Romance: The Billionaire Alpha Collection (5 page)

Chapter 7

The room soon warms up, and my body along with it.

Perhaps he turned the heating up when he left me.

He must have been gone an hour. Either way, I’m sleepy, trying to ignore the precariousness of my situation and remembering the financial ending to this humiliating experience. My eyes begin to close for a snooze, but the door handle turns with a squeak and I hold my breath, fearful of who might enter.

Bryce strolls in and asks, “Would you like a drink?”

“Yes… Yes please.”

He opens a wooden cupboard to reveal a hidden fridge containing several bottles of spring water. He plucks a straw from the drawer above it and pops it into the bottle after removing the cap. “I’m going to lift your head, Amelia, and you will sip from this.”

I do as he says, enjoying the cold water as it coats my mouth and cools my stomach. I shiver as it lowers my temperature again.

“It’s good. Thank you, Bryce.”

“You have wonderful manners, something sadly declining in the modern world.” He places the water on the bedside table and appears genuinely saddened.

I admit: I agree with him, but I say nothing.

Bryce sits in the large bottle-green leather armchair beside me, legs spread wide, revealing his crotch—much to my distraction. “Time for a talk.”

“A talk? With me? You want to talk?” I shriek fragments of sentences, annoying even myself. “I don’t understand.”

He’s at an unfair advantage, being clothed and all. And I am lying here naked and completely vulnerable. I wonder what topic of conversation he could possibly want to cover under the circumstances.

“Talk about what exactly?”

“Why you, of course. You’re the only mystery in this room.”

He speaks so matter-of-factly, it’s disconcerting.

“Oh?” I’m a mystery to him, which suggests he’s interested in me? “What would you like to know?” My feet tingle, greedy for blood flow. “First, my feet. Could you loosen the ties please?”

This’ll be a good indicator of how at risk I actually am with this handsome weirdo.

He frowns and says nothing, but gets up and adjusts the silk at my ankles.

Sitting back down, he asks, “Better?”

“Yes… Thank you.”

“Excellent. Then I’ll begin. When was the first and last time you had sex?”

“What?” I snap. “What business is that of...? Don’t you think I’m humiliated enough lying here in my birthday suit? Now you add personal questions.”

“Humiliation? Nothing humiliating’s going on here. And humiliation isn’t always a bad thing. It has a lot to do with how we, as a society perceive things, more than it does anything else. I’m not humiliating you, Amelia. I simply want a beautiful woman, naked and ready for me, and I’m asking her to share something about herself.”

“Like an everyday date? Only this is no date; I’m tied up.”

“You stipulated in your contract that no harm should come to you, so I altered my arrangements accordingly.”

He sounds so damned reasonable, even logical, that I want to slap him and kiss him.

“So because I won’t let you hurt me, you have to restrain me?”

“Yes I do. Now, I own you for a while longer yet.” He taps his timepiece again: a reminder of our contractual terms. “Please answer the question.”

“Fine, whatever,” I say, my jaw clenching. “Sixteen, and two months ago.” I don’t feel like offering more details.

“Come, come now. Something so potentially pleasurable, yet you discuss it like one might discuss dessert.”

The way he almost smiles warms my core, even as he annoys the hell out of me.

“It’s not something I like to share with strangers. If you’re specific, I’ll try to be too.”

“Specific? Okay.” He leans forward, and I feel his breath on my arm. “Describe your first orgasm to me...in detail.”

Really? I blurt out, “I was fifteen in my bedroom, alone, watching some French flick late at night.” I shrug. “First time I ever touched myself...it ending with a small shiver, a spreading warmth over my skin. It was special at the time.”

He smiles ever so slightly and leans back, threading his fingers behind his head. “And who was the first boy to give you an orgasm...in detail, Amelia, please.”

The dreaded truth of it is that none of my boyfriends had given me an orgasm. Will he think me a frigid fool and laugh at me?

I can’t be sure.

And why should it matter what he thinks of me? I’d never told anyone before, not even Greg.

To hell with it.

“No one. Yet.” I avert my eyes.

He gasps. “No one?”

Clearly surprised, even disgusted, I can’t bear to see his reaction, though why I should fear judgment from someone who needs to tie women up to get his kicks is anyone’s guess.

I flinch when he touches my arm with a sweeping stroke, his cool fingertips moving from shoulder to wrist. My eyes spring open and panic gushes to my chest. I want to kick him away, but I can’t move.

“Don’t hurt me,” I squeal.

A frown crunches his stunning features before his glare travels over my body again and back to my face.

“Hurt you? What for? For sharing your secrets?” Innocence shines from his eyes.

“Are you going to hurt me?”

“I made sure I wouldn’t hurt you by tying you up.”

What?

“You have strange way of seeing things, Bryce.”

Wearing a wicked grin, he explains, “Because restrained, you can’t misbehave. Only bad girls need to be punished.”

“Ah,” I say, as if he makes perfect sense. Then I paraphrase him. “A simple no would have been cool.”

“Touché.” He grins. “So if you were unrestrained right now, would you be a bad girl, Amelia? Would you need to be punished?”

Suddenly, I’m grateful for restraints as the truth of him sinks in. “Nope, not a bit. I’m a good girl all the way.”

He places one palm on my cheek. “Good, because I’m going to leave for a short time again. Do I need to gag you, or will you be the quiet little mouse you were before?”

It might be the fear, but Disney pops into my head and more idiocy leaves my mouth.

“Oh, you can call me Minnie if you like, I’m that mousy.”

His eyes widen; he covers his mouth and turns around.

But his shoulders move up and down, as though he were chuckling to himself, before he leaves without looking back.

I almost miss him this time, while I picture the shape of his mouth when he speaks and the fullness of his crotch when he watches me from his chair.

Chapter 8

Around an hour later, I imagine the golden afternoon sun crumbling beyond the horizon.

I have to imagine it because I can’t see through the blood-red curtains.

Bored and frustrated, I’m glad when Bryce returns with a stunning silver tray. “Dinner is served. Hope you like steak.”

I’m not as hungry as I should have been considering how little I had for breakfast and how I completely missed lunch, but the steak smells delicious.

“Sure, I eat steak when I can afford to.”

His mouth twitches.

I think he might smile, but no such luck.

He sets the tray down on the bed, between my legs.

My mind goes wild as he unties my hands and pulls me up into a sitting position.

Can I escape?

Should I try?

I enjoy the blood coursing through my arms and shake them out, rotating my shoulders.

“Ah...” I groan in pleasure. “Feels so good to move them.”

“You will eat as much as you can and drink at least half a glass of water,” he says, sitting back in his green leather armchair. “Can’t have you dehydrating or passing out now, can we?”

“Guess not. I might bump my head on the way down and...oh no, wait, I’m in the perfect position to pass out.”

He huffs at my insolence, which makes me smile inwardly.

I am a rebel...kind of.

“Eat,” Bryce orders leaning forward on his elbows, his legs spread and elegant hands dangling loose between his knees.

I pick up my fork and stab at one of many small chunks of steak.

It’s too bloody for my usual taste, but I don’t see the point in complaining.

One thing intrigues me, though. “Did you cut this up for me?”

“Some women stuff their mouths and don’t adequately chew each morsel. They eat like pigs and complain of stomachache. Thought I’d do us both a favor by cutting it into bite-size pieces. Problem?”

“No.” I try not to smile imagining him in the kitchen, preferably wearing only an apron. “So it’s not because you don’t trust me to handle a knife?”

Eyebrows pinching, he sniggers while walking to the window. “Feisty too, aren’t you? You could cause enough harm with a fork.”

“Feisty?” I bite my lip. “I think I like being called feisty.”

When he opens the curtains an inch or two, I find that I imagined the sky correctly.

Blasts of golden streaks run throughout the darkening sky, and the golden globe is almost out of sight.

“Shame you hid the beautiful view from me.”

With his back facing me, he says, “I offered you privacy by closing them, but if you wish, I can leave them open.”

“I have privacy? I thought you were paying for mine?” He glares at me and grinds his jaw, but I carry on. “Besides, no one can see through the window, can they?”

“Fine.” He threw the curtains wide open, allowing the golden hue of the dying sun to flood the room.

“Much better.” At least I’m connected to the world outside again, instead of being tied up in darkness, mostly alone.

Bryce sits on the edge of the bed, stabs a lump of steak with the fork, and eats it. “It’s not poisoned.” He continues to chew. “It’s good. Eat.”

The way he devours the pinkish meat makes my mouth water.

His intoxicating aroma fills my lungs, and I breathe him in and gulp on a gush of saliva. No matter how peculiar, how unlike me he is, he makes me yearn.

“Hungry, huh?” He takes the fork, stabs another piece, and holds the steak to my mouth. “Eat.”

Wrapping my mouth around the end of the fork, I take it and chew. It’s tender and juicy, more so than usual.

Perhaps because it’s not as well done as I would cook it.

Bryce studies me: how my lips chew and how my throat swallows.

And he licks his lips when I lick mine.

My skin prickles beneath his piercing glare.

When he leans in closer, he rests his hand near the tray and his fingers brush against my inner thigh, making me sigh. His casually positioned hand mesmerizes me as I take a few more mouthfuls and sip water in between each one, as instructed.

“Why did you agree to do this for me, Amelia?”

He shocks me again. “Do you care why, or is this another way to make me squirm?”

“I’m interested.” He shrugs. “Although, I’d rather you didn’t squirm. It’s your false beliefs, not me, which make you feel shame. Remember?”

“False beliefs? Ah yes, silly me. The obvious reason is I need the money. Why else?”

“You need it or you want it?”

“I want to visit Europe, I need money. Unlike you, I know the difference.”

“There’s a difference?” He does something wild with his eyebrows, something saying he’s cheeky and inquisitive.

I laugh. “You know there is; you asked the question.”

“So?” he asks.

“So what? What difference does it make to you?”

“Every difference. Answer me this: What makes you need it, not want it?”

This guy loves doling out the humiliation, huh?

I blurt, “Oh, I dunno...perhaps because you propositioned me right outside an employment agency after they rejected me for another job, which means I’m about to lose my apartment and everything in it. And all because some creep took off with my hairdresser and left me with nothing but debts as a thank you for two years of my time.”

He stands and clasps his hands behind his back, his mouth forming a thin line. “Bastard.”

Sympathy from the rich kid? “Yes, quite.”

“Your sadness drew me to you,” he states firmly.

My what did what? “And you thought you’d like to tie up the sad girl and feed her steak? Sorry, you make zero sense.”

“Of course not.” He gives me some more water. After taking a few gulps, I give him the bottle. “I merely hoped we could make each other smile.” He takes the napkin and wipes the corners of my mouth. “This happened recently, the thing with your boyfriend?”

“Two months ago, but as hard as I’ve tried since, I still can’t make a dent on his debts. So I’m here.”

“Yes, you made a good decision today. Doesn’t that make you happy, to know you’ll be free of him and his debt?”

It will, but the way I’m getting the cash makes me feel cheap and angry, in spite of the huge payoff. I shrug. “Sorry, I’m full. No more steak, thanks.” I push the tray away, along with Bryce’s hand.

He frowns as he takes the tray. “You’ve hardly touched it.”

“Sorry, but this isn’t how I like to eat.”

“What do you mean?”

“Um...not sure about you or your rich friends, but in the normal world, we wear clothes and can move all my limbs when we eat.”

His eyes darken. “You don’t like me much, do you?”

We search one another’s face for a sign of humanity, of something to hold on to.

I’m vulnerable enough as is, and I’m reminded—as if I need to be—that I’m broke and desperate.

“I don’t know you, Bryce.”

“Fine. Lie back, arms raised.”

I comply, but ask, “Can you loosen the ties on my feet too? They’re almost blue again.”

He glances at them. “If you stop tugging at the ties, they’ll be fine.”

He reties my hands and moves to my feet, where he loosens the sashes again.

The rush of blood to my feet gives me pins and needles, so I wriggle my toes and groan at the discomfort.

When I open my eyes, relief sizzles through me, and he’s gone again.

‘Your sadness drew me to you?’

I think of his words, his awkward glances and the questions, and a small part of me wonders if Mr. Bryce Morgan, gorgeous billionaire entrepreneur, is just a lonely, lonely man.