His Secret Muse: An Alpha Billionaire Romance (15 page)

I pause, trying to find the right words. His facial expression suggests that he wants me to keep going.

"It was tough, and I have to admit, I was scared at some times," I continue. "But I was determined to make it through, and I did."

"You did," he agrees. "How does that make you feel?"

"Proud," I say, smiling like a girl who is expressing her feelings in front of her crush for the first time.

"Good," he says. "I was worried I overdid it. Usually, it is easy for me to read how far I can go. Not with you, though. You are anything but an open book."

"Ditto," I point out, glancing at him from the side.

He chuckles.

"Don't worry, you have been punished but I have not forgotten about our conversation," he says. "Despite your bratty behavior, I think you deserve some answers."

He sinks a little lower into the water and pulls me closer towards him.

"What do you want to know?"

We talk until our skin wrinkles, and the sun is high up in the sky. I feel like I could still spend hours in the hot tub, spoiled by his embrace and the warm, bubbly water that pampers my tortured body.

But I am getting drowsy, and it gets harder even to keep my eyes open while he continues to answer the questions that came to my mind when I was given the chance to ask them.

I have always wondered why he was so reluctant to talk about his home. Even at the interview on stage it became so obvious that this was a sensitive issue to him. Every time I poked at it in the past, he diverted from the subject or told me to stop asking.

Not today, though.

I now understand that is not necessarily this town that lays a shadow over his past. On the contrary, he has always loved the city itself and emphasizes that there are a lot of fond memories connected to it.

Very few of those memories include his parents, though. Unlike me, he is an only child. And unlike me, he did not grow up in a loving environment. There are a lot of things I could complain about when it comes to my parents. But after hearing his story, I can only feel grateful for having them in my life.

Cedric's father was a psychopath who randomly lost control over his emotions. He was a choleric person with a tendency to drink too much. According to Cedric, he never laid a hand on him. But he did hit his mother, often in front of Cedric.

He left the family around the time Cedric finished elementary school. There had never been a loving bond between him and his father, but as a young boy, he was still devastated to see his father leave. He cried and kept asking his mother when his father would return home, which she took the wrong way.

Contrary to her son, she was glad that the guy was gone. She took her son's mourning as betrayal and started projecting all of his father's bad traits in Cedric. She blamed Cedric for everything bad that had happened to her and compared him to psychotic father more and more with every year that passed.

Things only worsened when Cedric stopped objecting her and just took her verbal hits defenselessly. Instead of talking back, he started to write.

I have a lump in my throat when he tells me that part of his upbringing. The image of Cedric as a young boy, his dark, ruffled hair, and big, black eyes, searching for his mother's love while she unloads all her anger about his father on him. It kills me. I want to hug that little boy and protect him from that unfair violence.

Then I remember that I can. He may not be a little boy anymore, but the man who has experienced all of this is sitting next to me, holding me in his arms.

I want to kiss him, caress him, wrap my arms around him or come up with something sweet to say. But he is also my Dominant. I am still not entirely sure what the etiquette suggests in such moments.

I know for damn sure that he does not want my pity.

His voice sounds sad and longing, but still steady and in control. He tells the story as if it happened to someone else and shows no sign of vulnerability or hurt.

About two or three years after his father left, Cedric turned into a young teenage boy who constantly locked himself in his room to write without disturbance. Of course, that unusual behavior only made his mother even more suspicious. If anything, it proved that her son was indeed a psychopath who was plotting her death.

He never let her read anything he wrote.

"Why not?" I want to know.

He smirks.

"You know the kind of stuff I write," he says. "It was not that much different back then. It was the proof she was looking for, and I certainly didn't want to be the one to give it to her."

"Oh," I say. "But she will know by now, I assume? Did she ever say anything about it since you became successful?"

He clears his throat and lightly caresses my shoulder with his fingertips.

"No," he replies. "I don't know if she reads it."

"You don't talk to her about it?"

"I don't talk to her at all," he says, turning towards me with a stern face. "I haven't talked to my mother since I left home for college when I was eighteen years old."

"Oh," I make again. What a sandtrap. "I am sorry."

He smiles. "Why would you be sorry?"

I look up at him and don't know what to say to that. It was an instinct. He looks sad, and I feel guilty for it because I am the one who made him talk about all of this.

"There is no need to feel sorry for me," he adds. "Wouldn't you agree? I live more than comfortably. My so-called psychotic writing has earned me more money than I can spend. I love what I am doing."

He pauses and leans over to me, planting a gentle kiss on my cheek.

"I have the most beautiful girl in my arms right now," he whispers, close to my ear. "The most delicate and extraordinary person who ever graced me with her company, and whose submission and loyalty is unmatched."

I blush. Can he possibly be serious?

"Loyalty?" I clarify. It is an honest question because I am not sure what he means by it. But it still feels as if I was fishing for compliments. 

"Yes, loyalty," he says. "You have never betrayed my trust in you. You are just as discreet as on that first day when you couldn't care less about that boring writer whose reading your friend dragged you to. Back then it was due to indifference and maybe fear. But even now, you haven't told a single soul about us, even though I know that it is getting harder for you."

He looks at me, but I don't dare to look back. He might just read how right he is about everything he is saying.

"And you trust me," he continues. "You would not have spent almost an entire night blindfolded and tied up after the worst spanking of your life on a rooftop if you didn't. You are incredible, Renee."

"Stop it," I whisper, sounding more aggressive than intended. "Please. I don't know how to... handle this."

He chuckles. "I know you don't. That's okay."

I clear my throat when he gives me another kiss on my blushed cheek. I am sure he can feel the heat of embarrassment my body is emitting.

"Do you feel better now?" he asks. "I have never told anyone as much about my past as I have just told you. It's new for me as well."

I look up at him, but this time he is the one who avoids eye contact. His gaze wanders across the city below us. The day is now in full bloom and judging by the sky and the rising temperatures, it is going to be a beautiful summer day.

My current fatigue suggests that I will sleep through most of it, though.

"Do you think your mother is right?" I hear myself asking.

"About me being a psychopath?" he asks back.

There is no reproach in his voice, but I still feel wrong for posing such a question. But sometimes my curiosity just gets the better of me. This is something that I have wondered about a lot.

What makes him write these kinds of stories?

"Well, I mean...," I utter. "Yeah. I guess. Or, I don't know. Do you maybe think that it was her in the first place who made you write these things? I mean, she is the one who did you wrong. Shit like that can screw a kid up, badly."

He laughs. 

And I feel stupid for crossing the line like this.

"I'm sorry, I-"

"Don't be, your curiosity is justified" he interrupts. "But, no. I don't think my confused mother is the reason I write the things I write. I write them because I can't help it. It is what I do, what I can do. Some people are good at fixing cars; others are gifted when it comes to selling stuff to people. I write stories. Twisted stories with messed up characters and thriller suspense."

He looks at me. "To me, what you do is just as mysterious as what I do is to you."

I furl my eyebrows and look up at him. "Why would you say that?"

"Just think about it," he explains. "When I write words, they are just that. Words on a piece of paper. When you write something, it turns into something so much more. I will never understand how that works."

"You're very charming," I reply, smiling sheepishly. "I never considered my work to be writing. I just type in commands and characters. It's purely technical."

"Yes," he says. "But in the end, we both sit in front of our computers all day, typing. It's just the result that is different."

"Very different," I agree. "My mind follows the rules necessary for my job. Yours comes up with scenarios in which a young woman ends up locked away and tied up in a basement because some weird psychopath claims her to be his.

He leans over to me and starts placing kisses on my temple.

"Last night, I did something very similar to you, my little girl," he whispers. "I might be messed up by normal standards, but so are you. You liked what I did to you."

I blush. The tone of his voice, the kisses. It is so damn seducing. My heart rate changes instantly as if he pulled a switch. Damn, he is good. 

"No one has ever caught you by making love to you," he continues, still whispering close to my ear. "You need more. You need pain and control. You need to be challenged and tamed like a wild animal. I can give that to you." 

"You can," I breathe. 

I raise from my position and turn around to him, placing myself on his lap. The water doesn't make it easy to move as elegantly as I was trying to, but I manage to sit down on him without stumbling.

He looks surprised for a second but welcomes my move just a moment later. I have never claimed him like this, but right now it feels right for me to be the one in charge. 

I take his handsome face between my hands as he would usually do with me and lean forward to kiss him. He wraps his arms around my back and pulls me in closer, invading my mouth with greedy lust, as if he was trying to prove that he is still the one in charge. I feel him get hard immediately. His erection pushes against my center while I grind on him. It is driving him mad; I can tell. 

It would be nice to get him to a point where he begs me to fuck him, but I am positive that he will not let that happen. Instead, his hands wander down my spine, grabbing my ass underneath the water. His grip stings my bruised skin and causes me to moan in between our kiss. That moan gets louder when he lifts me up and repositions me, pushing me down on his hard cock. 

"Fuck," I exclaim as his length fills me with such unexpected force. 

I squirm and instinctively yank backward, but he keeps me in place, pushing me down and close to him without our lips parting for even a second. 

He doesn't fuck me like he usually does, but instead just slightly convolves beneath me while keeping me as close as possible. But our kiss is hungry and full of yearning for each other. His arms wrap around my upper body, keeping me in place and pressing my naked body against his, our skin touching below and above the wild water.

This is different than playing. We are not fucking.

We are making love.

Indeed, it was a bright and warm summer day. But just as expected, I didn't see much of it. By the time I wake up, it is already late afternoon.

For a change, I am not alone. Unlike me, Cedric is more of a morning person. Or a person who doesn't sleep much in general. So, by the time I wake up after spending the night with him, he is usually up and about. Most of the time, he is writing in his office while I get ready by myself. Then I lounge in his living room until he shows up.

Today is the first time that I am the one is waking up first after we have slept together. When I open my eyes, the first I see is the profile of his face next to me. 

I squint sleepily and don't dare to move. He is lying on his back, with his head tilted backward and his mouth slightly open, breathing steadily and calmly. He must still be fast asleep. 

I have never seen him like this. So vulnerable and exposed. He almost looks like a kid. Like that little boy who was abandoned by his father and unloved by his mother.

I rise carefully, leaning on my elbows while laying on my stomach to have a better look at him. He is so incredibly handsome. I know it is a cliché thing to say, but he really does look innocent. Not like the stern Dominant he was last night. Or like a mental psychopath writer who fantasizes about torturing women and making money with it.

I can feel nothing but deep affection running through my veins as I look at him sleeping next to me.

The words have been at the tip of my tongue for a while now, especially since last night and this morning. There were many moments where they were close to escaping my lips, but I never dared to. I am too afraid of his reaction.

But there is such a strong urge to say it. It has become almost unbearable.

There is nothing to fear if he cannot hear me say it.

"I love you," I whisper. 

My voice is so soft that I could hardly hear myself. 

But it had been said. Finally.

I don't know why, but I feel relieved. Even more so because he did not react and still appears to be fast asleep. I can rest assured that he didn't hear me.

I smile and give him a kiss on the cheek before I get up to take a shower.

By now, I have my own space in a walk-in closet next to the bedroom and my own cabinet in the bathroom. Contrary to my first weekend here, I now have plenty of my stuff around, clothes - most of which he bought for me -, makeup, bathroom necessities, everything I needed. Just like a man's worst fear, I have slowly taken over this place by leaving my things around.

Except that it is a little different in this case because Cedric has been my sponsor with most of it. I don't think there is a single item here that I bought with my own money. He always insists on buying everything for me. I resisted at first but gave up after a while. What is the point, after all? He is unthinkingly rich, and it makes him happy to provide for me. He said it was insulting to him that I was so reluctant to accept his presents.

I take a long shower and get ready, fixing my hair and applying a little makeup. I have developed an interest in dolling myself up more than I used to and had gotten a lot more skilled and efficient when it comes to applying subtle eye makeup. It is fun now and not a tedious hassle as before.

I pick out another light summer dress that he bought for me and walk back into the bedroom to see if he is still sleeping. He is not.

Instead, I find him in the open kitchen that is adjacent to the living room. It is 5 pm, and he is making coffee for us.

"Good morning," he says as he sees me walk in. "You look beautiful."

I cast him a sheepish smile. "So do you, Sir."

He does. He is wearing dark pants and a light t-shirt that emphasizes the shape of his buff upper body perfectly. He must have taken a shower in the second bathroom because his hair is wet and undone. It looks endearing.

I step next to him and raise myself on my tiptoes to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. He puts down the carafe he was holding and turns around to wrap his arms around me to reciprocate the kiss with another one, a real kiss. I am surprised by the appetite with which he claims me. His tongue invades my mouth as if we haven't had each other in months. I moan with surprise and relish.

"That," he whispers. "Is how you should kiss me in the morning."

"It's not morning," I tease.

He smirks at me. "Okay, you got me there. Coffee?"

"Yes, please," I reply. "And food. I am starving!"

"That doesn't surprise me," he says. "We haven't eaten since dinner last night. What are you in the mood for?"

We have never left the penthouse together and usually have our food delivered. Thanks to Cedric, I found out that there are a lot more options when it comes to delivery food than just plain pizza. I know he dislikes cooking just as much as I do, so he has a vast knowledge of every delivery service of the country, especially the nice ones.

"Steak!" I blurt out. "Steak sounds good."

He grins at me as he hands me a mug of freshly brewed coffee.

"Coffee and steak," he says. "Not a good day for our blood pressure."

"It's what I want!" I insist.

"Then you shall have it," he says.

Another thing that has changed since I first stepped inside this apartment is that there is a big dining table now. He had it placed next to the panoramic windows in the giant living room in an area that used to be empty.

We have our steaks delivered and brought up by Craig, who seems to be the only person aside from me who is allowed to enter the apartment. I have never seen or heard an actual delivery guy come up here. It has always been Craig.

I asked Cedric about that before, and he said that he doesn't trust people. Wealthy or not, he doesn't like to have too many personnel around him and prefers to do as many things as possible on his own. He does have a cleaning lady who shows up regularly but always while he is gone.

I once suggested that he could use a cook, but he hated the idea. I almost feel bad for not being able to fulfill that role for him. But cooking has never been my thing. I am too impatient and clumsy to  master preparing a good meal. I simply don't enjoy it.

"You know," I say while we are sitting at the dining table, stuffing our faces with one of the most exquisite steaks I have ever tasted. "It would be nice to go out for dinner once in a while. Since neither of us cooks..."

He looks over to me, knowing exactly what I am trying to say.

"I agree," he says. "I have been thinking that it might be time to do that."

I freeze mid chew. There have been many times where I teased him about the secrecy that is part of our relationship. He said it himself. It has gotten so much harder for me to play in the shadows. I would like for him to stand by me. The relationship is somehow tainted as long as he is not willing to admit to it publicly.

Now, it seems, he is. 

"Really?" I gasp with my mouth still half full.

He laughs. "Yes, I would like the idea."

"What idea exactly?" I try to clarify. 

"To go out for dinner together, you and me. Just like a normal couple," he says with a look of surprise on his face. "Isn't that what we are talking about right now?"

"Yeah, but...", I mumble. "I mean, I understand that it is not that easy."

"We'll see," he says. "Maybe it's better to cross that bridge when we get to it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that I could still deal with whatever uproar this might cause in the event of us being found out," he explains. "When it actually happens."

"You mean when someone sees us together?" I ask. "Like... a journalist? Or a photographer?"

"Something like that," he says. "I have a feeling that I have become a lot less interesting lately."

"Fewer stalkers following you around?" I joke.

He doesn't laugh and just looks at me with a stern expression. "Yes, exactly."

I realize that the same can be said about Lesley, one of his most avid fans. In the months and weeks leading up the event, she had been talking about him and his work nonstop. But since it happened - and she has cooled down from the incident itself - she hardly mentions him anymore, even after I asked to borrow that book from her.

"So... you would be ready to make this official?" I ask.

"Yes," he says without hesitation. "If you are, that is. It might become a little annoying for you, too. Especially since I have never officially dated anyone after the larger public became interested in my work and private life."

"Mhm," I make. "Not officially, huh. But there have been other women?"

He frowns at me.

"Not since I met you, Renee," he says. "But yes, of course, there have been other women. I'm not a eunuch as you should well know."

"Sure," I say with a lump in my throat. 

"Have you... done the same things with them as you have with me?" I hear myself ask. It's ridiculous, but the thought alone that he might have been this intimate with anyone besides me, even if it was years ago, makes my heart feel as if someone squeezed a cold clamp around it.

He clears his throat.

"Renee," he says. "None of them have ever meant enough for me to make it publicly known that I was seeing them. Shouldn't that be all that matters to you?"

I look down at my almost empty plate. Of course, he is right. But it is one thing to understand this on a rational level - and a completely different thing to deal with it emotionally.

I think this is the first time that I have become a true victim of jealousy.

"Yes," I say eventually. "Sorry. I'm being silly."

"Nonsense," he says. "I like it. It shows that you care for me. I like it when you are just as possessive of me as I am of you." 

"Whatever," I whisper, lowering my head with a sheepish smile and blushing cheeks. 

"Cute," he comments. 

This time, our dinner ends with something else that is new to me. 

His phone rings.

During all the time that we have spent together, that has never happened before. Cedric does not seem to like it. He frowns as he produces the phone from his pant pocket to look at the display.

"My editor. I have to take this," he says looking over at me with an apologetic face. "This might take a while, I'm sorry."

I shake my head and beckon him to answer it. He reciprocates with an appreciative smile and gets up while answering the call.

"Yes," is all I hear from the conversation that follows as he quickly leaves the room, probably to disappear in his office.

We both finished our meal, so I decide to be useful and clear the table while he is busy.

Like a real couple.

A shy smile graces my face while I clean up our plates and place the leftovers in the fridge, even though it is unlikely that they will ever be eaten.

Cedric is still gone by the time I am done. I cannot hear his voice because the office is at the far end of the hallway that leads away from the living room, but I assume that he is still talking to his editor.

I grab myself some dark chocolate from the kitchen counter and nibble on it while strolling through the living room. For some reason, dark chocolate is the only sweet thing I have ever seen in Cedric's home. Eerily, that is the only kind of sweet that I would buy for myself as well.

I stand close to the panoramic windows, still munching on a little piece of chocolate when I notice his little work desk next to the living room suite. He has hardly sat at it when I’m around since that very first weekend when I saw him writing there.

But now it looks like he used it recently.

The little workspace is crammed with scattered notes, and somewhere among the mess I can even locate his laptop. Earlier, I was teasing him about sleeping in longer than me. He was the one who could actually get some sleep during the night while I was tied up on the roof. He cast me an indignant look and said that by no means did he get any sleep.

"It would be irresponsible to go to sleep after leaving you like that," he had said. "I was working and checked on you in between."

It seems that he spent his working hours in the living room..

I don't know why but I languidly start to dig through his notes. It is not like I actively intend to stalk him, but a part of me knows that I should not be doing this. He has always been sensitive about his work, never wants to talk about it and has never showed me anything. In fact, he doesn't even want me to see him work, which is why he got so upset on that first weekend when I snuck up on him. Since then, he has always worked in his office or when I wasn't around.

Like last night. I was blindfolded and tied up on the roof, and he was sitting down here, working. But why did he leave his notes scattered around like this?

I quickly look back over my shoulder to see if he is still gone. He is. I don't hear his voice or steps approaching, so he is most likely still on the phone in his office.

I am not sure what I am looking for. Nothing really. It is pure, innocent curiosity that leads me to further rummage through his notes. I assume that they are part of the finishing touches for his current novel. It fascinates me that most if not all of his notes and outlining still are written by hand.