Billionaire's Pet 3 (2 page)

“I guess so.” Standing, he walked to the table and carried it to the easel before kneeling at the edge of the divan once more. His hand smoothed over her stomach, his gaze studying the contours of her belly, hips and thighs. A groan left him and he dipped his head between Katelyn’s thighs, murmuring as his mouth sought her clit. “Once you are wet enough.”

She was wet in a flash but that didn’t end his gentle grazing. He slowly worked her to a quiet, frozen frenzy, her muscles flexing and bottom squirming. She hadn’t released the sides of the couch because he hadn’t told her to do so. She didn’t speak because she knew her words bothered him. She didn’t reach for him, didn’t ask him to join in her pleasure because he would not give it.

Lifting his head, his gaze caught hers. “Are you ready to come, Kate?”

She nodded, her throat too tight for words.

“Good, hold that feeling.”

Katelyn watched in disbelief as Griffin returned to the easel and picked up his brush. He sat on the stool, wincing as he reached for the brush and palette. His hand moved to his crotch for a discreet adjustment.

Really? He was going to sit there hard as a rock and paint while her pussy drooled and contracted with the need for him to fill her.

Damn him!

Fighting the impulse to close her legs and tell Montgomery to go fuck himself, she cleared her throat. “Are these other paintings yours?”

His brows pinched together but he answered her with an affirming grunt.

She studied those she could see without moving her head too much. Landscapes, every last one. Like his private garden in the city and the grounds of the surrounding estate, the images were serene and beautiful. She noticed something else. No fish jumped in the streams. No birds sang in the trees. No buildings, however small or distant, dotted the canvas. There was zero evidence of people or animals, just stone and raw nature.

“They’re lovely. Have you ever painted a person?” She knew he wouldn’t welcome the question, but had an overwhelming need to know. She had seen photographs and videos of Griffin interacting with people. He had looked sincere in those pictures and he knew exactly how to charm, whether it was an entire crowd or a single person he focused his attention on. The complete absence in his paintings of life beyond plants unnerved her.

When he didn’t answer, her gaze shifted from an autumn wheat field to the man in front of her.

“Don’t move your head.”

Frowning, she tried to relax against the divan’s plush cushion. Beyond her control, her pussy drew tight. She said a silent prayer of thanks that he hadn’t noticed and then he did.

“Relax, pet.”

She tried, failed. Griffin sighed, his mouth flattening as he shook his head. “I painted an anniversary portrait for Philip and Claire — their thirtieth.”

Risking another observation, Katelyn braced herself against his reaction.

“Painting never made it into your public dossier.”

His nose twitched but he respond, although the voice — nasal and heavy — was not it his own. “The Montgomery family is a patron of the arts, never artists except in the most sacred art.”

“What would that be?”

“The art of the deal, pet.”

Sympathetic pain bloomed inside her chest. Someone in the Montgomery family had looked down on Griffin’s love and obvious talent for painting. Her father had felt the same way about a “lady” running competitively and he had punished her by using her absence from home during the Olympic trials to commit her mother to a mental home. She had stopped competing after that, consumed at first with freeing her mother then caring for her. Griffin had cordoned off that part of his soul to one large sunny room that, Katelyn imagined, very few people entered.

She would have been ignorant of his painting had Claire not intervened and brought her to stand outside the library door under the pretense of a summons from Griffin.

Her chest hitched and she sucked a raw breath in. “So did your—”

“I can’t paint that pretty little mouth when it’s moving.”

**********

Katelyn’s mouth snapped shut. She lowered her gaze, a fresh burst of color brightening her cheeks. Her lips flattened to a thin line as the rest of her body subtly tensed.

Griffin’s grip on the brush tightened. He had predicted this — her probing questions and disappointment at his refusal to answer. Now he was forcing her silence. The downcast eyes irked him, so did the disappointment thinning her lips. Something else bothered him that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Something had changed inside her since he left the bedroom that morning, the only clues minute physical shifts like the undercurrent in her voice and the aloof framing of her shoulders.

He needed to know what it was — wanted to know everything that ran through her head. Unlike the cameras and microphones in the house, no device could extract that information. To find out, he would have to ask and that would expose his need and, thus, his weakness.

Slowly, Griffin cleaned the paint from the brush and returned it to the table.

He kept his gaze on Katelyn the entire time. She relaxed in small increments but continued to cast her gaze down. She needed, he thought, a reminder that she craved his caresses and a lesson that her touchy-feely nonsense would not be tolerated.

The contract did not call for a meeting of the minds but of flesh. He needed to put her back to where she had been that morning — soft, compliant and ready to do whatever he demanded. He didn’t like what he saw simmering just beneath the surface of her skin — it looked like mutiny.

The brush clean, he stood and approached the divan. Katelyn braced herself, the gesture so subtle he would not have noticed it had he not studied her so closely the last few days. He wrapped a hand around each hip, his thumbs caressing the prominence of bone beneath her flesh.

No response.

His gaze narrowed. “Look at me.”

Her head angled back, her eyes lifting with no trace of retreat or encroaching softness. Griffin’s touch grew more intimate as the back of his knuckles drifted across her mound. He dragged one down her clit, his attention never wavering from her impassive face. Realizing she would never relax while he stared into her hazel eyes, he lowered his head. His mouth started along a line that would lead to her sweet cunt and surrender.

Katelyn released the edges of the cushion. Hands sliding over his, she cupped her mound. “If you aren’t going to paint me, I should return to your bedroom.”

“I didn’t have you sign a contract so I could paint you.” His tone turned brusque. His fingers circled her wrists, his touch remaining light despite his urge to seize her.

“Correct, you brought me here to play with, however you wanted.” Katelyn lifted her chin in the direction of her propped ankle. “But you said you can’t do that now.”

His hands slid from her wrists down to her thighs. Heat flared across his cheeks and he realized he’d blinked half a dozen times as she delivered her carefully worded denial. Griffin closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring wide in frustration. He didn’t need to look or touch to know Katelyn was bone dry between her legs.

She had been wet for him less than half an hour ago. Now, merely because he would not indulge her prying questions, she offered nothing more than arid rejection. Or was she really afraid, despite her earlier eagerness, that he might further injure her ankle? Was it the fear that had turned her dry?

“I’ll be careful, Kate. I want—” Griffin stopped, mentally amending what he had been about to reveal. Only the weak want — the strong take. That had been drilled into him since childhood. He would not say want or need to her again no matter how accurate the word. Brushing his fingers every so lightly across her inner thighs, he restarted. “I’m only going to kiss you, Kate. There’s no chance of injury from my nuzzling your

sweet

cunt.”

He had started to say achy but that obviously was not the case. Nothing in her demeanor yearned toward him.

“No.” She drew her legs up, her body twisting away from him as she reached for her robe. “If you want to do more than paint me today, I must end the contract.”

Griffin noted how careful she was with her words, framing the situation so that he would have to issue the command that pushed her out of his house and his bed.

He watched Katelyn move further out of reach. Dragging her back, holding her in place while he kissed and licked the resistance away would require little effort, but he didn’t want her forced submission. He wanted her to crave his touch again, to look at him like she would never leave his side regardless of how much of his fortune he might one day lose. He wanted what she had offered so eagerly that morning.

He wanted her love.

His shoulder twitched and he shook his head. He wanted her pleasure, he reminded himself — her pleasure and her submission, nothing more. Shoving his hand into the pocket of Katelyn’s robe, he removed the pager and summoned Claire.

“You may rest the remainder of the day.” His throat constricted, a small burst of bile eating at the back of his throat. “Consider it a bonus for a job well done.”

He handed Katelyn the cane and the pager then returned to the easel to scrape away the paint that had not yet dried. A little sanding would be required and a coat of titanium white, but he could reuse the canvas. With the wet paint cleared, he proceeded to clean the color palette while he ignored Katelyn sitting quietly on the couch.

Claire entered a few minutes later. Katelyn rose and met her halfway to the door. Still focused on the table of paints, Griffin called over his shoulder to the older woman. “Help her to her room then tell Philip I need him to drive me to Martinique’s.”

“Sir?” Claire shook the question loose.

“Do you need me to repeat my instructions?” His tone cautioned silence. Claire knew exactly what a trip to Martinique’s meant. Well, he doubted she knew exactly what it entailed — she and Philip weren’t exactly adventurous — but she knew well enough. Her timid challenge surprised him. It was neither her place nor her inclination to reprimand him.

Katelyn, on the other hand

She could have changed his mind in a heartbeat. She only had to send Claire away and return to the couch in submission.

“Do you?” He repeated more brusquely when neither woman spoke. He heard the tip of Katelyn’s cane softly strike the floor as she dismissed the conversation and headed for her room.

“No.” Claire started to move at last, her steps falling faster than Katelyn’s to catch up with the younger woman. “I understood you the first time.”

Sitting before the easel, his spine and shoulders as stiff as the wooden stool beneath him, Griffin listened to the women walk away. When he could no longer hear even the tap of the cane, he moved to the divan. Finding one of the silk pillows that Katelyn had rested against, he pressed it to his face and breathed deeply several times. Finished consuming the last traces of her scent, he dropped the pillow to the floor then met Philip in the garage.

**********

Griffin stood in front of an X-frame. Strapped to it, a brunette squirmed eagerly. Martinique had blindfolded the woman before his arrival and left her kneeling for him. The dark brown hair and athletic frame were just as he had requested. Finding her quivering and responsive when he entered the room, he confirmed her safe word then told her to remain silent except for its use.

He ran his hands along her spread legs. Thin lace panties covered her pussy. A matching black strap concealed her breasts. Taking a pair of small scissors, he slowly snipped the top away. Her muscles flexed and he could smell her arousal.

Her lips parted, her tongue darting out to lick at their dryness.

The lace fell to the floor, revealing nipples the color of newly ripened watermelon. He brushed a finger up one and earned a throaty moan. She was clearly enjoying herself. So far, she was the only one. Reaching along a shelf next to the cross, he selected a pair of nipple clamps. Staring at the juncture of her thighs, he clicked the metal clamps together.

The black lace grew darker and her hips did a little dance. He reached under the lace, his fingers spreading her juices. Her shaking intensified, so did her moaning. More than a submissive, the woman seemed to be a slave in need of a master. Martinique had obliquely suggested as much.

Griffin ran his eyes over her flesh, looking for and finding signs of old abuse.

His forehead creased, a frown tugging at his mouth at the same time. The woman needed rescued, not used. He looked down at the flat line of his pants. At the moment, thoughts of Katelyn scratching inside his head and chest, he was in no shape to perform either function. It had been stupid and childish to come and, in rejecting the woman, he was about to make yet another person suffer for his bad decision.

Griffin replaced the clamps on the shelf then untied her. He carried her to the couch. Sitting with her placed across his lap, Griffin cradled her upper body as he stroked her cheek. “You may tell me your name.”

“A—” She stopped then swallowed hard before answering. “It’s Amanda.”

“You’re very lovely, Amanda.” His lips glossed over her cheek. “But I’m not looking for a slave and you shouldn’t be looking for a master in this state.”

She started to protest but he shushed her. His mouth remaining pressed in a kiss against her forehead, Griffin ran one hand down her stomach. His fingers dipped beneath the lace to stroke at her pussy. He started softly, his caresses and pinches roughening only when her slave nature became frustrated. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Amanda clung to him.

She sought his mouth, he did not give it to her. It was not his to offer. If he wanted to be honest with himself, none of his body was his to offer — not his mouth , not his cock, not even the hand he employed to make Amanda arch and moan until he completely stole her breath away and she could do no more than tremble violently in his arms as she came.

His body belonged to Katelyn, but rejecting Amanda outright had become impossible after he had entered the scene. An abusive master would have stripped layer after layer of her spirit away with each new injury. He would have blamed the cuts and bruises on her — accusing her of being too slow, too fast, too thin, too heavy, too everything and anything. Martinique had made a terrible mistake in selecting Amanda to play with anyone. He refused to compound it by rejecting the woman.