The Billionaire's Trust (His Submissive, Part Eleven) Read online

  I slumped backward with a sigh. I never thought I’d say I’d rather talk about Rachel Laraby than the topic at hand. Her name would come up dead last, hands down. But Jacob’s mom gave her some competition.

  I sat back up hesitantly, meeting Meg’s patient gaze.

  “She’s been calling, texting, emailing, hell, I bet she’d even send smoke signals if she could. I mean, you know how hardcore my mom can get if she doesn’t hear from me every few days.”

  “Oh yes,” Megan answered with an understandable shudder.

  During my second year in college we had a falling out and I stopped answering my phone. Most parents would take that as a pretty good indicator that space was needed. Not my mother--she came out to campus, demanding to know my schedule and gain access to my dorm. According to the staff member who had the misfortune of dealing with her, she’d even demanded I be brought from class to the administrative building like a child being called to the principals office. They sent her away because my school recognized a fact that seemed to fly over Mom’s head--that I was an adult--and I’m sure they didn’t want to get involved in a private matter. If that whole thing wasn’t embarrassing enough, one of the student’s working in the office put my mom’s craziness on her Facebook wall.

  Eventually, Mom and I made up, but I’d never forgotten the embarrassment and shame that she’d actually come to my school and made a scene.

  “So take my mom’s brand of...persistence,” I said after an unpleasant trip down Memory Lane. “And multiply that by ten.”

  Megan’s green eyes rounded. “Holy crap.”

  “Yep,” I said with a bitter laugh. “Jacob said she was absent most of his life and instead of moderation, she jumped to the other side of the spectrum. It got so bad that I actually considered changing my phone number.”

  “Yikes,” she said sympathetically. “So she’s been apologizing like crazy, huh?”

  “Nope.” Which was ironic, because she had a LOT to be sorry for. But other than the apology she’d given in the coffee shop, she hadn’t uttered another ‘I’m sorry’. “She seems more intent on making sure Jacob and I have the wedding of her dreams.”

  “Um...” She held onto the ‘mmm’, voice filled with all the suspicion that rang in my head from the very first call. “Maybe she should work on rebuilding the bridge before she blazes over it?”

  “You’d think, huh? I don’t know how many times I told her Jacob and I hadn’t even discussed what our dream wedding would look like and how she completely ignored that ‘tiny hiccup’.”

  Our eyes met and the unspoken question was plain as day, hitting me like a blow to the chest: Why hadn’t we talked about our wedding?

  “We’ve both been so busy. I mean, we’re not purposefully not talking about it. And he’s going to be out of town until he gets a handle on the merger and--” I took a breath, realizing I was babbling. My hands were clammy and I was nervous as hell, trying to explain why my fiancé and I neglected to have a very important conversation.

  “Everything good with you and Jacob?” Megan asked cautiously.

  “Good? Everything’s great!” I answered quickly. I immediately realized I was a little too eager and leaned back, steadying my nerves. “Our intimacy level is through the roof. We even--” I decided against telling her what we’d done on the very cushion she was sitting on, but the way she made a face and jumped to her feet meant she could put two and two together.

  “Eww, really?!” She shot me a look before she started pacing back and forth. “Anyway...you’re good in the bedroom, but how about emotionally?”

  “Emotionally?” I recalled his confession about his suicidal moment. HIs mother’s frequent suicidal moments. Together, we’d stripped down the layers until I knew everything about who he was and he knew...”Oh my god.”

  Megan stopped pacing. “What?”

  “He opened up to me, but I--I’ve never opened up to him. Sexually, sure. But never about my past. Or about the wedding.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged, not sure of the answer. “I guess my life is pretty unimpressive.”

  “That’s a cop-out and you know it,” she tsked. “I get that Jacob is going through a lot and had some really horrible things happen when he was a child, but it doesn’t make your story any less important.”

  “Yeah, but--”

  “Are you his therapist or his fiancé?”

  “His fiancé,” I answered curtly.

  She went back to the chair, hovering a few inches before saying the hell with it and sitting down. “Love is more than one person pouring out their soul and the other carrying the weight of it. It’s give and take--or else you wake up one day and realize you’re with someone that doesn’t really know you, but you know everything about him.”

  I bit my lip to stop the retort that rose in my throat. What do you know about it? Megan knew too much. Her ex, Brad, had the whole tortured thing down to an art. Megan told me his father liked to get completely plastered and beat the living crap out of his wife and when he got bored, Brad and his sister were next in line. Not to diminish his story; it was a terrible thing that happened to him. No child should ever endure a parent, anyone, harming them, but Megan took on the pain. Whenever Brad berated her or cheated or did something douche-ish it was always back to his childhood. She supported him, but she had no voice in the relationship. Whenever she demanded more of him and tried to explain how she had pain of her own, he’d one up her by reminding her of something horrible his father did to him. She completely lost her voice, lost herself in him.

  Was I losing myself in Jacob?

  “We’ll figure it out together when he comes back. We’ll sit down and I’ll tell him that I want something small. That I want to work with Macy.”

  She didn’t seem too convinced. “Why do you think you haven’t talked about it? Why didn’t you speak up when Macy left?”

  “Well, we’ve been busy,” I reiterated, unable to stop the defensive streak from lashing out when I spoke. “And as far as the wedding, as long as Jacob’s there, I’m good.”

  “Well, duh,” she said with an eye roll. “But that’s not really what I mean. Even if you didn’t want to start something in the restaurant, why didn’t you bring it up to Jacob after?”

  “I don’t know,” I said stubbornly. Lying. I knew exactly why I didn’t say anything. It was the exact same reason I closed my laptop or clicked the tab closed whenever Jacob turned his attention to me.

  “If you want me to drop it, I’ll drop it,” she said quietly, sitting back and looking away. She was trying to give me space and I loved her for it, but didn’t want or need it. The shades were already pulled open, there was no pulling them back closed.

  “No way does Jacob Whitmore get married on a beach with a ukulele or any of that. He’s supposed to do the big, wedding of the century thing with a sea of people he barely knows, flowers, something that cost more than the average person makes in a year. And with the life I’ll be leading--”

  “You can’t have it both ways, Lay,” she cut in softly. “You can’t say the money won’t change you and then tell me you’re sacrificing your dreams for his like a perfect Upper East side wife.” She leaned in. “Are you really trying to tell me that you don’t think he’d be receptive?”

  “It’s not that.” Be honest. “It’s a little that. I guess I’m more worried that he won’t care at all.” I looked at her and said the thing I didn’t at lunch with Jacob and his mother. “I don’t want a big wedding. I want something small that focuses on me and Jacob and our future.”

  “So that’s what you say to him,” she said simply. She rubbed her hands together. “I think my work here is done so we can commence the watch-age of whatever overly dramatic show you want to subject me to.”

  “Not so fast,” I said, remembering some questions I wanted to ask her. The last few pictures in the tabloids of Cade included a woman with red hair and a build identical to Megan’s. “When are we going to talk about y
ou and Cade?”

  She reached for the remote and pressed power. “There is no me and Cade.”

  “Right,” I said skeptically. “Why is it a huge secret? Why can we talk about me and Jacob and his crazy mother but Cade is off limits?”

  She looked at me, something indiscernible flashing in her eyes before she turned back to the TV screen. “I...I’m not ready, Leila. Please respect that.”

  I dropped it. For now.

  ****

  “What are you wearing?”

  I pulled the phone from my ear then brought it back with a laugh. “I know you’re not being serious.”

  Even though I was the only person on the floor since Natasha was out sick, I cast a nervous look at the door. The silence that followed my statement told me that he was dead serious--and the heat that flooded me crashed into my nerves until there was nothing to hold onto but desire.

  “So how’s London?” I asked quickly, trying to move the conversation to G-rated territory.

  “Wet,” he answered glumly. “Relatively uneventful since I’ve spent the past two days on the phone or in meetings.”

  “I’m sorry,” I offered, turning to the window and looking at the bright blue sky. After a few weeks of triple digit weather it was actually pretty nice outside. Perfect for a nice stroll in the park.

  Or a spanking on the patio, I thought mischievously. I turned back to the front, banishing the delicious images and sensations that came with a vengeance. My body revolted against my attempts to keep things professional. It took me back to the spanking bench, feeling the leather against my heated skin, the fear colliding with anticipation for the first strike. Knowing the apprehensive, straight and narrow girl that walked into Whitmore and Creighton all those months ago was a stranger and in her place was someone adventurous.

  And touching yourself with him on the other end of the phone is another adventure...

  “Don’t pity me too much,” he said, bringing me from the ledge. “This is the part I love. Meetings. Debating. Winning.”

  I could almost make out the yummy smile that curved his lips. Personally, I knew if I were in London and I spent most of the time handling business I wouldn’t be a happy camper.

  The Tower of London, Buckingham Palace...I wouldn’t mind the lines or the dreary weather if it meant I’d get to experience the culture of the city. But where sightseeing made me salivate, Jacob lived for the boardrooms and nitty gritty that made Whitmore and Creighton a powerhouse.

  “How are things at the office?” he asked.

  “Same ole,” I shrugged, swiveling my chair from the left to the right. “Your calendar’s been updated to accommodate the London trip for almost 48 hours now but I’m still getting a steady stream of calls for you.” I eyed the list in front of me, ranging from board members to prospective clients who hoped personal appeals would give them an advantage over those who used their assistants to query for representation.

  Tucked in between calls rom celebutantes and squirrely investors was a thread dedicated to Alicia alone. After call one I told her that Jacob was unavailable and was utterly swamped...and it was a waste of breath. Every call started out with an apology about Macy and spilled into a list of other reputable planners and businesses that could make all my dreams come true. Every call I was quiet instead of telling her it wasn’t my dreams because the only one that got ME was the very woman she fired.

  Since she wasn’t actively trying to end me and Jacob, I didn’t want to rock the boat but that left me fielding calls from a woman that had a new project: turning my wedding into an event talked about for years to come. I didn’t have the guts to tell her I didn’t need a legion of planners, florists, and staff to make my day special. The only thing I needed was Jacob.

  But I hadn’t talked to him either. As much crap as I gave Megan, her words got through. We needed to talk about what he wanted. What I wanted.

  Well at the moment, I need something to distract me from being so horny that I’m actually entertaining the idea of phone sex.

  “You’re really quiet,” he observed, his deep voice taking on the concerned edge that made me want to spill my heart and soul to him.

  But I drug my feet, fidgeting in my chair and suddenly not feeling chatty at all. He’d barely blinked at lunch after his mother said she was trying. That she wanted this to be their fresh start. if I told him a huge, lavish thing was pretty much my nightmare, I knew he’d hear me and tell his mom to back off and I didn’t want to cause any friction between them. And the important thing was Jacob, right? Loads of brides hand over the guest list to their parents and focus on things like the dress and the cake and the bridesmaids.

  Either way, I needed to say something if I didn’t want him to know how stressed I really was about this whole thing.

  “I’m just thinking about wedding stuff.”

  “So my mother’s been harassing you, then?”

  Ding ding ding. “She’s just...” Too much? Completely nuts? “Really excited.” I opened my mouth, the truth lingering on my tongue. I could even give him the watered down version. ‘It sounds nice, but I think we should consider doing something smaller.’ or ‘What do you think about doing something a little more low-key?’.

  “You know, I’m at the point where I’m just gonna let her have at it.” Just when I was ready to hurl the phone across the room he finished with, “As long as I get to call you my wife at the end of all of this, the how’s aren’t important. We’re important.”

  Great. He was simultaneously uber sweet and contradictory without meaning to be. I’d never get tired of hearing his excitement about making me his wife, but the reason I was gritting my teeth and gripping my phone tight was because I felt like we wouldn’t be represented in the ceremony. All the right people behind the scenes, all the right names on the guest list. A ceremony worthy of the Whitmore name. It was so far removed from the essence of me and Jacob that you could just copy and paste another society couple into our places and none would be the wiser.

  It's not like it would suck. Nothing less than fantastic would get that woman's stamp of approval. And even though Jacob would rather chop off his arm than admit it, I knew there were pieces of him that wanted a connection to his mother. To try and grow and move past the things that happened in hopes that the future was their chance to get it right.

  I released my choke hold on my lip, tucking away the tiny voice that whispered ‘What about me?’ and listened instead to how much I missed him.

  "Have a date yet for when you're coming home?"

  "We're getting close," he answered. "Two more days if I had to guess." There was a shuffle, and my body warmed as I imagined him rearranging in the bed. Muscles rippling, golden lines of his chest roping me in and making my temperature rise despite the frosty air flowing from the vent a few feet away.

  "You miss me?" I said, my voice breathy. Hot.

  "More than I can say." His voice was just as thick, burning with a need that made me tremble.

  Thick with sleep! The part of me that knew how dangerously close I was to sliding the hand on my thigh a little closer to the hem of my skirt, under it, was trying desperately to hold onto the illusion that this conversation wouldn't end up where we both knew it was headed. Even with all the wedding drama, I could feel my body drawn to him like he was in the room and not millions of miles away.

  And it's not like you've followed that whole 'professionalism' rule, the inner desire whispered. I didn't want to fight. I wanted to hear what he wanted to do to me. How badly he needed me.

  "What are you wearing, Leila?"

  I swallowed hard, every syllable of the question rippling over me. I was gonna do this, but no way would I not lock the door. With my luck the mail clerk would decide to deliver the mail right when I was in the throes, moaning wildly; too wild to explain away.

  "I'm just gonna lock--"

  "Don't you dare," he growled. I froze like he was towering above me, blue eyes glaring me into submission.

 
Truth was I could slip over and lock it and he wouldn't be the wiser, but I rooted myself in place, letting out a, 'yes sir'.

  "I don't need to repeat myself, do I Leila?"

  I frowned, my cheeks flaring. I answered his question. "I--" Oh. The first question. I glanced down quickly, suddenly forgetting. My brain was a fuzzy mess, everything hazy except the steady throb between my thighs. I fingered a button on my blouse. "I'm wearing a black button down blouse--"

  "The sheer one?"

  My mouth curved upward, pleased he noticed enough to commit it to memory. "Yes."

  There was a pause and I swore I heard him moving. Pulling up into a seated position because I had his attention.

  "I know you look beautiful," he said, his deep voice sure, like he was stating fact, like how 1+1 equals two or the earth revolved around the sun. "What else?"

  "A charcoal gray skirt," I spread my fingers down the front of it. "It stops at my knees when I stand up."

  "And now?"

  I felt the heat spread, not leaving a single inch of me untouched. "Right now it's mid thigh."

  He let out a rumbling sound that came from the back of his throat and shot to my groin, making me clench. I knew my panties were going to be a sticky mess by the time this was all said and done and I didn't even care.

  "And beneath?"

  I pushed my chair back a few inches, spreading my thighs. "A black bra and a black thong."

  "If I were there--"

  "If you were here, I'd drop to my knees and suck you until you exploded in my mouth." It came out as a single word and I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear, squeezing my eyes shut. Jesus...it was like it had been a lifetime since he touched me. It had only been two days, but even that seemed too long. Too much to bear.

  "I'm sorry," I blurted, knowing that I'd interrupted him. What devastatingly sexy thing would he leave unsaid to discipline me?

  "Don't apologize," he said smoothly. "You'd get no complaints from me. I'd love to feel your mouth on me. Your hot little tongue sliding up and down the hardened length."