Page 250 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Solene

"I am." I nod. And for once, I don’t stammer, even though my heart’s soaring like the high-pitched tone of a soprano in my chest.

He seems somewhat taken aback, then his eyes flash.

"I want you to submit to the lifestyle with me. I want to be able to wake up with you and fall asleep with my cock buried in your sweet, hot pussy. I want to play with the rosette between your arse cheeks until you’re able to take me there. I want to fill all your holes, Rabbit."

Liquid heat sears my veins.

"I want to look into your eyes as you come for me. Want to bend you over and fuck your pussy, then take you from behind."

Sweat beads the valley between my breasts. My core clenches.

"I want to make love to you until you whine. Want to shag you until you scream my name. Want to feel the shape of my cock embraced by the column of your throat as you swallow. I want to—"

He bends until he’s eye level with me. "Want to show you how it is to be dominated by me, worn out by my demands on your body, floating high on the endorphins that comes from release, shattered as you’re completely consumed by me."

A thousand little fires ignite under my skin. I’m so wet, I can feel my cum trickling down my inner thigh. My breasts hurt, my nipples so hard I could surely drill through glass.

"Declan, what are you doing to me?"

He leans in and pushes his forehead against mine. "Nothing I don’t want to do to myself."

We stare at each other for a few seconds, then footsteps approach on the other side of the tree line. "Solene?"

"It’s Finn." I begin to pull away, but he grips the tops of my arms and holds me in place.

"So, what do you say Rabbit? You willing to give this relationship a chance?"

"You mean the fake relationship or the Dom-sub one?"

"Both."

I glance between his eyes, seeing the intent in his.

The seriousness. The helplessness. He’s not sure I’m going to agree.

Oh, he’s trying to portray a confident front, as evidenced by the set of his shoulders, the firmness of his jaw, the steadiness of his hold on me, but his gaze gives him away.

Those startling blue eyes are so dark, they seem like clouds before a storm.

His grasp tightens, and a gasp escapes my lips. "You’re hurting me."

"It’s only the start."

"If this is you trying to convince me to agree, then—"

"Is it working?"

Before I can answer, there’s a crashing through the undergrowth, then Finn emerges in the small clearing.

"Solene, you okay?"

Neither Declan nor I look in his direction.

"Solene?" He moves forward and Declan holds up his hand. "She’s fine. You, on the other hand, are going to miss a few teeth if you come closer."

Finn stiffens. "She’s my—"

"Principal, and you’re her security detail. I’m aware."

"So, you know I can’t leave until she assures me she’s fine."

I draw in a breath, then slowly nod. "I’m good."

"Are you sure? I can stay," Finn murmurs.

Declan’s jaw tics. His left eyelid twitches. A sure sign that he’s pissed off. Funny how, even after all these months apart, I’m so tuned into this man. He opens his mouth, but I shake my head, "I’m good, Finn. Honestly. But I’d appreciate some privacy."

Finn hesitates, then turns and leaves.

In the silence that follows, Declan glares at me. "Don’t fucking say his name again," he growls. A muscle pops at his temple. His shoulders seem to swell. He’s doing that impersonation of a very angry alpha male, which is both a little scary and also a turn on.

My nipples harden into points of desire, and my pussy clenches.

And still, he doesn’t move. He’s only getting angrier by the second.

He opens his mouth, probably, to chew me out, so I do the only thing I can think of to shut him up.

I close the distance between us and touch my lips to his.

He stiffens but doesn’t move. I share his breath.

Draw in that masculine scent of his that I've carried in my memories.

His eyes are still open, and I stare into those silver sparks hidden between the darker flickers in his irises.

Mesmerizing, enthralling, drawing me in.

I sway forward and my nipples brush his chest. His shoulders bunch, and his chest planes seem to toughen until they seem to be carved from concrete.

My mouth dries, my throat closes, and still, he holds me spellbound.

He seems to be carved out of stone, but his lips—oh, his lips are so soft.

I bite down on his mouth, and a jolt shoots through his body.

A small sound of satisfaction escapes me.

I lick the drop of blood that beads his lip, and a growl vibrates from him.

The tension leaps off of his body, the air around us so thick with our emotions, our lust, the absolute need to immerse in each other, my head spins.

"Declan," I whisper. Not sure what I want. Or what I want to say. Or what I’m waiting for. His approval? His permission? His orders? Why do I get such an unhealthy satisfaction from wanting to please him? And why do I keep resisting this innate urge to satisfy him?

"Declan?" I swallow, and his gaze intensifies. The tendons of his throat pop in relief. He looks like he’s struggling with an internal quandary. Like he wants to throw me on the ground and bury himself between my legs. But at the same time, he’s holding himself back from touching me.

And it’s because I sense that internal clash, because I also sense his confusion, the fact that he’s baring himself to me for the first time—all of it causes a softness to invade my chest. I raise my palm and cup his cheek.

"Don’t," he says through gritted teeth.

"Don’t touch you?"

"Not until you tell me if you’re going to agree to my stipulations."

"So, you want me to plunge right back into a relationship—"

"A fake relationship," he growls.

"A fake relationship, but a Dom/sub arrangement that’s not fake?"

His eyes open and he glares at me. Whatever had been troubling him a few seconds ago has been resolved, and once more, he’s the hard, confident man he’s grown into. "That’s what I said.”

I frown. “So let me get this right, we’re going to be fucking, and spending most of our time together but to the world you still want us to portray that we’re in a fake relationship?”

“Exactly,” he nods.

“O-k-a-y, since our relationship is ‘fake’—” I make air-quotes with my fingers, “Does that mean I’m allowed to fuck other men?”

“Fuck no.”

I throw my hands up. “So how, exactly, is this a fake relationship?”

“Because at the core of our relationship is our Dom/ sub agreement which is transactional. There are no other feelings or emotions involved except for my need to control you.”

"You mean, you want me to hand over control to you?" I glance away.

He pinches my chin and applies enough pressure, so I have no choice but to turn to look at him.

"I want to show you who I am,” He looks between my eyes. “Want you to trust me enough to give up your choices to me. Want you to believe in me enough to let me pleasure you and satisfy you and show you how it could be between us."

I take a step back, and he lets me go. I miss his touch already, which is as crazy as this so-called arrangement he’s proposing.

I lock my fingers, then set my jaw. "I left behind my childhood home and my family because I never again wanted someone else to tell me what to do.

I moved away from everything familiar because I needed to be in control of my destiny.

And yet, you want me to give up all of that to you?

You want me to give up my power to you?"

"You’re wrong."

"Oh?" I scowl.

"It's me giving up my power to you in this arrangement!"

I scoff. "And how is that?"

"By handing over choice to me, you are charging me with taking care of you. You’re charging me with overseeing your welfare, your pleasure, your needs.

You’re placing the onus of your wellbeing on me.

You’re landing the task of steering your happiness on me.

It’s a responsibility I take very seriously.

To ensure you’re satisfied with my every decision, every action I take on your behalf.

And underlining it is the fact that you have the power to say no.

You can use your safe word anytime, and I will stop. "

I open my mouth, but he raises his hand.

"And if I push things to the extent that you use the safe word, it means I've failed you. It means I didn't gauge your requirements correctly. It means I’m not delivering to your expectations in which case, you can leave. So, the onus is on me to deliver. I may be in charge, but it’s you who has the power, not me. "

I trace his features, trying to understand everything he just outlined.

"So outside of when I’m performing, you’re in control?"

He nods.

“Can I have friends? Can I go out and do things without you?”

“Sure you can, as long as I agree to it.”

“Eh? That sounds like I have no freedom at all.”

“If you want more freedom, all you have to do is ask, and we’ll discuss it until we reach an agreement that works for both of us.”

I blink. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is, as long as we keep communicating. Also, you’ll find, little Rabbit, the intense pleasure and the multiple orgasms you derive from our arrangement will more than make up for your perceived lack of free will.”

Madonna Mia, he said the O-word, and my pussy instantly dampened.

Is there a direct connection between the filthy words he spews and my cunt, or what?

And I must admit, the confidence with which he handles my body, the way he makes me come, how he touches me, holds me, caresses me, punishes me…

All of it is something I miss. Something I crave.

Something I want in my life. The pressures of being in the public eye means I constantly have to make decisions about what to say and do.

To have the freedom not to in my private life, to give up that choice to him, knowing he’ll make the right choice for me.

.. is ... Freeing. Even if I can’t admit that aloud. .. Yet.

I fold my arms across my chest. "And you won’t direct what I wear when I’m on stage?"

A muscle over his jawline tics. The pulse at his temple picks up speed.

Also, he’s doing that whole gritting-his-teeth-with-such-force-that-he’s-going-to-crack-his-molar thing.

Anger vibrates off of him, and the atmosphere seems to close in on me.

It’s a little frightening but also, so hot. I squeeze my thighs together.

Of course his gaze drops to the delta between my legs. Ugh, now he knows even his anger has the effect of turning me on. I hop from foot to foot, and that’s when he raises his gaze to mine. "Okay," he growls.

"Okay?" I tilt my head. Then because I can’t resist the urge to push at his control further, I ask: "So you’re okay with my wearing clothes of my choice on stage?"

He nods then makes that growling sound at the back of his throat, the one that seems to arrow straight to my core and makes me drench my panties further.

"So, I can wear the dress I had on the last time we met? The one you said I should only wear at home for you?"

He looks like he’s going to refuse, then slowly dips his head. "On one condition."