Tied to the Tycoon

By: Chloe Cox

He came close to her, let her feel his breath on her neck. Then he slipped his hands in the sides of that backless dress, fanning his fingers out over her bare waist and the edges of her taut belly. She shuddered, jolted a bit in surprise. Her breath hitched, and he felt himself begin to harden. He breathed in deep, and pressed his fingers into her warm flesh. He prided himself on his self-control, but Ava…

Ava made it hard.

“What would…” her voice wavered, and she swallowed. “What would the rules be?”

“You come stay with me for a week. You’re mine, the entire time.”

She was still tiny, compared to him. If he stretched his hands, he might just reach down far enough. It was all he could think about, how close she was to being naked. How close he was to being inside her again.

“What does that mean? I mean, are you…?” Her voice was small, uncertain. She had taken off the mask.

“I’m a member here,” he said. “I’m a Dom. You’d be my submissive.”

He held her close, pulling her body into his. He saw her face in the reflection of the glass in front of them and knew she was scared. Not in a mortal way, but in the way people are scared of new things, of powerful things. He wanted to dominate her—he wanted to fuck her, yes, but he wanted to wrap her in his arms, too.

“I don’t really know that works,” she finally said. Her tight stomach fluttered under his fingers.

“‘Course you do. It’s what you are.”

She started to speak, but Jackson decided it was better to show her what he meant. He spun her around and pushed her up against the cool, thick glass, grabbed her thin wrists in one large hand, pinned her hands above her head, and kissed her.

She tasted just as he remembered. Sweet. Her lips were just as soft. They parted for him as he crashed into her, and Jackson Reed felt himself begin to slip under, swept away in every remembered touch, every remembered sensation of Ava Barnett. He kissed her like he might not get a chance to do it again for another ten years, and then he wanted more.

So did she. Her tongue met his, hungry as he was, and her back arched, chest pushing up towards him. He ran his fingers down her arm, the side of her face, her neck. He wasn’t gentle. He pushed aside her flimsy dress and grabbed her whole breast in his hand, wanting to feel the full weight of it, all of it, his once more.

He heard himself growl.

He tightened his grip on her wrists and ran his hand down the length of her body, reminding himself of every curve. Her body reacted to his touch in shuddering waves, her muscles betraying her each and every time they made contact. He felt her come alive under his hand, her breasts, her belly, her hip, all rose, fell, breathed. Suddenly there was nothing more offensive to him than her dress, than that thin, stupid piece of fabric. He leaned down low to grab as much as he could, decided to let her keep it on at the last minute, and slipped his hand underneath instead. The skin of her thigh was hot and smooth, and when his hand found her panties, he was glad to find something he could take.

He ripped them off, vaguely aware of how absurd that was, but not giving a damn. He felt powered by some inescapable force, his momentum almost unstoppable, so close to what he’d dreamed about for years. She moaned into his mouth and raised her leg tentatively against his and he pushed on, his mouth moving to her nipple. He felt her rise against him, and then, a moment later, felt her begin to shy away. He didn’t think; the most primal part of him felt her slipping away and reached out to catch her. He had her pinned against the window, and his hand was already at his belt when she pulled her hand free of his grip.

“Stop,” she said, choking on her own voice.

She brought her free hand to his chest, turned her face away. He was stunned.

“What’s wrong?” he said, his words pulled tight over his panting breath. His cock strained against his pant leg, and Ava…Ava…she looked so sad. Ashamed.

What had he done?

“You said it’s what I am.” Her own breath still came fast, and she wouldn’t look at him. “But I’ve never done it—not properly, not the right way. Any of it. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Jackson shook his head. “It’s been ten years since I was a total fuckwit, Ava. In all that time, you never told anyone else what you wanted?”

“No,” she said quietly.

If he’d known that was really the answer, he might not have been so incredulous. He might have been a bit more fucking thoughtful. Because in that one admission was a whole knotted, seething mass of deeper, sharper, more painful admissions, the most important of which was surely this: she’d never been that close to anyone ever again. She’d lived her life alone since then, never being fully herself.

It was worse than finding her married to someone else. It meant he’d hurt her more than he’d imagined.

She squirmed under him, trying to get free. He held her fast.

“Ava, wait,” he said. “Please. Just…ten fucking years.”

She stopped. They were still pressed tight together, her face hovering below him, blue light creeping across her saddened cheek. All he wanted to do was make her happy. He had always been the smartest guy in the room, but now he couldn’t figure out how to make the woman he’d always loved happy, even for a goddamn moment, even when he was trying. Some fucking genius.

“Is this who you are now?” she eventually said, smiling a little, trying to break the tension. “A guy who buys things? A rich guy who just…”

“I would pay to make you come,” he said, without hesitation.

Her eyes grew wide.

“What?” she said.

“You heard me.” He took her chin between his fingers and made sure she was looking into his eyes. “Of course, I don’t have to, now that I’ve won you.”

There was a beat before she burst out laughing, and he grinned. He could always make her laugh. He loved to make her laugh.

“Oh, shut up,” she said.

“I wasn’t kidding, though, Frida,” he said softly, and she looked back up at him, the laughter gone, but the memory of it still strong, a reminder that she was safe with him. “I wasn’t really kidding at all. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do…”

He touched his fingertips to her cheek and felt his own voice cracking.

“Stop,” she said. Now she struggled against him again. “Just…stop. I can’t just…after all this time…”

“You owe me,” he said.

There was a silence.

Finally, she said, “You can’t say things like that to a woman.”

“You can say it if it’s true. You owe me,” he said again, bringing her captured hand down to her side and pressing it to her lower back. With his other hand he held her face. She wasn’t going anywhere. He could feel how much she liked it. “You owe me a chance to show you how much I owe you. To make it up to you.”

She furrowed her brow in irritation or exhaustion, but which one, he couldn’t tell.

“What the hell are you talking about, Jackson?”

He didn’t answer her, not right away. Slowly he dragged his hand down her body, to the side of her right hip, where his fingers began to pull up her dress, inch by excruciating inch. He bent his head to hers, both of them quiet, waiting. The dress rose. Soon it was bunched in his hand, her leg bare.

He wanted to tell her, you owe me because you’re mine, because you belong to me, because it’s only fair if I have to belong to you, because you made me what I am. He wanted to claim her right there, make her his, the way she was supposed to be. Christ, he wanted her. And he could have her now, he knew it, knew he could drive her to the point where she screamed ‘yes’, where she would beg him to come inside her. And knew just the same that if he did it that way now, she’d wake up regretting it. She’d second-guess herself. And he didn’t want that. He wanted her to know.

She’d never know the self-control it took not to spread her leg and slam full into her against that bright, clear window, to hear her scream as he filled her, to feel her tighten and close around him.