Bartered Bride: The Billionaire’s Wife, Part 3

Ava Lore

Copyright 2012 Ava Lore

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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons either living or dead is purely coincidental.

Bartered Bride: The Billionaire’s Wife

by

Ava Lore

Part III

“I'm an idiot,” I moaned. “A complete and utter idiot.”

My best friend Sadie cocked an eyebrow and sucked on her cigarette. “I don't think that's ever been in doubt,” she told me. “You're not exactly the sharpest marble in the bag, Lis.”

“You're so mean,” I told her. Then her words sank in. “Wait, marbles aren't sharp.”

She smirked at me and blew a smoke ring.

“That's even meaner,” I complained. “My life is ending and you don't even care.”

Sadie rolled her eyes. “Your life isn't ending. You're just marrying some guy for his money.”

I threw a pillow at her,, which she dodged. “I am not.” I was marrying him to save my mom. And also because he seemed to have found my Orgasm Button. I'd told Sadie the first part, but not the second. It was too humiliating.

Tapping ash into the tray on my table, Sadie shrugged. “There's nothing wrong with marrying a guy for his money,” she said. “I'd do it.”

“You'd do a lot of things.”

“Shit yeah, I would. Besides, your little noble I'm so poor! act isn't getting you anywhere in your career, is it?” She gestured at the corner of my apartment where my latest creation languished, half-finished until I could procure the funds necessary to buy more clay. I'd had several shows, all at small galleries, and done well, but the bigger stuff required more money than I had, and more hustle than I was ever going to have after working ten hour days at the bar. I hated to think it, but Sadie might be right: marrying Waters would be good for my career.

And my sex life.

If only it didn't seem so tawdry.

“So when's the big day? What do I have to wear as your maid of honor?”

I wrinkled my nose. “He said it was going to be soon. I don't actually have a lot of say in it. He's taking me out to a quote-unquote specialty boutique in like an hour or something to pick out my dress and, uh. Underwear.”

That got Sadie's attention. “He's picking out your underwear?” she said. “What kind of marriage is this going to be?”

I glared at her. “The exact sort of marriage you'd expect from someone who wanted to buy a wife.”

She shook her head. “You can't even cook,” she said. “He could have gotten a much better wife from Russia. And she'd be, like, way hotter.”

“Yeah, fuck you, too,” I said. “Now you're definitely not going to be my maid of honor.” If I was even allowed to have one. Waters hadn't mentioned anything about friends or family yet and it was making me uneasy. I'd never been the sort of girl to dream about my wedding or pick out my bridal colors when I was thirteen or whatever, but I would have expected a little more leeway in the planning. As far as I knew, it was being 'taken care of.' And since I didn't really feel like a bride, I had to admit that it was kind of a load off my mind to just let things happen instead of struggling to assert myself in the face of... well, in the face of Anton Waters.

Sadie stubbed out her cigarette and got up. “Well, just make sure you don't forget the little people when you're rich and on the cover of all the tabloids, okay?” Sadie was one of my artsy friends as opposed to one of my bar friends, though she worked with paint and 'mixed media'—meaning trash she found in Central Park.

“Sure,” I said. “You wanna be one of my hangers-on? I'll be taking applications through the honeymoon.”

“I'd love to,” she said. “But you have to promise, or I'm leaking this to everyone we know.”

Fear drove through me and I sat up. “Sadie!” I said.

She held up her hands and laughed. “I know, I know. This was all in confidence. I promise. I just have to not get drunk between now and when you get married.” She appeared to think about this for a moment. “So it had better be in the next twenty-four hours.”

“Ugggh!” I said. “Out. Go to work.”

“Right,” she said. “Not all of us are lucky enough to marry money.”

“Out!”

She laughed as she exited my apartment and closed the door behind her, leaving behind the smell of cigarette smoke and her thick, heavy perfume.

I sat down on my futon and closed my eyes, trying to relax. Usually after I saw Sadie, I felt better about things.

This time, it didn't work. I still had that gut clenching fear crouching inside me. I sat up and took a few deep breaths and thought about calling my mother. I hadn't spoken to her yet, and I didn't know how to broach the subject of my pending nuptials. She still hadn't told me she was sick, but I could hear it in her weary voice whenever we spoke. The distance between us seemed to have yawned into a chasm almost overnight. Ever since my father showed up at my door, I hadn't been able to talk to her like I usually did, even though we had always talked, ever since I was a little girl. My father's constant betrayals had pushed us together, and she was my dearest confidant—or at least she had been.

Now she didn't even know I was getting married, and I found I didn't want her to know until the last second. Anton Waters was a rich jackass, just like my father. In fact, he was even more of a rich jackass. I couldn't bear the thought of her thinking I was making the same mistake she had—she was the one who had told me to flee our toxic household and not look back—and I couldn't even tell her that I was the one paying for her chemo treatments, since she didn't want me to know about them...

Shit. This was all my father's doing. He had a knack for screwing everyone else up just by existing. If he hadn't been such a shitty person none of this would be a problem.

I rubbed my hand over my face and sighed, glancing at my phone. Only about thirty minutes until I was due out front for the car and I hadn't even had a shower yet. I knew I should get up, but I couldn't. I sat on my futon for probably ten more minutes before I finally found the motivation to stand up, and then I had to rush through a shower and makeup before throwing on clothes—less theatrical than my prostitute get-up I'd tried over lunch three days ago—and clomping downstairs to find the car already waiting for me and Zachary standing by the back seat, looking bored.

“Sorry,” I said. He just smiled and opened the back door for me.

Anton Waters was already inside.

I hadn't seen him since he went down on me in the restaurant where we'd met to discuss our prenuptial contract. In persuading me to sign it, he'd ducked under the table and, hidden by the table cloth, fucked me with his tongue and fingers, wringing an orgasm from me that had been so powerful I'd screamed in front of everyone, even our waitress. The poor girl had been unable to look at me for the rest of the lunch, which Waters had insisted on eating through to the last course while I sat there, humiliated and horny.

Yeah. Horny.

That was the problem. I'd liked it just as much as I'd hated it. Who knew I was such a freak? Not me, and certainly not any of the boyfriends I'd had. Maybe they had been the boring ones.

And now Waters sat in the back seat of the car, reading something on a tablet and completely ignoring me. Fear and excitement danced together in my chest, whirling around and around until I couldn't tell one from the other. Lifting my chin, I clambered inside. Zachary shut the door after me, and I crammed myself in the corner, half-fearing, half-hoping Waters would slip across the seat to join me.

He didn't.

In fact, he didn't even speak to me. He was too busy frowning at the iPad in front of him, and when I dared to peek at it I found it was full of small type. Some report or other.

Ugh. Just like my father, though he'd dragged his briefcase and his stupid Wall Street Journal around with him all the time—when he'd bothered to be home, that is. Even when he was home with my mother and me, he wasn't really.

What a douchebag. And here I was, about to marry someone just like him.

My ardor cooled somewhat and I sighed, settling for looking out the window, though I didn't really see the buildings pass by until the car slowed and I found we were somewhere in Manhattan—NoLita, if I had to guess—outside a little boutique called, simply, Anna's. The display in the windows were tasteful and minimal, meaning I'd probably have to work for a year at the bar before I could afford to even spit on the sidewalk out front.

Beside me, Waters snapped his iPad closed and slid out of the car. I put my hand on my door, but I was surprised to see him come around and open it for me. I'd thought he let his servants do that sort of thing.

“Good afternoon, Miss Dare,” he said, formally. “I apologize for my preoccupation.” And he held a hand out to assist me.

I hated the way my heart leaped in my chest when I put my hand in his. The moment his skin touched mine, a frisson of desire shimmied down my spine, causing my back to arch and my pussy to warm. The sudden catching of breath in my throat thrust my breasts out, and I couldn't help the blush staining my cheeks.

“That's, uh, okay,” I assured him, my mouth and my manners running on automatic. Silently I kicked myself as I let him help me from the back seat and onto the pavement. “I know you're busy.”

He raised an eyebrow, as though inviting me to expand, and, stupidly, I did. Maybe it was the way those green eyes seemed to look right into my brain. I'd never seen anyone with such clarity in his gaze...

Or maybe it was my dumb clit making the decisions. Either way I started to babble. “My dad was always busy, too. He always had to be reading something for work, even at the breakfast table. Well, when he was around. I mean, it wasn't often, but it was enough, and he always had the paper out and got mad if I interrupted him...”

Shut. Up, I told myself fiercely. The last person I wanted to think about while semi-aroused was my fucking father. See? He always ruined things, even when he wasn't actually there.

“So... yeah. Whatever. You're busy. I'm not going to bother you,” I finished lamely.

He didn't even smile that faint little knowing smile this time. He just studied me.

Oh god. Why did he have to be so self-assured? Like he didn't care how awkward it made things: if he didn't have anything to say he wouldn't say anything at all. I hated him so much. Determined that I wasn't going to be the first one to say anything, I stared back at him. The other people on the street parted and flowed around us. I could feel them staring, mostly at Waters.

Who was I kidding? I broke first. “It's a good thing you're marrying me,” I said, “because I'll probably never find anyone else willing to put up with my blather for better or worse.”

At that, the smile flickered across his face and he reached out, drawing my hand into the crook of his elbow, like some kind of Victorian gentleman. One of my many weaknesses. Dammit.

“Miss Dare,” he said, guiding me toward the boutique, “you are going to be my wife. I want you to know that no business report is more important than whatever you have to say.”

Shocked, and a little gratified, I followed him into the shop. “I have some pretty inane shit to say,” I told him. “Are you sure you don't want to take that back before it's too late.”

He laughed, a rich, warm sound, and dropped my hand, only to slip his arm around my shoulders, as if we were a real couple. I hated that his laugh danced on my skin like falling rain. I loved it, too. “I promise I will listen to whatever you have to say,” he told me.

That sounded like a challenge, but curiously, I found I didn't really want to rise to it. Instead, I could only say, “Thanks.” Hesitantly, I slipped my own arm around his waist and felt the rock hard body beneath the crazy expensive suit he wore. In fact, it was the first time I had really touched him so intimately. He, of course, had been nose-deep in my pussy already, and yet I hadn't done anything to him, even though I kind of wanted to. Aside from strangle him, that is. Like, oh, kiss him. We hadn't kissed. Bite his throat. Run my fingers through his hair. Scrape my nails down his back. Suck his cock.

The fire he had stoked into a blaze in the little Italian restaurant flared up again, and I had to swallow around my suddenly dry tongue and review what I had just thought.

Suck his cock. I actually wanted to suck his cock. Like, really wanted to suck it, not just do it because I wanted him to return the favor, like I'd always done with my other boyfriends and one-night stands.

Jesus, girl, I thought. You have got it bad.

And I totally did, because now that I'd thought it, I couldn't unthink it, and the lean, well-built body next to me moved with barely-controlled energy, like a dancer or a martial artist.

Or a tiger.

I licked my lips and tried not to think about where our bodies met and instead tried to focus on what he was saying to the gushing young man in a fedora and vest who could barely bring himself to breathe the same air as Waters.

“Something elegant. Not too flashy,” he was saying.

Dimly I realized he was talking about my wedding dress. I frowned in disappointment. “I always wanted one of those huge tulle skirts,” I said.

The sales assistant nearly fainted with disdain, but Waters, to my disappointment, let his arm drop from my shoulders and stepped away. The loss of him was a physical pain. He turned and regarded me.

“Why?” he said simply.

I shrugged. “One of my nannies was addicted to telenovas.”

Waters gazed at me coolly for another moment, then gestured to the sales assistant. “Both styles. Bring one elegant wedding gown and one telenova gown.

“I don't think we have telenova gowns,” the assistant whispered, still clearly gagging on the idea.

“Whatever you have that is closest, then,” Waters told him and he scurried off, back stiff with indignation.

“Thanks,” I said, feeling stupid.

Waters shrugged. “Anything for my bride,” he said.

I shot him a sharp glance. Was that... had that been a glimmer of self-reflection?

No. Couldn't be.

I didn't have time to analyze his comment, though, because the shop assistant came bustling back almost instantly, towing two dresses behind him. I took them and thanked him, and turned toward the dressing rooms, which were nestled in the back of the shop with a lovely little platform for expectant brides to parade before their admiring public. I had no public. I wasn't even sure why I was trying dresses on, to be truthful. If Waters wanted to control what I was going to wear, he should have just gotten my measurements and been done with it.

My vague questions were quickly answered when Waters shouldered his way into the dressing room with me.

“Excuse me?” I said as he sidled inside. There was room, but it was supposed to be two women in here. And Waters seemed to take up so much more space than seemed possible by the physical limitations of his body. He loomed. He hulked. He was all I could think about. I clutched my Telenova dress in front of me and glared at him.

He sighed diffidently. “I thought you might require some assistance,” he said, as if his eyes weren't tracing over every inch of my body, staring straight through the armload of tulle I carried in front of me.

He was too close. The scent of his aftershave and, underneath that, the slight scent of man, delicately tempted my nose. We faced each other. My back was against the wall. The last time we had been in this position, we were on about minute five of our first meeting and his hands were already on my breasts. The memory rose, sudden and unbidden, and I pushed it down.

Green eyes glittered at me, and I knew he was remembering the same thing. Slowly, he licked his lips.

I swallowed and thrust the dress at him. “Here,” I managed to say, and started to undress.

He devoured me with his eyes. Every inch of skin revealed became fuel for the fire I saw building inside him. In his throat, breath rasped, and his body became taut as a bow.

I couldn't get enough air as my blouse slipped from my shoulders and my jeans slumped to the floor. I'd never felt so exposed. Standing there in my bra and panties, I felt as though he were studying my very bones. I wished he would reach out and grab me. I wished I could reach out and grab him.

He stood very still, watching me as my heartbeat began to race and my lips parted in anticipation.

“Lift your arms,” he instructed. “Close your eyes.”

Licking my lips, I did as he bade. There was a rustle of too much tulle and satin, and then he was dressing me in my bridal gown, sliding it over my head, guiding my arms through the off-the-shoulder sleeves. The skin of his fingertips was just the tiniest bit rough, and it sent  my nerves dancing as they glided over the sensitive insides of my arms.

The thick material passed over my face, and he pulled it down.

“Turn,” he said.

I did.

Strong hands smoothed over my skin, arranging, plucking, settling. Then I felt the dress tighten and hear the hiss of the zipper as he slowly pulled it up.

The bodice became tight, tight, tighter, and I realized that the dress was a size too small. “Er,” I said, “I think I need a size up?”

“No,” he said, his voice thick. “No, I don't think you do.”

The bodice cinched me in tight, and by the time it was done I could barely breathe. Warm hands on my waist turned me around.

“You may open your eyes,” he said.

Oh, may I? I wanted to say, but I didn't. I wanted him to keep touching me, too, and those two desires were at odds.

I opened my eyes. The smile had returned to his lips. “You look... romantic,” he told me.

That... was probably not a good descriptor. “May I see?” I said, gesturing towards the door, and he obligingly moved out of my way. I exited and made my way up on the platform. Only then did I let myself look in the mirror.

It was... well. It wasn't exactly a Telenova gown, but even so I suddenly realized why the assistant had made such a face.

I was swathed—nay, swaddled—in white, frothy fabric. My chest, never my greatest asset, was completely lost in the riot of fiddly flowers and glitz. My shoulders, always narrow, couldn't hold the weight of the neckline, and my body, which had always been a little more boyish than I'd wanted, was lost inside the excessive skirts. I looked like a kid trying on her mother's wedding dress. I wasn't womanly enough to carry it off.

Shouldn't have been a surprise, really. I still felt like a little girl, and never more so than now, with my whole life running away from me.

I stood in the boutique and felt the weight of the situation press down on me suddenly. I was wearing my dream gown, and it looked awful on me. The universe couldn't even give me this one little thing.

For some reason, that—not the fact that I was marrying a man I almost didn't even know, not the fact that my shithead father was getting a second chance after emotionally blackmailing me, not the fact that my mother was sick and she didn't even tell me—that was what made tears well in my eyes and my throat close. That was the last straw.

I was just so stupid. Sadie was right.

Swallowing my tears I turned and picked up the ridiculous skirt and hightailed it back into the dressing room.

Anton stood there, his brows raised. “You don't like it?” he asked me. My disappointment must have shown more on my face than I'd thought.

Bravely I shook my head. “You were right,” I said. “I should go for something more elegant.”

To his credit, he didn't say anything about how he was always right, which is what I would have done, because I'm an asshole. Instead I shut the door and rubbed at my eyes while he stood there, looking faintly bewildered.

“What is wrong?” he asked me.

I looked at him. He seemed genuinely concerned. So. Maybe he didn't like tears. I'd have to file that away, maybe, but right now I didn't want him to see my weakness.

“Nothing. I just...” My throat closed.

So much for not showing weakness. Record time from resolution to collapse.

I swallowed. “I just thought a dress like this would be great. And it's not. I've always wanted to wear one and look like a princess, but...” I shrugged helplessly. “Whatever. It's not important.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I think I understand,” he said. “Perhaps it could be altered?”

I shook my head. I didn't want to dwell on it. “No, it doesn't matter.” I started twisting and turning, trying to get at the zipper.

“You've wanted to wear a dress like that since you were a little girl,” he said, like he wasn't willing to just let it go.

I forced myself to laugh. “Yeah, but I'm not a little girl any more, even though I kind of look like one.”

He spread his hands and appeared to think for a moment. “I am sorry. The gap between fantasy and reality grows larger with time,” he told me, which was some serious Buddha shit that I was not at all prepared to be all zen about. I just wanted him to shut up.

“Whatever,” I said. Tears blurring my vision, I turned away and twisted, reaching around behind me to unfasten the dress. This wasn't what I wanted. I didn't want to wear his dumb elegant dress. I didn't want to do this without my mom and my girlfriends. And I definitely didn't want to marry Anton Waters.

“Felicia,” he said. My name. The first time he had said it. For a moment, I caught genuine concern in his voice.

A large, warm hand alighted on my shoulder. I wanted to shrug him off, but some pathetic need stopped me. Everything was so wrong. I just wanted someone to make it right again. Why wasn't I shopping for wedding dresses with my mother and Sadie? Why wasn't I getting married to a man I loved? Why did it have to be this way?

The comforting hand on my shoulder tensed. I felt him begin to pull away.

I reached up and grabbed his hand.

I didn't really know what to do with it when I had caught it, so I stayed there, struggling to maintain my composure.

I felt Anton's hesitance behind me. Then his fingers tightened, and again that incredible electric charge between us sparked.

“You look beautiful in white,” he whispered, and then he tugged his hand away and was undoing the dress, unhooking the fastenings and slowly, tortuously tugging the zipper down. Bit by bit, my back was bared to him, and he covered every inch revealed with a heated kiss.

Arousal heated in my belly. Sparks danced up and down my spine as my legs turned to jelly and I put my hands out to brace myself against the wall. My head was suddenly too heavy for my neck, and I bit my lip as his soft, warm lips teased sensations from my skin that I hadn't even known existed.

“Oh,” I moaned softly. “Oh, please...”

He drew back. “Please, what, Felicia?”

I didn't even know. “Please, don't stop,” I said.

“Don't stop... what?”

There was an edge in his voice I'd heard before, when he cornered me in his office, when he'd sucked my clit beneath the table and made me come. He was going to do it again.

“Don't stop kissing me,” I said. “Don't stop anything.”

“You aren't in any position to give me demands,” he said. Then his hand closed over the back of my neck and he pulled me away from the wall.

This was a dangerous game I was playing, and I didn't know any of the rules, but I found I didn't really care. He would teach them to me, and I would enjoy every minute of it. I sagged into him, but his hand was like iron, holding me up.

“Spread your legs,” he whispered in my ear. His breath sent shivers raging over my neck and up my scalp, and I found myself doing as he bade without even thinking about it. I walked my feet outwards, until I stood in a wide stance.

His hand crept up into my hair and caught it, not painfully, but firmly. I was in his control.

“What are you doing?” I asked breathlessly.

“I told you I'd let you live on your feet,” he said. Then he pushed, flipping me over, bending me at the waist.

The sudden change disoriented me and I gasped and put my hands out to keep from falling. The rough carpet of the floor burned my palms and I hissed, but I had no time to dwell on that because he was gathering the endless layers of skirts in his hands and pushing them up over my back, until the upper half of my body was trapped in a tent of tulle and my ass was exposed for the world to see.

Hot fingers slipped under the elastic of my panties. A cool draft of air hit my heated pussy lips as he pulled the crotch away. Then he released it and let it snap back against my cunt and I squeaked.

“You should never wear panties around me,” he said. “It's so inconvenient.”

I felt moisture gather inside me at those words. “All... all right.”

“You understand?” he said. “No more panties. Ever.”

His voice was hard. I gulped. “No,” I said. “Never.”

“Good,” he said. His hand retreated, but I stayed where I was. The long stretch of my hamstrings at the back of my legs felt good and painful at the same time, and the knowledge that I was at his mercy made my knees weak.

I heard a click, and then the air hit my slick folds again as he pulled the crotch of my panties away once more. There was a pressure and a pulling, and then the fabric snapped, released.

He had cut my panties.

“Much better,” he purred. One fingertip parted my pussy lips and I gasped sharply. My breasts hung heavy and my legs were starting to ache, but all I could do was focus on what he was doing to me.

Slowly he stroked my entrance. I felt the flesh there quiver and clench, hungry and alive at his touch, but he did nothing more, only stroked me softly, occasionally flicking my clit, and inside me desire mounted. Blood rushed to my cunt, and I ached with emptiness. I needed him to fill it.

Whimpering, I squirmed, trying to catch his finger, but he wouldn't allow it.

“Tell me what you want, Felicia,” he said. His voice was loud in the silence of the dressing room. My toes curled at the sound.

“Please,” I said, and it came out as a breathless moan. “I want you inside me.”

He stroked my pussy again, and I felt his gaze on it, admiring the way I quivered and quaked, aching for him.

“No,” he said softly. “Not here.”

Not here? You went down on me in a restaurant! I wanted to scream. What made this place any different? I pushed my hips back, trying to force him inside, but he moved away, teasing me.

“Why won't you fuck me?” I whispered. I hated how plaintive my voice sounded.

“You misunderstood.” His voice rumbled. “I will fuck you, but not...here,” he said, then plunged his finger inside my slick channel.

I couldn't help it. I cried out softly, unable to hold back.

But my relief was short-lived because he immediately withdrew and swiped his finger against my asshole.

I stiffened all over. He couldn't mean to...

But he did. One by one, I felt each finger invade my pussy, and my pussy clung to each one, coating it in my juices. And each time he withdrew and further lathered my tight, puckered entrance.

“Are you a virgin here?” he wondered out loud. “Has anyone else taken this sweet little ass before me?”

I bit my lip, praying the assistant had disappeared into the shop to give us privacy. What did he want to hear?

His fingers departed and my ass and pussy quivered in anticipation.

Then he spanked me. Hard.

I gasped, tears springing to my eyes at the sharp, stinging sensation spreading over my ass cheeks and pussy lips.

“Answer me,” he said, his voice low and dark, but before I had a chance to do so, he spanked me again, and I cried out.

“Answer me.”

Another spank, the crack of flesh on flesh echoing in the small dressing room. There was no way the shop assistant couldn't hear it.

“Answer. Have you let another man fuck you in the ass?” Another spank, this one harder than any previous, and I sobbed, forcing myself to say the words.

“Ah! God, no!”

“Good,” he said, and I heard the rustle of fabric and the long, slow zip of his trousers unfastening.

I wish I could say what I did next was because I wanted to retain a shred of dignity, but really, I just wanted him to be as humiliated and helpless to resist our chemistry as I was.

In a smooth motion I stood up, letting the skirt fall back around my legs. I caught the barest glimpse of his face—shocked, as though no one had ever thought to defy him before—and then I was diving for his cock, my mouth wide open.

I'd surprised him. He stumbled backwards into the wall as I grabbed his hips. His hands reached for my hair, perhaps to pull me away, but I won the race.

In one fluid motion his cock was in my mouth—large and hot, the taste of sweet precum dripping onto my tongue, the smell of sweat and man going straight to my head—and I gave it a long, slow suck.

And just like that, Anton's control shredded.

His hips bucked, and I swallowed his cock down, reveling in his abandon. He thrust once, twice, then over and over, fucking my mouth. All I had needed was the courage to reach for him.

I had power. He wanted me. Not just the way a man wants a woman he sees and casually might want to fuck, but the way I wanted him. In the back of my mind, in the tiny part not reveling in the feel of his hard cock sliding against my lips and the quivering muscles of his thighs beneath my hands, I wondered if we would have come this far if our first meeting hadn't gone the way it had. If he had found me only mildly attractive, would we still be getting married?

Yes. He'd wanted a wife. That he actually wanted that wife must be a bonus.

He wanted me.

The knowledge was fuel on the fire. My pussy ached as I reached up and wrapped a hand around the base of his cock, squeezing as I withdrew, trying to milk his orgasm from him. Above me, he grunted, a strangled sound, and tangled his hands in my hair. “Felicia,” he hissed, and I cupped his balls in my other hand, the petal-soft sack full to bursting in my palm.

I wanted to tell him to cum inside my mouth, but that would have required letting him go, and I just couldn't. All his power and wealth, all his tight self-control—it was nothing under the assault of my mouth on his hard shaft. Since we had first laid eyes on each other, he had tried to dominate me—emotionally, financially, physically, legally, sexually—but I wasn't going to go down that easy. He was going to have to fight for it.

I moaned around the heavy shaft, swirling my tongue over the soft head as I withdrew and he let out a groan, loud and unrehearsed. I felt his balls tighten in my hand, and I gently closed my fingers around the top of his sack and gave it a soft tug.

“Jesus!” His voice sounded nothing like the smooth, controlled purr I'd grown accustomed to, and it inflamed me. Suddenly I wanted him to cum so hard he screamed, just like I had. I wanted to swallow his load, keep it inside as a reminder that I had gotten the better of him for a change. He had no say in the matter. He would have to live knowing I had milked him dry, and he hadn't been able to resist.

I jerked my head and tightened my grip on the base of his shaft, consuming him as I squeezed and released, squeezed and released, and each withdrawal of my mouth had my tongue curling around the head of his cock. I whimpered in the back of my throat, small, insistent, rhythmic cries, and he answered me with his own.

Within moments his balls bounced and surged in my hand, and his body jerked and shuddered. A wordless cry wrenched from his throat, and then he was spilling his hot cum inside my mouth and down the back of my throat.

I'd never liked swallowing cum, but it had never tasted so sweet. It tasted like victory.

I gulped it all down, swallowing around his cock, sucking more and more as his hips jerked and he moaned, almost sobbing as I wrung him dry.

At last he was done. He released my hair, his hands falling to his sides. I was woefully unsatisfied, but for a change I didn't really mind. I had finally turned the tables on Anton Waters and taken control of my destiny in some small way.

I withdrew, giving the soft head of his cock one last lick, sending an aftershock through his body, and smiled. Delicately, I cleaned my face and smiled, watching the thick rod in front of me pulse with his heartbeat.

Reaching out I placed a hand on his thigh and rubbed it, admiring the hard muscles there.

Then I frowned.

Beneath my hand he was shaking. Literally shaking. Not just from pleasure, but from something else. Frowning I looked up at him.

The expression on his face sent a bolt of cold through my heart.

He stared at me, unseeing, lost. Scared. His brows were drawn over his beautiful green eyes, and his full mouth was parted, but not in pleasure. He looked like a man devastated, struggling to catch his breath.

Apprehension cut through my arousal. Unsure what to do, I reached for his hand.

“Anton?” I whispered. The first time I'd ever called him by his name.

With a physical jerk, he came crashing back to reality, his eyes focusing on my face.

“Don't,” he said. “Don't do that again.”

I backed away and stood while he ran a shaking hand over his face.

“I...” I had no idea what to say. “I didn't mean—”

He turned, opened the door, and walked out of the dressing room.

I stood inside, alone, suddenly feeling lost and adrift. I had only wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine. Instead, I had traumatized him. With a blow job.

What just happened?

My own fingers shook as I wiggled out of the wedding dress. I didn't bother to hang it up again, just left it on the floor as I stuffed myself back into my clothes and hurried out into the boutique, regret and anger warring for dominance in my chest, though why I was angry—or at whom—was a mystery.

Anton wasn't in the boutique, and I rushed outside. A wave of relief hit me when I saw the car was still sitting at the curb, and Zachary stood waiting to let me in. He opened the door and I clambered in back.

I found my groom-to-be sitting motionless and staring out the window at passing cars.

I opened my mouth and started to babble. “Anton, I'm sorry, I... I didn't know...”

He turned his head and regarded me coolly. There was none of the fear, none of the devastation that I had seen still on his face. He looked at me with a vague indifference that I found even more terrifying than anger.

“We are going back to your apartment,” he said softly. “You will gather the necessities. A change of clothes. Your toiletries. Whatever else you need.”

The blood drained from my face. “What?”

He turned and looked out the window again. “We are going to Las Vegas to be married.”

I stammered for a second. “But.. but I thought we would be married here. Aren't we going to have... you know... friends and family and stuff?” Did he even have any friends? It was like asking if God had friends. Sure, maybe Vishnu came around every once in a while, but it was probably just awkward shop chat...

Okay, now my brain was babbling. That's how bad things were.

He watched me. “I find I wish to marry you immediately,” he said. “I have a penthouse suite on the strip and there is no waiting period.”

I stared at him as the car began to move. “Are you sure?” I said.

He looked at me and said nothing. The same indifferent mask he had worn at our first meeting had fallen back into place, and I realized I had glimpsed, for a second, the man behind what had to be a carefully constructed facade. I had breached his defenses, and he was reasserting his control.

Somehow, the knowledge calmed me. He was human after all, and I could reach him. My fears eased a little and I licked my lips.

“All right,” I said. “Let's go.”

The car rolled through the city streets.

*

The sun was sinking in the sky when Anton's private jet touched down in Las Vegas. He had relegated himself to the front of the aircraft, telling me it was bad luck to see me before the wedding, though I privately suspected he was still recovering from whatever had rocked him in the dressing room. Whatever the reason, I was glad to give him space. He had requested I tell no one about our pending wedding, and I abided by that request. I didn't really want to talk to anyone anyway. I was too busy thinking.

Two separate cars met us at the airport, and when we arrived at the chapel he had chosen I was hustled by strangers into a dressing room, illuminated by a window looking out on the setting desert sun and a buzzing fluorescent light.

Inside there hung two pieces of clothing: one beautiful—and elegant—wedding gown, and one corset.

The corset was like no corset I'd ever seen before. It looked like someone had forgotten to add the top half. A pair of lace panties were laid over the chair in the corner, a white lace garter belt and white stockings sat next to them, and two white satin pumps with the highest heels I'd ever seen sat on the floor.

I took the corset off the door and tried to figure out how to put it on.

A few minutes later I was still studying it and trying not to think about what was about to happen when a knock came on the door. I retreated to the far side of the room where a screen stood and hid behind it, only leaving my head poking out from around the corner. “Come in!”

The door opened and Anton entered.

My breath caught.

He looked incredible, his dark hair spilling over his collar, his green eyes perfectly accented by the elaborate gray ascot he wore. The vest was of the same gray pattern, and tucked into his pocket was a dusky purple flower I couldn't identify.

For the barest of moments I felt giddy that I was marrying this man. Given my track record, that I was getting married at all was a pretty big accomplishment.

Then I realized something.

“It's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” I told him.

“It would be worse luck if I could not enjoy the wedding,” he told me. Whatever he had planned, it sent a shiver up my spine. I lifted my chin and stared him down as he stalked across the room. He plucked the panties, garter belt, and stockings from the chair and held them out. “Put these on,” he told me.

Ducking behind the screen, I hastily disrobed and did so. I'd never worn a garter belt before. It was oddly thrilling.

“Done,” I said.

“The corset. Come out and give it to me.”

My breasts were bare and my nipples tight, but I didn't cover them. I slipped from behind the screen and handed him the corset.

His eyes devoured me, but that was all. “Turn around,” he instructed. I did so, and he lifted my arms and fitted the corset around me and laced it up, pulling it so tight I saw black spots. When he was done, I had a waist at least four inches smaller than it should have been. I stood straight, my breasts thrusting out to him. I saw his fingers twitch when I turned back, as though he thought to reach for me.

“Sit,” he commanded.

On shaking legs, I walked to the chair and sat. He withdrew something from his pocket and approached.

It looked like a bullet, but larger. Maybe an egg. Smooth and black, he held it between thumb and forefinger. The light of the setting sun gleamed on its surface.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked me.

I shook my head.

He reached into his pocket again and took out something else. It looked like an iPod. He pressed a button.

The little egg in his fingers began to buzz. It was a vibrator.

My mouth went dry as he knelt in front of me. Gently he placed a hand on my chest, above my aching breasts, and pushed me back into the chair's generous cushions. I let him. My knees parted, and he tugged the waistband of my panties. Then, just as he was about to press the bullet into place, he paused.

He looked up at me. In the light from the windows, his green eyes were illuminated and intense. No longer lost, but certain.

“Felicia,” he said, “I want you to listen to me very carefully.” He took a deep breath, and when the words came out, they were clipped and slow and utterly clear:

“You can say no.”

I knew there were such things as safewords, but so far I didn't think, during any of our encounters, I could have brought myself to say no once he touched me. The realization rocked me.

I looked at the vibrator in his hand. Did he mean I could say no to it? Or to the wedding?

Did I want to say no to either?

He leaned down and caught my eye again. “Do you understand?” he asked.

I swallowed and nodded.

He hesitated for moment, obviously waiting for me to tell him to fuck off. When I didn't, he gently placed the vibrator against my clit and replaced the lace panties. Anticipation hummed inside me, and I was already growing wet.

“I thought you didn't want me to wear panties any more,” I said, inanely.

The faint smile returned to his face at last. “Just this one last time,” he said. “There is pleasure in taking them off.”

He helped me up, and then, with warm, gentle hands, he dressed me. There was nothing to be done for my hair, but he tucked a flower behind my ear, and then it was time.

I waited out of sight as Anton stood at the little altar in a tiny chapel. Someone pressed a bouquet of the same gray-purple flowers into my hands, and then the wedding march began to play, and I walked down the aisle. About three steps into it, the vibrator buzzed to life.

I faltered, teetering on the heels, but managed to right myself. Head held high, I approached the altar.

Anton smiled at me, almost proud, and I couldn't help but smile back.

The ceremony passed in a blur. With each response I gave, Anton ratcheted up the power, and the little egg nestled in my slick pussy lips revved higher and higher. The corset kept me from catching my breath. Stars danced across my eyes.

“You may kiss the bride.”

I blinked. What? I wanted to say. No! Wait...

Anton Waters turned to me, and the tiny bullet against my clit kicked into overdrive as he reached out and cradled my head in one large, warm palm.

“Come for me,” he whispered, and, as his lips descended, I did. He swallowed my shrieks as we shared our first kiss before the officiant.

His tongue thrust into my mouth possessively, and my pussy quivered and clenched as I came, melting into his arms. He held me up, kept me from falling, and my hips jerked and twisted of their own accord, arching into him. His erection pressed against my mound, and my orgasm intensified. My fingernails dug into his coat and he swept his tongue against mine, our teeth clicking as died a tiny death in his arms.

At last he pulled away, and the look on his face was fierce, satisfied.

“You are mine,” he said. The vibrator between my legs subsided and I relaxed. Then it ramped up again, carrying me through another wave as we walked back down the aisle, and my knees turned to water as I cried out, embarrassment and ecstasy rubbed together, fast and quick, like fire-starting sticks. If it hadn't been for his strong arm around me, I would have collapsed to the floor.

We signed the certificate. Each time I thought he was done torturing me, he slipped his hand in his pocket and sent me reeling and shaking again. I came as I signed my name, leaving a dark smudge over my middle initial.

Then Anton Waters put his arm around my cinched waist and guided me into his waiting limo.

He didn't even wait for it to pull away from the chapel before he was on me. Stitches ripped as he pushed me down against the seat, his fingers fumbling at the dress he had thought was so important.

“Anton,” I said.

“You are mine,” he told me again, and then I was under him. His weight pressed me into the soft limo seat, his hot mouth, his lips and tongue and teeth, working my throat. I moaned, every nerve alight. I couldn't have said no even if I wanted to.

Sadie had been right. I wasn't the sharpest marble in the bag, and now I was stuck.

For better or for worse, I was his.

* * *

To be continued in Bartered Desire: The Billionaire's Wife, Part 4!

About the Author

Ava Lore was raised by wombats and lives to corrupt the innocent. When she's not writing erotic romance, she spends her time thinking about writing erotic romance and drinking enough iced coffee to kill a musk ox.

Discover more titles by Ava Lore at Amazon.com.

You can email Ava Lore at authoravalore@gmail.com. She yearns for your approval.

Other Titles by Ava Lore

Bartered Proposal: The Billionaire's Wife, Part 1

Bartered Seduction: The Billionaire’s Wife, Part 2

Maddy Takes a Memo (BBW Billionaire Menage Erotica)

Her Alien Abductor: Galactic Concubine, Part 1 (Alien Erotica)