The Billionaire's Bodyguard: Complete Collection

by Jade, Catalina

  Once, even just a few weeks ago, Mike would have protested. Would have been insulted—maybe even mortally insulted. But here, now, bound and hard and kneeling, he knew there was only one answer, and without hesitation, he gave it: “Yes. Sir.”

  “And still you think of your own pleasure first.” Alastair dropped his chin suddenly and gave him a hard, piercing look.

  “No,” Mike protested. “No, I don’t. I want—I want to come, but I want—”

  “Yes?” Alastair’s voice had gone silky again, smooth as the brandy he was sipping.

  “I want to come while you fuck me,” Mike said.

  The admission made him feel exposed, vulnerable, and yet it made Alastair smile, blazing-brilliant as candlelight through crystal. “Perhaps you shall have what you want,” Alastair said. He backed up and sat again, in his throne of a chair. “If you come here and ensure that I am sufficiently interested.”

  Mike knew, immediately, what he wanted. Of course: Alastair had made him submit, but now he wanted Mike to submit willingly, to volunteer to submit. To beg to submit. Some part of him was furious at that, rejected it immediately, angrily. He was no one’s toy.

  But some part of him… some part of him loved it. Some part of him wanted to submit, fully, to someone more powerful than him. To beg for it. And it was that part that was in charge.

  Awkwardly, he slid off the ottoman and made his way on his knees across to Alastair’s chair. Alastair gave him a lazy look, sipped his brandy, and then spread his knees.

  Bound as he was, Mike couldn’t use his hands, so he leaned forward and used his mouth. With his forehead, he nudged Alastair’s jacket out of the way. With his lips, he unbuttoned the button at Alastair’s fly. His nose brushed Alastair’s flat belly under his shirt. With his teeth, he pulled down the zipper—it was difficult, the tiny metal tab kept slipping out from between his teeth and the nearness of Alastair and the scent of his skin and musky arousal kept distracting him. But he managed.

  And then, carefully, he pulled down Alastair’s silk boxers as well, carefully using his lips and teeth to draw it out and then down. Alastair’s hard erection sprang free, musky and slick at the tip.

  Mike didn’t waste any time—he was so hard he couldn’t bring himself to wait—but started licking, eagerly, along Alastair’s shaft. He licked the slick, silky head, the ridge of Alastair’s foreskin, the smooth-hot shaft. He licked down to Alastair’s balls, tugging down Alastair’s silk boxers to reveal them, soft and heavy against his lips and tongue. He breathed deeply, inhaling the musky, masculine scent, clean and just barely scented with soap and cologne.

  “Good boy,” Alastair murmured, and stroked his fingers lightly through Mike’s hair. Mike felt himself painfully torn between pride and humiliation.

  “What do you want from me now, sir?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Hmm,” Alastair said, sounding pleased. Then he used the toe of one boot to push Mike backwards. With his hands bound, he couldn’t catch himself, and sprawled on the plush handwoven rug.

  His muscles twitched with the urge to get up, to stand, to not lie here with his hands and arms bound and his legs askew, fully open to Alastair’s view. But he forced himself to be still as Alastair studied him. He could feel the warmth of the fire washing over him, and could feel the silky rug beneath his back, and the ropes biting into him, keeping his nipples hard, his balls drawn up, his cock erect and straining.

  “I am not displeased,” Alastair said, silkily, after a moment’s time. “Get to your knees.”

  Trying to sit up was a struggle, bound as he was, and every movement made the ropes constrict more, even as the rug rubbed his skin. It was an agonizing pleasure, every movement, and he knew that Alastair knew that—knew that he knew it, and loved it. Finally he squirmed to his knees, and looked up to meet Alastair’s gaze.

  “You aren’t afraid to look me in the eye,” Alastair said, sounding amused.

  “No, sir,” Mike said. He might have been bound, controlled, ready to be fucked… but at least he could still meet Alastair’s cold winter-sapphire eyes.

  “Perhaps I’ll break you of that later,” Alastair said. And then he moved, with the snakelike swiftness that Mike could never quite get used to—moved to grip Mike’s bicep and spin him so that he was pressed chest-downward onto the low table that had only recently held their food. The smooth-polished wood was cold on his skin, and pressed the ropes even deeper into his muscles. The edge of the table pinned his cock painfully—and, just as intensely, he could feel Alastair’s cock hot and hard on the back of his thigh. “Or perhaps I won’t,” Alastair continued, voice silky and thoughtful. “No, perhaps I won’t.” He rested his weight briefly on Mike’s back, pinning Mike to the table with his body. His voice rasped in Mike’s ear, hot and intimate. “It’s novel to have someone kneels before me, bound and hard and begging for my touch, knowing that I could make him or ruin him, please him or kill him, and have him still dare to look me in the eye. Perhaps it entertains me.”

  He seemed to be expecting some kind of response. All Mike could think to say was, “Yes, sir.”

  The pressure of Alastair’s weight left his back. “You want me to fuck you, Michael?”

  Mike’s mouth went dry. “Yes, sir.”

  “Ask me for it, then.”

  “Please,” Mike said. “Fuck me, sir.”

  He didn’t have to look to know that Alastair was smiling, his cat’s smile, his snake’s smile, cool and glittering. Alastair repositioned him, so that he was still bent over the table, still bound and on his knees, but with his cock no longer pinned and with his knees spread for better balance.

  Alastair’s fingers—slick, now, with lube—trailed between Mike’s buttocks. He nudged the ropes aside and then circled Mike’s asshole with a wet, cool touch. Mike shivered, every hair standing up on his body. Goosebumps crawled up his spine. One finger, then two, slipped into him… and then Alastair’s other hand circled Mike’s hip and gripped his cock.

  The twinned sensations, cool lubed fingers pushing into him and a warm, strong hand rubbing his cock, were almost too much for him. Mike moaned out loud—a moan that was almost a whine, a fact that embarrassed him almost as much as he was aroused—and rocked into Alastair’s touch.

  “Don’t come,” Alastair said, smooth as satin, and Mike actually whined then. He was so close, he’d been so close for hours…. “Don’t come,” Alastair said, “or you will disappoint me, and I do not reward those who disappoint me.” Another hard stroke of his fingers, both outside and in, and Mike choked on his own swallowed arousal.

  Then Alastair leaned close and whispered in his ear. “But hold out until I say you can come,” he said, “and I’ll be sure you’re well satisfied. You remember that, don’t you?”

  Mike groaned and nodded, not trusting himself with speech.

  Alastair’s fingers withdrew from both his ass and his cock, and then Mike felt the blunt head of Alastair’s dick pressing against his entrance. He shuddered hard, trying at once to relax and to keep from breaking his promise and spending all over the carpet.

  The first long, slow thrust dragged sparks of pleasure/pain up his spine. He flexed his hands and arms helplessly in his bindings.

  “Good, Michael,” Alastair said, with only a tremor in his voice showing any strain as he pulled out and then thrust again. “You’re a work of art, tied like this, fighting against the binding and yet fighting to submit at the same time.”

  Mike could only moan aloud, a moan which barely contained the incoherent word, ‘sir.’

  Alastair gripped his hips and thrust, and thrust again, and each thrust was a torment and a bliss all at once—heat and fullness and nerves blazing, white light behind his eyes. Pinned to the table, his head turned to one side, Mike couldn’t see Alastair at all—could only see the fire, blazing in the fireplace, shining off the wooden table. Fire like the fire burning down his spine, that flared with each of Alastair’s deep thrusts.

  And that fire
burst in a shower of sparks when Alastair’s hand closed on his cock again, stroking in time to the thrusts. “O-oh god,” he gasped. “Oh fuck. Alastair.”

  “Remember,” Alastair said, sounding smug and shockingly calm for someone who was fucking him hard and fast in the ass. “Don’t come until I tell you.”

  Mike was increasingly afraid that he wouldn’t be able to help it. Pleasure and pressure built and built. “Please, sir,” he said. “Please, please—”

  “Feeling desperate?” Another deep thrust, and Mike arched against his restraints, muscles screaming, eyes squeezed shut.

  “Sir,” he said, “yes—”

  “Hold out for me,” Alastair said, and then began to move faster, and each thrust sparked inside him, making his muscles quiver, shivering ripples of white light across the inside of his eyelids.

  “Please,” he was begging, he couldn’t help it, pleading aloud, “please please please sir please, please, let me.”

  “Who do you want to come for?” His voice, so soft, so sharp, like the blade of a fine dagger—

  “For you, sir.”

  “For who?” Alastair’s hand gripped his cock, stroked hard.

  “President Waters,” Mike gasped, and then, desperate, “Alastair—”

  “Come for me,” Alastair said, and Mike was lost, as if in the delirium of a fever, as he spurted his orgasm in long jets over the fine carpet. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood and moaned his throat raw as the pleasure went on and on. Not just pleasure but relief.

  Relief he could only get at Alastair’s hands.

  And as Alastair stiffened and shuddered behind and inside him, he realized that, for all that he could still look Alastair in the eyes… he nonetheless belonged to him. Utterly.

  And as Alastair stroked his back with a surprisingly gentle touch, he realized that, even more terrifyingly, he didn’t mind.

  ***

  Conquered by the Billionaire

  It was easy, from within the confines of Waters Industries’ headquarters, to forget that Waters wasn’t the only game in town. Alastair Waters was the emperor of his domain—nobody knew that as well as Mike—and almost everyone who visited him was less influential, less wealthy, less powerful, less intelligent… frankly, just less.

  So it was easy to forget that, even though nobody else could challenge him, still Alastair Waters had a rival, someone who could quite possibly match him stratagem for stratagem.

  ***

  Mike watched from the window of Alastair’s top-floor apartment as Flavian Draco’s limousine pulled up to the Waters building. He couldn’t make out anything about the figures that emerged from it, except that all were suited.

  “Come here,” Alastair said. He spun in his leather chair. “I want you standing behind me when they come in.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mike said.

  Even though Flavian Draco’s entourage had six men in it, Mike knew at once which one was Flavian, scion of Draco Incorporated. Only one of them stood perfectly tall and confident, as though he owned every room he was in. Only one of them had the air of perfect command that Mike had come to associate with his own employer.

  In looks, Flavian Draco and Alastair Waters could not have been more different. Flavian was tall, broad-shouldered, with olive skin and thick black hair and eyes so dark they burned. Alastair was as lean and sharp as a whip, fair-skinned and fair-haired, and his eyes were like chips of iceberg.

  And yet in bearing the two men could have been twins.

  When they shook hands over Alastair’s wide mahogany desk, Mike half-expected to see flashes of lightning at their touch, the air was so tense between them.

  Mike barely paid attention to the conversation that ensued, except to note the undercurrent of poisonous politeness below it. Both men wanted desperately to destroy the other. Both knew, too, that they might not be strong enough to do so. Every word was a feint, a parry, a testing jab, or a careful attack. But Mike’s job wasn’t to pay attention to that; Mike’s job was to watch for threats.

  Same as the four men arrayed behind Flavian and his legal adviser, who were watching with the same kind of alertness.

  When the meeting was over, Flavian rose again and shook Alastair’s hand. And then, to Mike’s surprise, he offered his hand to Mike. “And a pleasure to meet you,” he said. His voice was different from Alastair’s as well: where Alastair had an icy smoothness to his tone, Flavian’s had the subdued power of a banked fire. “I have heard a great deal about you and how much Alastair relies on you.”

  Mike didn’t know what to say, beyond, “Thank you.” He barely kept himself from saying sir, and bit his tongue for the near-lapse. He knew Alastair loathed it when he bestowed that title on anyone else.

  Alastair steepled his long fingers beneath his chin. “Michael is one of my many valuable assets,” he said.

  “I can imagine,” Flavian said and—Mike couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw Flavian glance briefly down over his body. Sizing him up?

  How much did this man know about his relationship with Alastair Waters?

  But Mike had the advantage of many years of practice with restraint, plus a complexion that didn’t blush easily. He kept his expression stony.

  When Flavian and his entourage had gone, Alastair leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Thank you, Michael,” he said. “You played your part expertly.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” Mike said. “But I don’t think he would have been as unsubtle as to murder you right in your own office, with witnesses.”

  Alastair laughed, a soft, deadly sound. “You’re right,” he said. “Your role as my guard dog was, perhaps, less necessary today. But I scored a point there… because I have one man I trust implicitly, and he must rely on four men who he does not so trust. You can tell by his bearing, he is not as confident in their loyalty as I am in yours. And he cannot rely on one—he must make do with four.” He tilted his head. “Do you understand?”

  Mike’s stomach tightened at the thought, that he was—yet again—just a playing piece in Alastair’s plans. And yet… and yet at the same time, he couldn’t stop the surge of pride that Alastair did trust him implicitly, that Alastair relied on him while Flavian had to collect an entire group of hangers-on to fulfill the same role. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you, sir.”

  Alastair beckoned him closer, and when he came, Alastair slid his fingertips down Mike’s jawline. Mike shivered. “Michael,” Alastair said. “We men of power, we always want what we do not and cannot have. And we treasure most what we have that others desire. Do you understand that, too?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mike said.

  ***

  It was twenty minutes before the next day’s meeting with Flavian that Alastair pinned Mike against the desk and kissed him. It was a hard kiss, almost brutal: a kiss not of affection or even lust but of possession. Alastair’s tongue invaded his mouth, his lips bruising in their intensity, his teeth sharp. Mike could feel the edge of the desk hard against the back of his thighs, Alastair’s presence was so forceful.

  “Sir,” Mike said, when he finally had a moment to breathe. “The meeting—”

  “Is not for another twenty minutes,” Alastair said, unruffled, against his jaw. His teeth sank in, hard, and then he kissed the red mark that Mike knew he must have left. “And I want you now.” He trailed his cool fingertips down the nape of Mike’s neck. “Do you deny me?”

  Mike shuddered. The possibility of taking too long, of the entourage walking in while he was still in flagrante, was humiliating. (Humiliating and, some traitorous deep part of him said, arousing too.) But the idea of defying Alastair was much worse.

  And in some way, the idea of Flavian Draco signing his deal with Alastair Waters on the same desk on which they’d recently fucked was intoxicating.

  “No,” he said, curling his fingers around the edge of the desk for stability. “No, sir.”

  “You want it,” Alastair murmured, leaning in to trail his lips over
Mike’s jaw and down his throat. His fingers worked, opening Mike’s tie and unbuttoning his top button.

  Mike gave a strangled moan.

  “Say it,” Alastair demanded, his mouth sinking lower along Mike’s neck and to his shoulder.

  “I want it,” Mike said, his voice low and hoarse. “I want it, here and now.”

  He could feel the subtle curve of Alastair’s smile just before Alastair’s teeth sank into his shoulder, at the sensitive place where his throat joined his collarbone. He gasped out loud, his fingers tightening on the edge of the desk.

  “Good,” Alastair said, pressing a searing kiss over the place he’d bitten. Then he stepped back, leaving Mike cold. “Turn over.”

  Mike turned over. He felt both ashamed and aroused by his position, bent over Alastair’s desk with his ass upturned. The feeling intensified when Alastair briskly opened his belt and fly and then slid his pants and boxers down to his ankles.

  “No time to undress you,” he said, his voice serpent-smooth. “Much as I’d like to. Lean over and grab the far edge of the desk.”

  Mike did so. His cock ached, trapped against the cold unyielding mahogany of the desk. His ass felt exposed, and even more so when Alastair spread his cheeks and stroked a smooth, dry fingertip over his asshole. He shivered and tried to relax, but it was hard in this position, his arms stretched out and straining to grip the far edge, his thighs straining to spread with his pants around his ankles.

  Alastair’s touch left and then returned, slicked with cold lube. Mike drew deep breaths, struggling to relax for the first stretching intrusion of Alastair’s forefinger, sliding into him. In this position it was so hard to unwind his muscles that it felt like the first time, and sure enough, Alastair used another finger, stretching and softening him as he had the first time. Mike shivered, at once trying to forget the secretary in the outer room, the entourage who would be arriving soon… and unable to forget them, aware of them in a way that only spiked his arousal and made his cock twitch where it was pinned against the desktop.