The Billionaire's Wife: A Seductive Encounter (Part One) (A BDSM Erotic Romance Novelette) Read online

  The Billionaire's Wife: A Seductive Encounter

  Part One

  Chloe Cassidy

  Copyright 2013 by Forbidden Fruit Press

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  Published by Forbidden Fruit Press

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  ***

  A taste of things to come:

  “Is it getting a little warm in here, Ricky?” I flash him a naughty smile and he releases his lip and runs his tongue over his bottom lip again. I can see his chest rising and falling as his breath comes quicker and for a moment I revel in the power that I have over him. Just as I’m about to push the envelope a little further he pulls his chair around to mine and in one swift motion he lays his hand on my thigh. I feel the butterflies start and my breathing gets just a little bit faster this time, as he brushes his hand up my inner thigh taking my pleated skirt with it. He reaches the top of my thigh highs and the touch of his warm fingers on my naked flesh forces my eyes closed and a gasp to escape my lips involuntarily.

  “I’d say it’s getting a little warm, don’t you agree?” As he says this he finds my smooth satin panties and rubs his fingers slowly over them. I glance quickly around the room to make sure that no one is watching.

  “I think I’m finished with my drink now…” I can’t stand the teasing, if he keeps on I will soak through my panties in seconds and quite possibly orgasm right here at the table.

  “Oh no, you have to finish it now, Melissa. Every. Last…” he hooks his fingers under my panties and slips a finger inside me, “drop.”

  ***

  Chapter One

  I’ve never been one to fall for the richy rich type; usually it’s the bad boys who ride perfectly maintained motorcycles but whose idea of “date night” consists of a value meal at McDonalds. What can I say? I’m like every other girl out there; the bad boys just ‘do it for me.’

  Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Melissa Gainsborough. I’m 21 years old and despite the fact that I graduated college early with a 3.98 grade point average (we can’t all be perfect) I am woefully underemployed and extremely underpaid. Sure, I could have pursued the prestigious careers that my sisters opted for, but me? I prefer a little bit of a challenge. No, no medical school or law school for me, I opted to become a human rights activist or, as my father would say “one of those hippy chicks.” I can’t say that I look much like a hippy, just a regular all American girl with long dark and frequently washed hair and dark brown eyes to match. I don’t wear hemp jewelry and I bathe often and use deodorant, perfume, body spray and lotion in abundance. Now if you classify giving a damn about the world as being a hippy, then perhaps I am.

  My mother always said that if I really wanted to make a difference then I’d become a doctor or a lawyer like my sisters. She firmly believes that they make a difference as they sit in their professional offices raping insurance companies and people who need their help for their ridiculous hourly fees. Hourly fees that pay for the luxurious leather furniture in their homes and the three vacations a year that take them out of the country. Me? I’d rather help people without taking them for everything they own. My sisters aren’t bad people, they’re just corporate people, they want their money and they want to go home to their five bedroom three and a half bathroom ranch homes at the end of the day.

  Growing up, my grandfather always told me that if there were an easy way to do something and a hard way to do something that I would pick the hard way every time without fail. He was right, of course. The man was right about everything.

  Since I graduated college I’ve spent the last six months hopping from one charity event server job to another, trying to get my foot in the door or at least make contacts. So far though, I’m still working as a barista in Starbucks, barely making bills and eating leftover muffins for dinner. I can’t complain though, the carrot cake muffins are particularly delicious and God help me when the season for pumpkin scones rolls around.

  Still, my passion lies in “humanitarian crap” as my sisters say and that, more often than not, lands me on the wait staff of charity events. Underpaying and thankless as the jobs are, they will hopefully one day open up a door to something bigger.

  Chapter Two

  The Lambert Estate is one of those houses you see on stately postcards with fall foliage surrounding it and generic greetings stamped across the front. It has to house at least twenty five bedrooms and God knows how many bathrooms, but I know I’d hate to be a housekeeper on their staff. I can think of a number of locations other than the Lambert Estate that would have been a little better suited for a charity fundraiser –perhaps one that requires less overhead to set up, but Gideon Lambert isn’t known for being thrifty. I’ve never understood spending so much money for a charity event to raise money, why not just donate the money you’d spend on the event in the first place?

  “Here, hold this.” One of the other undertrained wait staff shoves a silver plate with half filled champagne flutes in to my hands.

  “Are they ready to go out?” I ask, balancing the tray on one hand.

  “Umm, sure, yeah.” The guy waves me off with his hand and goes back to filling more champagne flutes. I’ve worked with a few of the wait staff before but for the most part they’re all young college kids looking for a few extra bucks and who also have no idea what they’re doing.

  I push my way through the kitchen doors and start the trek back in to the “parlor” where the societal elites would be starting to dry out from a night of champagne refills.

  My feet are screaming from these stupid heels and so far no one has done much more than swipe glasses off my tray and replace them with empties. Not that I expect them to offer me jobs or ask for my perspective on current world issues, but at least in the past I’ve made some connections with charities that would at least earn me a future introduction – “Hi, I’m Melissa, I met you at the…” This whole event has been more of a pissing contest than anything else though and to be honest I’ll be glad to get it over with.

  Swinging back through the kitchen doors with my empty tray I take a moment to breathe and contemplate sneaking out of the back door. As I look towards the back door one of the other servers grabs me on the shoulder snagging my hair with his fingers as he does.

  “Melissa, go down to the basement and grab a few more bottles, we’re running short and these people can dr-rink” He separates the word in to two over exaggerated syllables and steers me in the direction of the basement door. Fuck, I hate basements. Still, it’ll be a few minutes respite from the parlor. Opening the door I flip on the switch and step out of my shoes, I’ll break my neck taking these stairs in heels. I make sure to shut the door behind me; something I decide was probably a bad decision should a basement dwelling poltergeist decide to chase me out of its home.

  The air down here isn’t the usual damp basement air and it smells like, well, nothing really. There is a distinct lack of that wet basement smell. To the left of the stairs is a corridor opening in to a large, dimly lit room that is lined with rack upon rack of wine bottles. I find the c
ase of champagne lying by the corridor entrance though, obviously left there for easy access for us. I grab one bottle in each hand and turning to go back up the stairs I notice a flicker of light from a door to the right of the stairs. I set the bottles back down and walk over, trying the door handle. The door opens and I see a large bar room complete with a bar top, neon lights and a well groomed bar man wiping out glasses.

  “Well, isn’t this some sort of shit from The Shining” I didn’t realize that I’d spoken the words out loud until the man behind the bar cracks a smile. “Sorry, I just…I didn’t expect…”

  “Don’t worry about it; it’s sort of a hidden oasis. Not many people know it’s here and those that do don’t go telling about it. We like to keep it on the down low.” I can’t help but laugh at him.

  “Down low? Do people still say that?” He shrugs looking a little offended.

  “Apparently this person still does?” He lowers his eyes to my stocking covered feet “Sorry, no shoes, no service” There’s that smile again and this time it’s followed by a wink.

  “I thought it was no shoes, no shirt, no service?” I ask walking over to the bar and hopping on to one of the barstools.

  “No shirt…now there’s a thought” I can feel the color rising in my cheeks as his blue gaze lingers just a little longer than it should on my breasts. He lifts his eyes back to mine, “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Got anything to steel me for the rest of the night? I just love dealing with ungrateful socialites with too much money and no manners.” His face takes on a curious look; something like amused aggravation for just a second before he turns around and reaches for a shaker.

  “No excuse for a lack of manners, no excuse at all. Speaking of which, I’m Ricky” He flashes that smile again and I wonder if he knows how badly it makes me want to kiss him. He has that typical bad boy look about him and I find myself wondering just how bad of a boy he could be if he really tried.

  “Melissa,” I say as I lean over the bar and watch him mixing various colored liquors in the shaker. I’m not much of a drinker and seeing him pour so many liquors in to one drink makes me a little nervous.

  “Not much of a drinker, Melissa?” Cannily reading my mind, he starts to shake the shaker and I let my eyes settle on the mop of deep brown hair that flops down over his eyes as he shakes.

  “Not so much. A glass of wine now and then but other than that it’s mostly coffee at work and soda or water at home” Of all times to get verbal diarrhea I choose now? Why did I tell him that? Like he actually cares what I drink and when I drink it.

  “Oh. Where do you work?” He raises a single eyebrow and places the drink on the bar with a small napkin.

  “Just Starbucks” I don’t know why I’m so embarrassed to tell people that I work in a coffee shop, hell, people are lucky to have any job these days and it’s not like he’s much better off working in a bar basement.

  “Hmm, pretty girl like you shouldn’t be serving other people. You deserve to be the one being taken care of.” I don’t know how to respond to that.

  “Hey, it pays the bills. Besides, I’ve always done pretty well taking care of myself and it’s not like I’ll be a barista forever.” Now I’m on the defensive and can’t help but feel a little angry that he’d assume that I can’t take care of myself.

  “Whoa” he holds up both hands defensively “I just meant that you shouldn’t have to work so hard. Every woman deserves to be treated like a…” he hesitates “Princess Leia.”

  “What?!” I burst out laughing as he makes the Star Wars reference.

  “You know! Every woman deserves to be treated like a princess. As for being chained up once in a while…” I nod knowingly.

  “In a gold bikini right? While some fat, odious guy drools all over her?” He shrugs.

  “Hey, whatever floats your boat. I fully support the chains; anything you bring to the table is up to you.” He chuckles, an innocent laugh and I crack a smile again.

  “So who would you be in this analogy then?”

  “Me?” He pours himself a shot of gin and leans on to the bar, “well, that’s a tough one. The handsome knight in shining armor with a little fetish for kink.”

  “Little? I’ve known you all of five minutes and you’ve already talked about chaining girls up!”

  “Oh Melissa, are you telling me that your closet is clear of skeletons? There are no furry handcuffs under your bed?” There aren’t actually, I’m a little embarrassed to admit it but I’ve only ever had vanilla sex with one very vanilla man and while it wasn’t thrilling it did the job. “Well?”

  “I plead the fifth on that one.” I take a few big gulps of my drink and watch as he slams his shot down.

  “No, no. No pleading the fifth. This…” he points to my half empty glass “is a truth cocktail.”

  “Bullshit” I down the rest of it and set the glass on the bar “see?” He holds up his finger.

  “Just give it a minute…” we stare at each other for a minute and realizing that I’ll more than likely never see the guy again I let my mouth run loose.

  “I’ve only had sex with one guy and he wasn’t in to” I wave my hand dismissing the idea “that stuff.”

  “Ooohhhhhh,” Ricky leans forward and pinches my chin between his thumb and finger “now that’s a real shame. I can see you looking very pretty all trussed up and ready to please.” I can feel my cheeks burning and my eyes are starting to water. He leans his face down to mine until I can smell the gin on his breath and feel the warmth of his skin radiating. “Mmm, what a lurid sight that would be.”

  “Do you get off embarrassing women?” I pull my face from his and look at him accusingly.

  “Only when they like it too and you - well, I can tell you like it.”

  “Oh? And how is that?”

  “Because…” his hand grabs my chin again and pulls my lips to his. He presses those soft lips against mine and lets his hand slip behind my ear, pulling my mouth in to his. His tongue slides between my lips and I feel him inviting me to play, his hand gliding through my hair. I moan in to him as I lean forward and kiss back before he pulls away.

  “Now, let’s try this truth cocktail again and see what other truths and consequences we can uncover” He starts mixing another drink. I can feel my head already whirling but I’m having a lot more fun down here than I was upstairs. I feel a bit like I’ve stepped in to an adult version of Narnia, through the basement door and in to the bar where the horny bartender makes a bid for my affections.

  “Just remember, I have to be able to walk afterwards” Once again I eye the shaker as it becomes a pool of swirling colors.

  “That’s a pity.” I’m not sure what he means but he flashes that half smile again and I ask him to clarify. “What I mean is, I have something extra special for you but it’s definitely off the table if you want to be able to walk afterwards.” This time I am confident that my cheeks match the scarlet lace panties I put on this morning and I giggle nervously. He was flirting with me, not just flirting flirting but FLIRTING.

  “Well, they might not miss me for a little while…” I can’t believe I even said that. It sounds just as desperate coming out of my mouth as it did in my head but the guy is gorgeous and my brain to mouth filter seems to have gone to hell.

  “Is that right?” Ricky tops the shaker and gives it a good shake before pouring it in to a Martini glass and slipping a paper umbrella in to it. I take it and sip it awkwardly, not knowing what to say next. “Good?” he asks and I nod, taking another mouthful.

  “Slow down.” His voice is almost a growl as he snaps and places a napkin on the bar top “drink it too fast and you’ll get lightheaded.”

  “Sorry” I set the glass back down on the bar top, “I’m just so thirsty! It’s hard work being a lackey you know.” He nods knowingly and lifts up the side of the bar top.

  “I’ll bet it takes a toll on those poor feet of yours too” As I reach to pick up my glass again he leans down and
takes one of my feet in his hands. His fingers begin to knead the soft arches of my feet and then he spins me sideways, pulling my foot up in to his lap. The blush rises in my cheeks again as he licks his bottom lip and sits the heel of my foot over the crotch of his pants. “These poor poor feet” he mutters and I feel his cock underneath my heel. I wonder if it’s unintentional, like a massage client getting a hard-on on the table or whether he knows precisely what he’s doing. I soon get my answer when he drops one foot to the floor and settles the arch of my foot on his cock. He is already thick; rock solid, and as I slide my foot down slowly I can almost feel him throbbing for freedom.

  Chapter Three

  “Ricky, I don’t…” He cuts me off.

  “Rub it. Feel my aching cock under your foot, it’s aching for you. What I wouldn’t do to bend you right over that bar stool right now and fuck you.” His straightforwardness both shocks me and leaves my core aching. My scarlet panties are now soaking wet and I can feel them clinging to my pussy.