Tied to the Tycoon

by Chloe Cox

  “You’re ordering me?” she’d said, rolling onto her side and propping her head up on one lovely hand. Her lovely breasts had been right there, too. Made it hard to concentrate.

  So did her impertinent attitude. The Dom in him wanted to discipline her all damn morning. Instead, he’d just felt her up.

  “You forget our arrangement already?”

  She’d stuck her tongue out him. He’d had no choice but to drag her across the bed and over his knees. She’d let out a surprised laugh, like she couldn’t believe how good it felt to be manhandled like that. It was all he could do not to take her again.

  “I should spank you red,” he’d said. “But I think you’d enjoy it too much. Get in the shower. I’ve got to see to plans for the rest of the day.”

  “Plans?”

  “Just you wait and see.”

  “What about my clothes? I don’t have any, I have to go back to my apartment—”

  “I’ll take care of all that,” he’d said. “Consider yourself lucky, too. I’m feeling generous. Otherwise, you’d be naked the whole week.”

  He’d watched her beautiful, naked ass as she sauntered to his master bath, and he hadn’t missed the coy look she’d thrown over her shoulder, either. She thought she was back in control after that moment of raw vulnerability in bed. That was ok for the moment. He loved both Avas. He loved the charming mask she presented to the world just as much as the woman she was underneath, because both were part of her. He just needed to show her it was safe to be herself around him all the time.

  Hell, he needed to her to be around him, period. Preferably for the rest of his life.

  He waited to hear the shower turn on and allowed himself a moment of thinking about her, naked, with hot water dripping down her skin. Then he launched himself out of bed and hunted down his phone. He had to make a bunch of phone calls, but the first one was not about women’s clothing, or even about all the things he wanted to plan for Ava. This first phone call was not going to be fun.

  “Hello, Jack.”

  Lillian sounded like she expected to hear from him, and like she knew exactly how the conversation was going to go, the way she always did. Which was impossible; it was an affectation, like it always was. Jackson’s COO and former fling called herself a switch at Club Volare, but he’d never seen her be even a little bit submissive outside the club.

  “Lillian, I need you to help me out.”

  “I thought something might be amiss. Your inbox is piling up. Where are you?”

  “I’m at home. And I won’t be coming in for the rest of the week.”

  There was a pause.

  “You’re joking.”

  “Something important has come up, Lil. We’re just gonna have to work around it. It’s only the tail end stuff, anyway.”

  Another pause.

  When she spoke, Lillian’s voice was tight. “Is everything ok?”

  Jackson honestly wasn’t sure what to make of that. Things had been chilly between them since they’d decided to keep things strictly professional. It had been a mutual decision, and it’d made sense, since they’d never actually been that good together—at Volare or elsewhere, outside of business. But Lillian had seemed pissed when he’d agreed too quickly.

  “Everything’s fine. It’s a personal thing.”

  “I guess that means it’s none of my business, then.”

  “Christ, Lillian.”

  Jackson thought he could actually hear her backpedaling.

  “I didn’t mean it like that, Jack. You know what you want done, and I’ll send you a list of things I think can be easily delegated. I’m sure you’re right that we’ll find a way to manage the rest.”

  He gritted his teeth. It was just like Lillian to make it sound like she was doing him a favor and fully expect him to be grateful.

  “I know I’m right,” he said. “I’ll expect that list by close of business.”

  “Of course.”

  That smooth, placating tone. If Lillian weren’t the best, most competent chief operations officer in existence, he would have severed their relationship completely. He’d been a fool to get involved with her personally, though at the time it had seemed like a no-brainer—Lillian was experienced in the BDSM scene, and had offered to show him the ropes, help him get better as a Dom, no strings attached. One of his buddies had warned him that no strings always meant strings, but Jackson hadn’t listened.

  With a start, he realized he’d just told the same lie to Ava. “No strings attached.” That was, of course, bullshit. There was every string imaginable. But Ava was different. Him and Ava were different. He’d tell her about those strings when she was good and ready.

  “Lillian, I gotta go.”

  He did. He had other things to attend to. If Jackson wanted to heal whatever damage he’d done to Ava Barnett and then win her over for life, he had a lot of work ahead of him. First and foremost was showing her not only how rewarding her life as a sub could be, but how much she enjoyed it.

  He had another phone call to make.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ava took long showers. It was a weakness—she knew it. And Jackson’s shower was like the shower of the gods: it had not one, not two, but three of those rainforest drenching shower heads, one directly overhead and another two on the sides, all encased in this warm tiled room that was almost as big as her secret art studio. There were actual bedrooms in New York that weren’t as big as this shower.

  When she finally emerged, she realized that she had lost some time. She also realized that Jackson hadn’t joined her in his heavenly shower, which was probably considerate of him, but also left her with a stab of insecurity. Was he already tired of her? Maybe a whole week was just too much, and she should cut her losses and just call it off sooner rather than later. It would be devastating to have him just get bored of her. That wouldn’t be as bad as getting her heart broken, but it would be pretty humiliating.

  It didn’t help that he appeared to be gone.

  Nope, she was sure of it. She checked every spare bedroom—both of them, she noted, which, in New York terms, was just absurd—the double-height living room with the corner couch she’d noticed the night before, the open kitchen with its beautiful slate countertops and bronze fixtures, even the terrace. Which, again: he had a terrace. But Jackson was nowhere to be found.

  “What the hell?”

  Saying it out loud did not help.

  Ava dug around in the all-purpose purse she’d brought with her until she found her phone. She had a new voicemail. She’d already dialed her voicemail number before she realized that she still hadn’t given Jackson her phone number. It was just another message from her boss, apparently left in the middle of the night.

  “Ava, my Ava, my dear, I have some bad news,” Alain crooned. He sounded tipsy. “I have spoken to the board, and there are many cutbacks and expenses next year. Don’t tell anyone, yes? I don’t put this in an email!”

  Ava stared at her phone. No shit you don’t put that in an email. That would make it evidence.

  Alain’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “But I think I can save you, yes? If I tell them you are valuable, you bring in business, or something—whatever. Call me back, Ava, we’ll chat, ok?”

  So now it was bring in a new account under an impossible deadline or lose her job, not just a promotion. Or the other option: “whatever.” Ava sat back on Jackson’s plush black couch, wrapped in his comfy bathrobe, and tried to figure out what she was feeling. It wasn’t easy. She blamed this on Jackson. He’d shaken her to her core, and now pretty much nothing looked the way it should. Like this sudden crisis with her job: she should be totally panicked. Part of her was totally panicked. She’d worked hard at her advertising career; she’d worked hard at becoming the sort of woman who fit in that career. And hell, she’d even told her mother that the promotion was a lock the last time they’d spoken, just to win the argument, and now she was probably going to lose the job entirely? Fantastic. That brought
up all those familiar and expected feelings of dread and worthlessnes, but there was something else, too.

  Something Ava couldn’t identify. But something…kind of good. A lightness. It made no sense, none at all.

  This man is like a freaking drug. You’re still high the next morning, Ava, get over it.

  “You’re not so good at following instructions, are you?”

  She started. It was the man himself, standing in the open door, knocking the last bit of snow from his boots. Her insides rolled over just at the sight of him. It took a second for her brain to work again, but when it did, she was on her guard. She didn’t think she could take another emotionally intense conversation. Any Serious Conversation would bring up too much stuff about a guy who was going to be gone in a week.

  “What instructions?” she said.

  He pointed at the slate-topped kitchen bar, the only barrier between the open kitchen and the living room. There was a piece of paper on it. A note. She’d totally missed it, but she was glad to have something to keep her busy while Jackson took all of his winter stuff off. She was feeling wary, and yet, even the suggestion of that man undressing was just…

  She still felt off-balance around him.

  The note did not help with that.

  I’ve gone out. Lie down on the bed, naked, eyes closed, and wait for me.

  Ava felt her cheeks get hot and looked up to find Jackson smiling at her, fully dressed in jeans and a plain white t-shirt that was a little tight across his broad chest and shoulders. His eyes settled comfortably right where the robe she wore didn’t quite close. She was suddenly very, very aware that she was only wearing a robe, and that she was supposed to be wearing even less.

  “Is this for real?” she asked, holding up the note.

  “Completely.” He came towards her, and her heart sped up perceptibly, but he only put his packages on the countertop: one red envelope and one pastry box. He leaned against the counter next to her and said, “And now you’ve disobeyed an order.”

  Disobeyed. She couldn’t help but remember that he’d referred to “discipline” earlier.

  “Not on purpose,” she said, inexplicably nervous. “Besides, what were you going to do, surprise me with baked goods while naked?”

  Desperate for a distraction, she flipped open the lid of the box to reveal her favorite: red velvet cupcakes with buttercream icing. She’d tried to make them for him once, ages ago. He remembered. Now her heart stopped altogether.

  “Not exactly,” he drawled, and took her hand in his as he pushed off the counter, pulling her around to face him. The robe came loose and opened an inch. She was naked underneath, just barely dry after her shower.

  Well, not dry anymore.

  He pressed her hand to the counter, rendering her immobile, and flicked the robe open.

  “That’s better,” he said. His gaze took in her body from her toes up to her face. She could see the primal desire in his stare, in the twitch of his jaw, even in the way he breathed. This must be what it’s like to be hunted.

  Except prey probably didn’t feel this good when it was caught.

  “No cupcakes, then?” she said, her voice small.

  “That depends,” he said, “on whether you’re a quick learner.”

  “What do I have to learn?”

  “Submission.”

  Ava swallowed. This was it—this was what she’d signed up for. She could do this, this carnal, primal thing. He let her hand go, boxing her in against the counter with his body, and tilted her face up toward his, his thumb brushing softly against her lower lip. Oh God, yes, she could do this.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “It means I’m going to teach you.”

  “You are,” she said. It wasn’t a question. She knew it already. She already wanted him again, more than was healthy, more than she could handle while still being able to think rationally.

  “That was the deal, Frida. I’m going to teach you to submit,” he said, stripping off her robe. “Starting with the physical.”

  chapter 8

  Ava stood naked before him, shaking. She didn’t know what to do. Was she supposed to respond a special way? Was there—

  “Shh,” he said. He knew what she was thinking. He ran his fingers lightly over her shoulders.

  “Do you want me—?”

  “Quiet, Ava,” he said, his voice so low it was almost a growl. “It’s all I can do not to make love to you right here.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. That didn’t sound all that bad.

  “But that wouldn’t help you much,” he continued. He breathed in through his nose and sighed. Then his grey eyes sparkled, and he grinned. “I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do: I’m gonna make a little concession to myself. You know how you have a safeword?”

  Ava nodded. If he thought she could speak like an intelligent adult while his thumb circled around her nipple like that, he was insane.

  “Well, I’m gonna give myself an access word.”

  She slowly came back into focus. She managed to say, “What’s that?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like, Ava. You hear it, you get down on all fours, and—”

  “Give you…access.” She bit her lip to keep from smiling, even though she felt nervous as all hell. That was just... He didn’t need to know how much that excited her.

  He smiled, like he knew anyway. He probably did.

  “That’s right,” he said, and let his hand fall down the front of her body until it rested on her mons. Just…resting there. Tormenting her. “You hear me say…‘red velvet,’ and you do just that.”

  Red velvet. Of course. She was starting to breathe fast.

  “What if I’m not naked?”

  “You get naked,” he said. “At least where it counts.”

  Oh God.

  He dipped his fingers between her legs, as though he were just checking to see if she were wet. She knew she was. He gave her a smug grin; now he knew, too.

  Then he stepped back from her, his sudden absence making her feel almost cold in the well-heated apartment, looked her up and down again, and regretfully said, “All right, robe back on. I can’t stand it. And we’ve got a game to play.”

  He walked into the living room while Ava frowned and gathered the robe about her. She was more confused than ever now, but two things she was sure of: she was no longer naked, and Jackson Reed was no longer touching her. Both of those things seemed like steps backward, especially if the alternative was talking.

  She followed him to find that he was seated on his couch in front of the giant window that looked north and west over the city and the Hudson River. There were quite a few other luxury high-rises in the West Village now, enough that she was sure some of the neighbors could see in. Jackson didn’t seem to care. He had a yellow legal pad and a pen.

  “I was gonna come in and make you come about a dozen times before we got to this,” he said, pointing at the legal pad. “But then you were disobedient.”

  Ava groaned. She tried not to think about what “disobedient” implied.

  She asked, “What is this, an interview?”

  Ava hated interviews. She always had, even back in school. Especially back in school, when companies were recruiting from the graduating class. Most of her life had involved putting on a front, but somehow the interview setting just shined a spotlight on all the pretense, which made her feel like a total fake.

  “Kinda. Stand there.” He pointed a few feet in front of him, right in front of the window.

  “You know I hate interviews.”

  “I know why you hated most interviews. I’m guessing it’s still for the same reason.”

  She fumbled with her robe, cinching it tighter about her waist. That window was making her nervous. She thought she could see the shadows of inhabitants in other buildings, moving about in their own lives. Could they see her?

  You’re just nervous in general, Ava. Calm down.

  Jackson snapped
his fingers, bringing her attention back to him. He had on a serious face, but she could tell there was a smile underneath it. He was enjoying this on several levels.

  “You didn’t have time to snoop around very much, did you?” he said.

  Ava blushed. “I didn’t snoop.”

  “You see the chest over there?”

  Ava had thought it was an end table, next to a chair positioned across from the sofa where Jackson sat. He was actually reclined quite comfortably, his white t-shirt stretched across his torso and his arms spread over the back of the couch. She tried to give him an irritated look, but even his arrogance was sexy. Infuriating.

  “Now I do, yes,” she answered.

  “Drag it over to where you are now.”

  Ava almost made some smart remark, but thought better of it. This was what she had agreed to. “Yes, sir,” she said, though she couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice completely.

  “Careful, Ava.”

  The chest wasn’t as heavy as it looked, but it was large and awkward, and it was nestled between that chair and a lamp, right up against the wall. There wasn’t a good place to grab hold of it. She struggled a bit, maneuvering it out to a place where she could grasp both sides. As she dragged it backwards into the center of the room, she stepped on the oversized robe, pulling it loose. It fell down over one shoulder, and she looked at the giant window again, and the view of New York. She moved to cover herself.

  “Leave it alone,” Jackson said sharply.

  Surprised, she turned back around to face him. His tone had changed again. She’d obeyed unquestioningly, automatically.

  Jackson still leaned back on his expensive looking black sofa, relaxed but alert, his athletic body seeming to revel in the sheer physicality of being. But his eyes were gleaming. Attentive. Ava hugged what remained of the robe to her, already feeling naked.

  “Open the chest,” he said.