Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance Boxed Set (10 Book Bundle)

by Selena Kitt

  While I'd slept, Malcolm had changed into a beautiful pair of slacks, another incredible sweater, and a jacket that was far too fashionable for a man of his age. But he made it look good. He worked it. I realized I was still naked. Behind him, one of the window shades had been pulled up, presumably to give him some light to work by, and I saw the runway outside. Mountains hulked beyond it.

  “I need to get dressed,” I said.

  “Your clothes will be here soon,” he replied. “I will be very upset if they are not.” He continued sketching in his book. He looked like he actually knew what he was doing. For a moment I watched him, the light from outside illuminating his beautiful face, all planes and angles and hidden strength. The sun on his hair gleamed golden, and I longed to run my fingers through it, but before I could gather up the energy to act on the impulse, the door opened and a young woman entered, carrying an armful of clothes.

  Immediately I felt shabby. Impeccably dressed and with long, golden hair curled up on her head in an elaborate coiffure, she was gorgeous. Wide blue eyes took me in, assessing, and then laid her burden down on the chair. “Thank you for your patronage,” she told Malcolm, her beautiful accent rounded, with sharp ends bracketing each word. Smiling at me, she exited.

  “Please,” Malcolm said, “get dressed.” He closed his sketchbook and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth and fixing his eyes on me. It took me a moment to realize he wasn't going to leave. Instead, he was going to watch me.

  I swallowed and stood up, letting the comforter and the warmth of the bed fall away. I shivered a bit in the cooler ambient air, but I threw my shoulders back and padded over to the chair where the pile of clothes threatened to tip over. Reaching out, I began to flip through them.

  Every single one was beautiful. Lovely, well-made. And not fussy. Thank god. I just hate fussy clothes. Pulling out a dark shirt and holding it up, I realized it was warm cashmere. For a long moment I ran my fingers over it, enjoying the fine texture.

  “There's under things in the bag,” Malcolm said, his voice startling me. Looking down, I found a discreet bag, colored silver, at my feet, full of tissue paper. Bending over, I peeled back the paper and found a small collection of lacy bras and flimsy panties in bright, startling colors.

  Urgh. Colors. I selected the least offensive—a dark indigo-purple—and pulled the panties on before sliding my arms through the straps of the bra and hooking it in back. I tried not to think about Malcolm and his intense eyes watching me get dressed, though I felt a heat light up my cheeks anyway.

  But the bra made my tits look amazing. And the indigo complemented my skin, dammit.

  I slid the sweater on, then pulled out a white wool skirt from the pile, slipping that on as well. My boots, low-heeled and black, had survived the paintpocalypse, and I slipped those on as well before selecting a gray scarf from the pile and then shrugging into a soft black leather coat covered in pockets. I'm not a fashion girl, but I have to say: I looked good.

  Malcolm stood, a smile on his face. Without a word, he led me out of the bedroom and to the front of the plane, where he donned his own coat, and then we exited, walking down a stairwell to the runway, like the rich and famous do. I knew Malcolm was technically rich and famous, but it seemed weird to see him surrounded by wealth. His sparse room at the top of his mansion suited him far better than sumptuousness.

  We entered a private car, and I watched out the window as we drove from the airport to Dubrovnik.

  Chapter Eight

  Mediterranean countryside. That was what greeted me. And a crowded Mediterranean city. I hadn't expected these things, I suppose, when I had realized where we were going. Croatia was forever wedded in my mind to Bosnia and Serbia. Mountains and cold, and a war that had happened when I was very young—those were the things I had called up in my mind.

  But this place was lovely, by the Adriatic Sea. It was like Rome, or how I imagined Rome to be—I've never been—and it took my breath away.

  A castle sat guarding the Old Town of Dubrovnik against the threats of the sea. Red-roofed buildings and ancient stone churches and crowded the streets peeked up at us from the walled city as we rode down toward the sea. Our driver, far more adventurous than any New York cabbie, wove and bobbed between other weaving and bobbing vehicles, until we got down to the wall and I discovered that the old part of town—where we were going, I assumed—was pedestrian only.

  Wow, I thought. I didn't have a lot of coherence at that point. I felt like I had stepped into a completely new world, one that I had never even imagined existed. Our driver stopped and we exited the car, Malcolm holding the door for me, murmuring something about how our luggage would be brought behind us, but I wasn't really paying attention. A chill and the smell of the sea wrapped around me, and I huddled up next to Malcolm as he snugged his arm around my shoulders and held me close, gently leading me where he wanted to go.

  We passed through the old stone wall and down stone steps to land in a square mostly devoid of people, but filled with gray stone and architectural details and puddles of rain reflecting the patches of blue sky overhead.

  “I'm sorry,” Malcolm said. “I'd heard it was warmer here this year.”

  I tried not to look like a tourist as we began a leisurely stroll through the streets. Narrow alleyways peeped at me from between buildings, terraces jutted around corners in the little paths off the main thoroughfare, long stone stairways of a hundred steps flashed here and there. People passed us, dressed beautifully for the cool weather, and fine clothes shone prominently in shop windows.

  I was utterly taken. Malcolm had been right. The place appealed to my artistic sense, a city out of time. Another country, where magic might happen.

  After a few minutes of walking, Malcolm turned and led me down a narrow alleyway. The old stone buildings reared up around us, stately and imposing, blocking out the sky. A wooden door, ornately carved, was set into the wall with a lovely arch over it. Malcolm pulled a key from his pocket and opened it, gesturing for me to enter.

  We climbed the narrow stairs inside, switching back on themselves over and over again, until we reached a door at the top. Malcolm put another key in this door and unlocked it before pushing it open and bowing to me with a flourish.

  “Our accommodations, my lady.”

  I couldn't help but inhale sharply as the rooms beyond were revealed to me. The entire top of the floor of this house was Malcolm's. Blonde wood floor, clean white walls, sparsely populated with furniture... it was how I had imagined his house would look, or how it would look after he was done purging his actual house of stuff. It was beautiful, elegantly appointed, and yet somehow also homey. Photographs and works of art hung on the walls here, too, though they clustered and didn't sprawl over every available space. A wall of windows, barely concealed by flowing sheer white curtains, opened out onto a terrace. I crossed the floor and peered out.

  “Oh, wow,” I had to say.

  The red roofs of Dubrovnik's old town swept down and away from us, and I could catch a glimpse of the gray winter sea beyond the castle walls. In the summer, this place would be stunning. As it was, I wanted to make myself a cup of hot tea, wrap myself in a blanket, and just stare out at the sea from the comfort of the warm penthouse, curled up on the white overstuffed couch facing the windows. Maybe read a good book. Maybe write one.

  Maybe draw a bit.

  “This is exactly what I needed,” I said to Malcolm.

  “Yes, I thought you might,” he replied. “I am glad I brought you here.”

  I turned and studied him. He seemed very pleased with himself, a beautiful smile gracing his full lips, his sandy hair falling in messy locks against his forehead and curling over his ears and the collar of his jacket. He was still a mystery to me... but a mystery that I was content with for now.

  “Did you plan this?” I asked. It was stupid, but he seemed to have known just what was in my heart, even when I didn't know it myself. I was being stifled b
y the city, by my responsibilities. He'd seen that.

  My heart gave a little flutter. Stop that nonsense, I told it, but it didn't listen to my brain. It never did. I turned back to the sea so Malcolm wouldn't detect the sudden, disquieting turmoil in my chest.

  “I didn't quite plan it,” he said, coming up behind me. His hands slid over my shoulders, his fingertips brushing against my neck and through my hair as he helped me out of my coat. “I've been wanting to... get away for a while. And I decided I wanted to take you with me. Yesterday. I thought it would be fun. Though I didn't think that we would be coming here so soon.”

  My leather jacket slid down my arms and he tossed it onto the couch. Turning, I smoothed my palms over his chest, under his own coat, sliding my hands up and over his shoulders, slipping the fabric from his body. He felt good and warm. I had the sudden impulse to lean forward and press my forehead into his chest and just let him cradle me in his arms. “And why did we come here today? Why not next week?” I looked up at him.

  His dark cherry wood eyes bored into mine. His fingers found their way to my scalp, running through my hair.

  “Because I didn't want to lose you,” he said. “Whatever line I crossed, I wanted you to know I was sorry. I don't want to cross it again, until you tell me it's all right.”

  For a terrible moment I thought I might cry.

  “Shut up,” I told him. “Can we please just fuck now?”

  His mouth broke into a grin. “You are so eager,” he said. “And yes. We are going to fuck. I think it might be my masterpiece. Let me show you how.”

  I wanted to fuck him, not just fuck him as part of his art, but the way he said the word fuck, lingering on the f and drawing it out before cutting it off abruptly had gone straight down my spine to my pussy.

  I had it bad for Malcolm Ward. I didn't like it, but, well, can you blame me?

  Linking his fingers with mine, Malcolm led me away from the windows, through the kitchen and dining area, and then around the corner where a piano sat in a room lined with bookcases and full of books. Then we turned and circled to the back of the flat, into a narrow hallway. At the end of it I saw a large, open room with a bed in it. The master bedroom. Two other doors in the hall were open, letting light from the small windows fall inside, and we entered one.

  It had been turned into a studio. A sculpting studio.

  It looked remarkably like Felicia's studio, except there were no tables of tools, only a large lump of red clay in the middle of a plastic tarp in the middle of the floor with two buckets of water beside it. Wet towels mostly covered the clay, and the air in the room was almost uncomfortably warm. I stood just inside the door, wondering how badly my clothes would be ruined this time. It would be a shame; they were so new and so lovely...

  But then Malcolm turned and reached out, his fingers gathering the hem of my sweater, and gently he pulled it over my head, revealing my new bra. Reaching around, he unhooked the back of the bra, and slid it down my arms, leaving me topless as he moved his hands to my waist and fiddled with the hook and zipper enclosure on my wool skirt. I realized that he had watched me dress in the plane so that he would know how to undress me.

  He was good. I was glad he was good.

  The wool skirt slipped to the floor, and he knelt down in front of me again, removing my boots before hooking his thumbs into my panties and sliding them down my legs, until I stood naked before him, vulnerable and trembling, needy and filled with desire. I wanted him to touch me so badly. I wanted to touch him so badly.

  He stood.

  "Undress me, Sadie," he commanded.

  Yes, I thought. God, yes.

  I wasn't as methodical as he was. My hands shook as I assisted him out of the soft cashmere sweater he wore, trembled as I helped him shuck the fine cotton undershirt. I reached his trousers and undid them, my fingers brushing against the growing bulge that I'd never touched directly. It excited me like nothing else ever had. I wanted him inside me, pumping and fucking, until we both couldn't stand.

  I moved his trousers over his hips, taking the opportunity to finally run my hands over his ass, letting my fingers take an illicit squeeze before moving on. He wore boxers beneath his pants, and his erection was now full and hard, straining against the fabric. I swallowed, wanting to take it into my mouth, just to taste him. I wondered what he would taste like. Would his precum be sweet or salty? Would he leap and harden further in my mouth? Would he grab my hair, or let me lead him?

  I untied his fine leather shoes and helped him slip his feet from them before gently peeling his socks off. He had startlingly beautiful feet, I realized. Well formed, not hairy. Warm. Well taken care of. I let my fingers wander over his toes for just a moment before assisting him out of his other shoe and sock. Then I slipped his trousers from his legs and he stepped out of them, standing before me only in his underwear, his cock beneath his boxers hard and ready for me.

  I licked my lips and reached up, grabbing the waistband of his boxers and dragging them down his hips.

  His cock leaped out at me, proud and tall, long and thick, and I almost moaned at the sight, imagining it inside me. He was well-groomed down there, and I found myself smiling. The dark, clean smell of his skin hit me, and I leaned forward and buried my face in the soft flesh of his testicles, inhaling deeply. He smelled good, like soap and cock. I opened my mouth and took one ball past my lips, sucking on it gently, and above me he cried out, his strong, muscled legs trembling.

  I reveled in my power, nipping and licking his balls, feeling the weight of them on my tongue, but avoiding his cock, even as it strained toward me, aching for my touch. He'd kept me away from him for quite long enough, I thought, he could stand a few moments of teasing. Payback is a delicious bitch goddess from hell, and she gives great head.

  His fingers wound through my hair, but he didn't try to guide me, only cradled my skull in his hands, as though he wanted to reassure himself that I was real. I smoothed my palms over his straining thighs, and then, finally, I sat up and licked the clear, gleaming jewel of precum from the head of his cock.

  "Oh," he said. "Sadie." And there was such wonder in his voice that I was afraid to look up into his face. What intensity of emotion would I see there? I wondered. And was I ready to confront it? Ready to accept it?

  I'm a coward. Instead, I opened my mouth wide, slid my tongue under the head of his cock, and forced myself to swallow all of him.

  God, he was huge. I felt the soft head of his shaft pulsing at the back of my throat even as I fought not to gag on it. He was long, and wide, and when at last my nose came to rest against the base of his penis I was trembling with the effort of it. I could only hold it for a moment before retreating, but it was enough for Malcolm, it seemed. When I reached the base of his cock, he groaned, his fingers tightening in my hair, his legs faltering, and when I drew back he did so as well, popping his thick cock out of my mouth quickly as though I had already overwhelmed him.

  Reaching down, he pulled me to my feet, his dark eyes burning, and then he put his arms around me and pulled me to him, skin to skin. His flesh burned against mine, his cock pressed into my belly, wet with saliva and so close to my aching entrance that I thought I would die if he didn't push his way inside me right now. I slid my hands over his hot body, feeling the quiver of his muscles and the sweet, tight tension inside him.

  This was going to happen. Like, really going to happen.

  His lips found my ear. “Let me fuck you,” he whispered gruffly. “Let me come in you. Nod if you consent.”

  I couldn't have shaken my head for the world. Mouth dry, pussy wet, I nodded and closed my eyes.

  Malcolm kissed my earlobe, and then let his tongue gently tickle the inner folds of my ear, his breath hot and harsh inside my head. My skin dissolved into shivers as he gave my belly a nudge with his cock, clearly wanting to be inside me now, but under my hands I felt him trembling, holding himself back. He wanted to fuck me badly, but he wanted to do it properly.

&nb
sp; A hot kiss landed on the pulse point in my throat, where my jugular leaped with anticipation. Quickly, frantically, he placed burning kisses down my throat, drawing moans from my mouth as he reached up and cupped one breast in his hand before descending upon it and sucking my nipple into his hot, wet mouth. I cried out, holding on tight to him, as though I would fall apart at any moment and he was the only thing keeping me together. "Malcolm," I moaned as he nipped and nibbled at me.

  He made an indistinct grunt of pure desire before dragging his fingers over the flesh of my back, massaging the muscles there and releasing the tension imprisoned in them. I cried out and quaked as his hands found my ass, squeezing and massaging, molding them together and pulling them apart. My quivering pussy lips opened and closed, and I ached deep inside, needing the pressure of his cock.

  Then he broke away and twined his fingers with mine again, leading me over to the pile of clay beneath the wet towels that kept it pliable. Turning me to face him, he lifted me up onto the clay as easily as though I were a child, and I suddenly realized what he meant to do. He meant to fuck on the clay.

  Clay as a medium is alive. Every push, every pull of it is recorded within the clay. A true record of the artist. And we were going to fuck on it. Whatever we did would be recorded forever on its surface.

  The thought inflamed me and I opened my legs wide. Malcolm reached between them and ran his long finger over my slit, probing my wet, slick entrance. Then he reached around me and laid me back, gently letting me splay out across the clay. The warm air of the room caressed me, the warm damp towels beneath me were delightful, as though I were at a spa, about to be pushed and kneaded into bliss. And I was, I realized. Malcolm bent his sandy head to my pussy and gave me a lick and a kiss, as though saying hello to an old friend, then slid his hands over the backs of my thighs and lifted my legs into the air.

  "Are you ready, Sadie?" he asked. "Nod if yes."

  I nodded vigorously. I ached and quivered, needing him. It was almost surreal in that moment, knowing that I was going to get what I knew I had wanted from that first moment our eyes met across a crowded room. So corny. But true.