  His eyes softened. His fingertips moved to my cheek, brushing away my tears. “I know. And I’m trying to teach you. Rule number one: you are submitting to my will, not vice versa.” He stroked my cheek. “You came in this house with one purpose: to fuck.”

  He swallowed, and the mask he wore was askew, showing me a man that was far from controlled. A man who wanted to ravage me. Needed to ravage me.

  “Trust me Leila—I want to fuck you. There isn’t a square inch of this home that I haven’t thought of taking you on.”

  He cleared his throat, composing himself. Once he had put the wall back in place he held out his hand. I took it, letting him pull me to my feet.

  “But here’s the catch. I will be the one to tell you when to tear off every shred of clothing. I will order you to drop to your knees, open your mouth, and take every inch of me. I will have you, every which way I want you, because submission is about relinquishing control.”

  Tears evaporated, and my heart thumped in my throat. The way he said that word, ‘mine’, claiming me...it was like he was already inside of me. Thrusting so deep that he touched my very soul.

  His fingers hooked my chin, holding my gaze steadily on his. I counted every blue swirl in his eyes, spinning, possessing me. I just wanted to dive deeper, to feel him so wholly, so completely, that there was no room for anything else.

  His voice was as warm as a kiss. “Do you want to know what would have happened if things went differently and you submitted to me properly?”

  I nodded slowly, my mouth dry as I hung on every word. Aching for him.

  His fingers skimmed my jawline. He paused, then a single finger trailed down my neck.

  “I would have told you to strip. Not in a hurry. Slowly.”

  He swooped over my collar bone. I didn’t even know the collar bone could be an erogenous zone, but my body responded in kind. My nipples swelled, delight echoing inside me. The heat of my juices seeped through my trembling folds, sweet as his touch.

  “Do you know why I’d want you to take your time?”

  “No,” I whispered, gasping when his light touch deepened. He gripped my breast roughly, then reverted to the teasing, gentle strokes. Circling my nipple.

  “Because I’d want you to feel my eyes on your body. See through my eyes. See how I see you. Beautiful and irresistible.” He licked his lips as I sucked in a breath. “Delicious.”

  Delicious was right. He found the sweet spot between pain and pleasure, squeezing my peak until I swore I would come right where I stood. I closed my eyes, surrendering to him. Just as the pain edged up to the bliss and nearly surpassed it, he released, his fingertip swirling around my areola until my nipple begged for his brutal grip once more.

  “Submission is trusting that your Dominant knows what’s best for you. That he knows what you need—and when you need it.” His finger lingered on the tip of my nipple, then he flicked it back and forth, watching my reaction. “It’s knowing that all your wishes will come true in good time, because there’s no way that I could be this close to you and not have you.” His voice was thick, heavy with restraint. “Are you ready to submit to me?”

  My eyes fluttered open. I had no idea what was in store, but I knew one thing without a shadow of a doubt.

  I trusted him.

  “Yes,” I said, my voice filled with a surety that surprised both of us. “I’m ready.”

  His eyes flickered with excitement, his lips curving at the sides.

  “Excellent.” He combed his fingers through my hair. “You remember the color system?”

  I nodded as a shiver of ecstasy rippled over me. “Green is more, yellow less. Red is stop.”

  “Good girl,” he said, nodding with approval. “And you will do nothing without my permission—even climax.”

  Rebellion streaked through my mind. With the way he looked at me, the way he touched me, he really thought I could hold on until he told me so?

  Patience wasn’t my strongest suit, but I was up for the challenge.

  “Y-Yes.”

  His eyes burned holes into me. “Yes what?”

  “Yes sir.”

  He took a step back, sending a pang of sadness through me. He was still close enough to touch, but I missed his hands on me. The agony from our last spanking flashed through my mind.

  You may regret that thought.

  “I want you on your hands and knees, ass toward me.”

  I gulped, ignoring the reservations. The spanking was one of the most erotic things I had ever experienced, but it was not all toe curling and gasping breaths. It was just as painful as it was pleasurable.

  Fear crept down my spine. I should have known better. Challenging Jacob Whitmore did not come without consequences. Even with that rationalization, nothing prepared me for his hand colliding with my bare flesh.

  I grit my teeth. The numbers were muffled, sandwiched between groans and moans. Each one set my ass on fire and lust fanned the flames until I was writhing. Rocking back into the lashes, all but saying, “More.”

  The strikes stopped at twenty, and I held twenty-one on the tip of my tongue, praying for another, and thanking God for a moment to breathe. And then the distinctive sound of a fly being unzipped filled the silence, and I knew we weren’t done.

  His hands were on my hips, his voice raw with desire. “Tell me what you need. Anything in this world...and I’ll give it to you.”

  “You.” I didn’t even have to think about it. I knew my answer. He was the answer. “All I need is you.”

  He plunged into my warmth and I clutched his hardened length, claimi
ng him just as he claimed me. Green was the word that spilled from my lips as he moved inside me.

  Falling into his arms, falling into his bed, was easy. Holding back instead of surrendering to the climax that was within reach? That was hard. As hard as every swollen inch that knocked all air from my lungs.

  He gripped me, his thrusts fluid; a powerful dance that I was a slave to.

  He commanded me to collide. To surrender. To feel.

  “Come for me.” His words were breathless and ragged. “I want to feel you melt around me.”

  With his permission, I released. Everything inside me let go. Every piece of the puzzle fell into place in perfect unison. The sounds I made were like none I had ever heard before as he unleashed inside me.

  The thing he had done to me could not be undone. An irrefutable truth was spoken between us as he pulled me into his arms, both of us sweaty and breathless. Naked bodies curled on the hardwood floor.

  I was made for him.

  Chapter Three

  I propped my chin on my palm, gazing at the beautiful man who laid beside me. Tangled up in covers, still fast asleep. I drew my gaze from the delicious part of him that was beneath the cotton sheet, the lengthy imprint of his cock making my mouth water. The feel of him was still fresh in my mind. Fresh on my body. After we had caught our breath following our tryst in the foyer, we had barely taken a bite of lunch before he had decided he would rather taste me.

  I sunk my teeth into my bottom lip, remembering the way I squealed when he picked me up like it was nothing. Legs dangling off the edge of the island. Cool granite beneath me. Heat roaring inside me.

  I crept toward the cotton sheet, my fingers aching to touch him. One glance at his face made me pause. He was more serene than I had ever seen him, wrapped up in some dream. Even though I doubted he would turn down some morning loving, he looked too peaceful to disturb. Not the brutal businessman ready to decimate anyone or anything that crossed him. Not guarded and holding tight to his secrets.

  I wiggled off the edge of the bed, pulling on one of his button-down shirts. I moved lazily down the steps, stomach grumbling.

  “All right, all right,” I yawned, pausing at the landing, stretching my arms toward the ceiling. Sunlight pushed through the sheer curtains, glittering on the hardwood floor. A very familiar space was highlighted, and my body hummed as images of being on my hands and knees blazed through my mind. Nails raking the floor. Body slick with sweat and want.

  My stomach interrupted the delicious memory, reminding me that other hungers needed to be satisfied too. I succumbed, continuing the trek to the kitchen.

  Jacob told me he gave the staff a few weeks off, but I could not tell that it had been nearly a month since the staff had walked the halls. The place was still spotless, not a single speck of dust anywhere despite the antique pieces that combined with shiny, modern chrome. The fridge and pantry were completely stocked. If we were suddenly hit with the apocalypse, I was sure we could survive on his current inventory for a couple of years at least.

  I opened the refrigerator, skimming the contents. I could keep it simple and just do cereal and a banana. The decision was made and I scouted out the components needed. I remembered spotting the cereal beside the tortillas in the pantry. I zeroed in on the pitcher of milk on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, hiding behind a carton of eggs. Humming to myself, I bent at the waist, stretching to retrieve it.

  “Ahem.”

  A single word, wrapped in a female tone.

  My fingers were still stretched toward the milk when it hit me.

  I was bent over, Jacob’s button down shirt riding up to my waist...and I did not have on any underwear.

  I snapped upright, yanking my hand from the shelf—and brought the carton of eggs with me.

  “Oh my God,” I groaned, looking down at the mess of broken eggs at my feet. Feeling like a world class klutz, I turned to face the visitor, ready to apologize. When I met her gaze, I realized “I’m sorry” was not going to cut it.

  The woman had a look of pure disgust on her face. She towered above me, dark eyes burning like coals against her caramel hued skin. Her eyes matched her hair, splashes of gray streaking through her locks. She might have been beautiful if her pretty features were not weighed down by her frown and liberally arched eyebrows.

  Her red lips curdled as she crossed her arms. “Who are you?”

  I gulped, still recovering from the fact that she had just gotten an eyeful of my vagina. “I’m—” I stopped, frowning. Wait a second. Why was I about to apologize to her? And who was I? Who was she? I may have been dressed in a man’s shirt, showing parts of my body that only lovers and my mother had seen, but I gathered what was left of my dignity.

  “Who are you?” I countered, buttoning the shirt and stood tall.

  Her eyes did not warm in the slightest, and her silence was unnerving—as was her beauty.

  She was statuesque, clad in a black blazer and a matching shirt beneath. Bootcut jeans skated her trim legs and her feet were wrapped in leather stilettos. Not that she needed them. I guessed she was at least 5’9 without them.

  I guessed she was late thirties, but when she took a step closer, I saw crows feet around her coal-colored eyes. There was something in those dark eyes, and in the way she held herself that told me she had experienced things that made me guess she was closer to mid to late forties.

  She advanced once more. I backed up, crying out as my foot crushed one of the few surviving eggs. Tiny pricks erupted along the sole of my feet, matching the daggers she flung my way. My indignation turned to goo, just like the slimy guts from the eggs smeared on the floor.

  You still don’t know who she is. You belong here. She could be a burglar for all you know. A very stylish burglar, who knew the alarm code, or else it would have been blaring. Even though Jacob kept a lot of the old charm of the place, the estate was still gated, and he had a top of the line security system installed.

  My memory connected the dots, recalling Jacob’s brief orientation when I asked about the staff. He only maintained a couple of people to take care of the house. He employed a maid, a chef for special events, a groundskeeper, and a house manager. Since he rarely made it out to the estate, they treated Jacob’s home as their home, with freedom to roam about the house as they saw fit.

  Most wealthy guys probably would not even know their staff’s names, but not Jacob. He told me about the maid, Blanka Dvorak, a college student in Venice and emigrated from the Czech Republic. The chef, Francois Armand, was from France and one of the few people Jacob admitted was a better cook than he was. The groundskeeper, Mark Blount, had a passion for writing and told fantastical stories about his travels in Europe.

  When I asked about the house manager, the light in Jacob’s eyes dimmed. After some prodding, he told me she was a local. When I asked if she was a friend of Allegra’s, he quickly changed the subject. When I asked how I would know her, he had snorted and replied, “That won’t be a problem.”.

  “You’re the house manager, aren’t you?” I said gingerly, fairly certain I was spot on. Who else would know the alarm code and march in like she owned the place? “ Isabella.”

  Her eyebrows leapt in surprise. She was only caught unaware for a moment, however. She raised her chin a few inches and her eyes hardened to obsidian.

  “You can address me as Ms. Moretti.” One side of her mouth twitched disapprovingly when I didn’t respond. “And who are you?”

  “Leila,” I answered, pulling down the shirt. It was a futile gesture. It rode right back up. “Leila Montgomery.”

  “Ah.” Isabella stepped around me, eyeing the damage. “I’m assuming you’re a...guest of Jacob’s?”

  The way she said it made me blush all over again at her emphasis on guest. I did not know what it was about this woman that made me feel like I was two feet tall and out of place, but I pushed the nerves aside.

  “I wasn’t aware that you’d be back today,” I said.

  “
And I wasn’t aware that Jacob talked to his guests about the house staff.” She removed her blazer, turning on her heels, then marched to a small closet beside the pantry. She came back with a bucket and rags, walking right past me like I was not even there.

  “I’m Jacob’s girlfriend.” The word sent goosebumps prickling all over me. It was the first time I had said it out loud, and it just felt...right. And empowering.

  I angled toward her, finding my spine but words failed me when she squatted in her skinny jeans and stilettos like it was nothing. She went to work on the mess, without another word to me.

  My mess.

  I scanned the kitchen for paper towels, springing to action. Armed with a roll of Bounty, I turned back to the refrigerator. “Let me help you with that.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of it,” she said brusquely, tossing me a look that nearly put me six feet under before she went back to scooping up yolk and egg fragments. She muttered something in Italian, and I did not need to be fluent to know she was grumbling about me.

  I had a choice. I could do what she clearly expected and go away, leaving her to clean it. Flit away and sunbathe; check my phone and drink mimosas—or I could do what was right.

  I made a mess, and I was perfectly capable of cleaning it up.

  I got down on my hands and knees and started wiping. She eyeballed me, the heat of her gaze morphing from one of bemusement to one of annoyance.

  After a few minutes of silence and almost an entire roll of paper towels, the floor was spotless and shining. I stood up first, offering my hand. She looked at it like it was poison and gripped a neighboring stool instead.

  Her brush off stung, but I forced cheer in my voice. Kill her with kindness, Lay.

  “Maybe this time the eggs will actually make it to the pan,” I joked.

  She blocked my path, flicking her bangs from her eyes. “Jacob’s guests don’t cook.”

  I clenched my teeth, struggling to keep my cool. I tried to hold onto the fact that I had to share a roof with this woman, repeating it like a mantra until it stuck.

  “Well, I’m not Jacob’s guest. I’m his girlfriend. And I make a killer plate of scrambled eggs.” I held back the attitude that itched to break free, turning to the cabinet for dishes since she was guarding the refrigerator. “Okay...you whisk, I scramble?”