by M. S. Parker
The Billionaire’s Muse Box Set
M. S. Parker
Belmonte Publishing, LLC
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 Belmonte Publishing LLC
Published by Belmonte Publishing LLC
Contents
The Billionaire’s Muse
Bound
One Night Only
Damage Control
Change of Plans
Preview: The Boss
Also by M. S. Parker
About the Author
Acknowledgments
One
Tanya
The blare of the taxi horn jerked me back to reality...and made me realize that I was standing in the middle of the crosswalk like a total idiot, lost in my thoughts. Heat flooded my face as I scurried away.
“Sorry, sorry,” I called out to the annoyed driver as he sped past.
Reaching the sidewalk, I realized I had an audience in the form of a couple dozen bystanders who seemed to be quite amused by what just happened, and any hope I'd had of my blush vanishing disappeared as a new wave of embarrassment washed over me.
Dammit. I was going to show up to my first day of work looking like a tomato. Some blondes had a nice golden tan tone to their skin. Not me. I was so pale that the slightest touch of sun or embarrassment showed up like a glowing beacon.
I ducked my head and let a sheet of silvery-blonde hair hide my face as I hurried down the sidewalk. I was pretty sure the people behind me thought I must be some newbie or tourist who'd gotten so overwhelmed with her first look at Times Square that she'd lost track of where she was.
Except I'd been here for four years.
I had been caught daydreaming though. When I'd first moved here from Albany so I could attend NYU, all I'd ever wanted to do was be an editor for a major publishing house. Actually, that'd been my dream since I was a kid. Immersing myself in other worlds, making decisions about the stories that people would get to read, helping guide authors in shaping their words. When I'd been walking across the street, I'd started thinking about that iconic scene in the sitcom from the seventies where the lead character threw her hat up in the air to celebrate arriving in the city – and I'd lost track of my surroundings. Not a smart thing to do in the middle of Manhattan, I knew.
I reached the building with time to spare, so before I headed up to floor twelve, I ducked into the lobby bathroom, hoping my flush had faded, but one look in the mirror told me it hadn't. I took a few minutes to cool down and do some of the deep breathing that was the only way I'd found to help in similar situations.
I didn't need to be freaked out. I could do this.
I had a degree in creative writing, with a minor in business. I'd spent most of my life reading. I knew books. I knew them in their paper form, and I’d grown to know them in their electronic formats as well. I worked at the NYU library all four years, only putting in my two-week notice when I'd gotten hired at Branch Publishing.
I smoothed my hair back and twisted it up on the back of my head, then touched up my make-up. I rarely wore much, but today, I'd wanted to make the best possible impression, so I'd taken extra care. I didn't have the money to dress in the latest fashions, but I generally chose classics and took good care of them, so my plain black pencil skirt and simple white blouse probably wouldn't be the best outfit in the place, but I wouldn't be an eyesore either.
I belonged here.
I took another slow breath and then headed for the elevator. I was the only one who got off on the first of the two floors Branch Publishing occupied, but when I stepped out into the company lobby, other people were getting out of the other elevators that also stopped here.
I gave a small smile to a middle-aged woman in a smart business suit but didn't make eye contact. I liked books better than people half the time. Okay, most of the time. Still, I could handle the business side of things because I didn't have to worry about things like small talk or what the other person thought of me. I knew what to say and do in those sorts of situations. Plus, this sort of work meant the topics of conversation could be safely kept to books without anyone thinking I was odd.
“Tanya Lacey?”
I looked toward the voice and saw a smiling redhead standing a couple feet away. She was a couple inches shorter than me, with the sort of slender body I couldn't hope to get no matter how much I exercised or dieted. That was okay though. My self-esteem had gone through a rough patch in junior high, but I'd grown into myself and was comfortable with my curves. Even if it meant I didn't get the luxury of going braless every now and then.
“Hi, I'm Yvonne Barela.” Her sky-blue eyes were shining as she held out a hand. “I'm the assistant to the senior editor here at Branch, and I'll be showing you around.”
“Hi.” I returned the smile. “Glad to be here.”
As I followed Yvonne, she kept up a steady stream of chatter, the information ranging from whose office was whose and where supplies were kept, to names and personal anecdotes about various employees.
“That's Mr. Flinkman's office. He's an editor here. He and his partner have been together for thirty-four years. Ms. Kranz is his secretary – sorry, administrative assistant – and she's had a crush on her boss forever, even though everyone knows he's gay.”
I stared at Yvonne as she breezed past the woman in question without a single look, as if the things I was being told were such common knowledge that it didn't matter.
Yvonne continued, gesturing toward a sandy-haired man who looked about ten years older than me. “That's Jude Hollister. He's a junior editor, but everyone knows it's only because his uncle's the owner and had to do something to get the guy out of his mom's basement. I mean, playing video games all day isn't really an occupation unless you get paid for it, right?”
I had no idea if I was supposed to answer that or not, but thankfully, Yvonne didn't seem to expect a response.
“Now, since you're an editor's assistant, you're probably not going to spend much time sitting around, especially since you're working for Jai Foxe.”
Nerves tightened in my stomach. That didn't sound good.
Oblivious to my discomfort – though I wasn't sure she'd stop talking even if she knew – Yvonne continued, “Miss Foxe is known for running her assistants ragged, which is probably why they never last more than a few months. Don't get me wrong, she's not abusive or anything, but if you took this job thinking you'd be learning the ropes before getting thrown into the deep end, you're mistaken.”
That part of my brain that always seemed to be analyzing language chirped up with something about mixing metaphors, but I ignored it, focusing instead on the fact that I might have made a huge mistake coming here. I wasn't afraid of hard work, but this sounded like it would be more than just keeping busy. I had no problem putting in overtime, but I had a sinking feeling that a person like Miss Foxe would intentionally work me until I broke.
I set my jaw. I wouldn’t let that happen.
“I'm here to work,” I said, giving Yvonne a grim smile.
The redhead gave me a skeptical look. “Well, I hope you don't mind not having a personal life. I'm pretty sure Ms. Foxe makes her assistants sign away their souls.”
I was about to say that it was probably a good thing that I didn't have a personal life then, but we'd stopped in front of a door. Unlike some of the other offices, this one wasn't glass, but rather wood, and I wondered
if that was because Miss Foxe liked her privacy, or because the higher ups didn't want her hovering over everyone else.
“So, this is her office. She'll tell you where to go and what to do from here on out.” Yvonne gestured back toward the elevators. “I'm one floor up with the senior editor, but feel free to find me if you need anything. HR is up there too, when – if – you need them.”
Again, ominous.
Yvonne knocked on the door, then opened it after a sharp “come in” rang through. “Miss Foxe, your assistant is here.”
And then Yvonne was gone, leaving me with a boss that was sounding a lot like Meryl Streep in that one movie. I took a good look at Jai Foxe. Early thirties, I guessed, with short, jet-black hair and brown eyes almost as dark as my own. Exotic was probably the best way to describe her, but I was pretty sure doing that would've been a one-way ticket out of here. Miss Foxe was clearly no-nonsense, from her simple haircut to her classic business attire.
“Hello,” I said, putting on my best professional smile. “I'm–”
“I don't particularly care,” she said in a clipped tone as she glanced up at me. “Your desk is right outside my office. You come when I call and do what I say, no questions or complaints. I expect you to leave a number where you can be reached while on your company-required breaks and lunch. Once I tell you something, I will not repeat myself.”
Even her faint British accent couldn't make her any less obnoxious.
“Your job is whatever I tell you it is.” She raised her head again and met my eyes this time. “Are we clear?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Good.” She gestured toward a stack of papers at least eighteen inches thick. “When you're not running errands for me, your job at the moment is to go through each of these manuscripts, page by page. I refuse to waste my time reading something that's ultimately worthless. There are post-it notes in your desk. You're to mark each manuscript as follows…”
So much for a learning curve or getting a few minutes to settle in.
“Good. Fair. Poor. Only one of those three words, got it? Nothing is great. I don't want commentary or your opinion on the author's intent or how ground-breaking you think it'll be. You base your rating on the market alone. Each week, you'll do the research to see what's trending, and if any changes need to be made to the ratings, you'll do so before you give them to me every Friday.”
I picked up the stack and tried not to let the size overwhelm me.
“When you bring me my coffee each morning, I'll let you know if I have additional manuscripts for you to add to your pile.”
I nodded even though she wasn't looking at me.
“Cream, two sugars.”
The tone made it clear that announcing her coffee preference was also a dismissal.
I turned and headed back out, struggling to close the door behind me. I could feel eyes on me as I made my way over to the empty desk a few feet from Miss Foxe's door. I wondered what everyone thought as I set down the stack of manuscripts and then put my purse next to it. Did anyone wonder about me as a person, or were they all just making guesses about how long I'd last?
I didn't blame them if it was the latter. I was sort of wondering that too.
Two
Erik
The club music had been at a pulse-pounding level when I first came into Gilded Cage, but the rooms in the back were sound-proofed, so we couldn't hear anything other than the music I'd selected playing softly in the background.
Vivaldi.
I'd always liked classical music, particularly during sex. For me, it set the mood.
At the moment, however, I wasn't going to take the time to appreciate the quality of the musicians playing this particular piece. No, my attention was on the tall, leggy redhead kneeling in front of me. She had her head up, eyes down. Her hands were clasped behind her back, shoulders squared, small breasts jutting out. Her nipples were already pebbled and would've been clearly visible under her bra even if it hadn't been sheer. The skirt she wore was tiny, barely covering her ass. A hand between her legs a quarter of an hour earlier had told me that she wasn't wearing anything under it.
And that she had a ring in her clit that I assumed matched the ones in her nipples.
Rings that I intended to have some fun with tonight.
I unbuttoned the cuffs of my shirt and rolled up my sleeves. I'd been in meetings all day today – which was why I needed a release – and hadn't gone home to change, so I was still wearing my suit. Not that I was out of place at the club. One of the things my friends and I liked about Gilded Cage was that the dress code was more about quality than specific style. Sensual and sexy rather than sleazy.
“Pull up your skirt.”
The command was firm but not harsh. Some Doms got off on humiliation and verbal cruelty, but I wasn't one of them. A little dirty talk, but if a Sub wanted me to call her foul names or degrade her in any way, I always sent her in the direction of Nigel. His kinks might not have been mine, but he was a good guy. The things he said might not have sounded like it, but he respected his Subs and their safe words.
My Sub for the scene kept her head down as she pulled her skirt up around her waist and revealed a smoothly waxed pussy and the gleam of gold.
“Take off your bra.”
She did as she was told, and I walked closer, examining the tattoo on the side of her left breast. A rose. That's what she'd said her name was. Rose. I didn't know if it was her real name, but I didn't care. This wouldn't go beyond tonight. I had something to call her, and she would call me Master. We'd have amazing sex that gave us both what we needed, and then we'd go our separate ways. If I enjoyed it enough, I might allow for a few more encounters with her, as long as she didn't get attached.
I reached down, and she was tall enough that I didn't have to go far to take one of her nipple rings between my finger and thumb. Her breathing hitched as I tugged on the piercing, but she didn't whimper or speak. She'd given me her safe word, and I didn't plan on gagging her, so if I went too far, she'd say it.
Until then...
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the only toy I planned on using tonight.
One of the clips went to the ring I'd just been playing with, the second to the matching one on the other side. The third clip was on the end of a slightly longer chain, though not quite long enough for the links to be slack once everything was in place.
“Up.”
She stood, a flush spreading across her chest as she automatically spread her legs wider. I pulled the chain tight, and she gasped as her piercings moved. I attached the third clip into place before stepping back to admire my work. I had a similar toy with clamps on the end for Subs with no piercings. Clamps had their own restrictions, since they could only be left on for a certain amount of time before the blood restriction became a problem. Piercings, however, didn't have a time issue, but they were a little more delicate. Pulling too hard could tear flesh. This sort of thing was more of a balancing act than most people realized.
“Hands behind your back and stay straight,” I warned her as I circled around. She had a small, tight ass that my hand itched to spank. “If I see you slouching, you'll be punished.”
She'd want to obey. Good Subs always did. Even if a part of them craved a punishment, they'd still want to please their Dom. Even if I was just a temporary one. But a good Dom could read their Sub and know just how much punishment they wanted and adapted their demands.
Like I knew Rose would attempt to stand straight, and she'd enjoy the initial pain that came with it, but at some point, she'd slouch. It might be a conscious movement, or maybe in response to something I did, but whatever it was, the result would be the same. My handprint on her ass, and her need for punishment being satisfied.
I stopped in front of her and reached down, sliding my finger beneath the piercing. She was already slick with arousal, and a shiver ran through her as I stroked her sensitive flesh.
“You can come whenever you choose,” I said
, pitching my voice low. “But you will stay straight, or you will be punished.”
The sound she made told me everything I needed to know, and it went straight to my cock. She'd come, and she'd move, and I'd spank her. And I was fairly certain that she'd come again from that.
I was good at reading people, at understanding them, and I was rarely wrong. Especially when it came to the superficial sex stuff.
I moved my hand further back, letting the heel brush against her clit even as I slid a finger inside her. I couldn't see her face, but there was no mistaking the way her muscles stiffened. Half a dozen strokes later, I inserted a second one. Her hips started to move, and I used my free hand to adjust myself.
“Come, Rosie girl. Come for me like a good girl,” I coaxed.
I bent my fingers, slid the tips across the front wall, then smiled as her entire body jerked. A sharp cry came from her as the sudden movement pulled at her nipples and clit simultaneously, but there was pleasure in the sound. I rubbed her g-spot, watched as her hands fell to her sides, fists clenching and unclenching as the pressure inside her built.
Then she let out a wail, body shaking as she came. She bent forward, choking out a half-sob as she realized she'd failed to do as told. I didn't let up though, keeping pressure on both pleasure points until her knees buckled and the only thing keeping her from falling to the floor was my hand.
I wrapped my arm around her waist, holding her as she shook. She was tall, but I didn't have a problem moving her over to the bench a few feet away. There was a bed in here too, but I didn't intend to use that. We'd both get off, but this wasn't love-making. A bed was simply too intimate.
