Her Billionaire, Her Wolf: His Every Desire
(A Paranormal BDSM Erotic Romance)
By Aimelie Aames
Copyright 2012 Aimélie Aames
Cover Artwork Copyright 2012 Aimélie Aames
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Disclaimer
The characters and events portrayed in this book are a work of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Mature Content
This work of fiction contains sexually explicit material and is intended only for persons over the age of 18. By downloading and opening this document, you are stating that you are of legal age to access and view this work of fiction. All of the characters involved in the sexual situations in this story are intended to be 18 years of age or older, whether they are explicitly described as such or not.
A billionaire story unlike any other—
She watches him every day.
For two months she has spent each lunch hour studying the enigmatic man in a restaurant always filled to overflowing; yet, for two months he is there each day in a booth all to himself.
Sara thinks she is safe as she drinks in every gorgeous detail reflected in the bar's back mirror. She asks herself who he could possibly be, convinced he would never notice her…convinced that no one ever does.
She could not have been more wrong.
Chance brings them together and animal lust in unleashed. But what she never could have imagined is far from being the strangest part of this tale. For there are shadowy figures holding the strings offstage and the manipulation of Sara Renardine has only just begun.
She saw him there.
He was in his usual place, an entire booth all to himself while the rest of the restaurant and bar was full to capacity.
Sara wiggled her way between a couple of suits standing at the bar and nodded at the barman.
He winked at her and she knew that what she thought of as her lunch would be placed before her in short order.
Her stomach grumbled but with all the hustle and bustle, the clatter of silverware and conversations fighting amongst themselves to be heard, Sara was not embarrassed over the tiny sounds her famished stomach made.
She was starving and the virgin Bloody Mary...with an extra celery stick, please...would do little to calm her hunger.
That did not matter, though.
All that mattered to her was seated not far away and had his back turned to her.
He reached for a bit of paperwork spread across his table and Sara took in how his white cotton shirt drew tightly across his back and shoulders. The shirt's cotton was pristine in its purity and absolute lack of any other color than white, appearing to be of an extremely tight weave. Probably egyptian, she thought, and probably unboxed from its packaging that very morning.
And, probably tailored to fit, too.
But the way it hugged his body as he moved made that shirt precious in Sara's eyes. It was almost better than being able to see him unclothed, in all his handsome glory. She loved the way it held to his shoulders, hinting at the thick muscles that led down to broad arms that would surely feel like heaven wrapped around her body.
There was a clinking sound just beside her and Sara was forced to turn back to the bar. The ice cubes still swirling in her tomato juice, she saw that the barman was already gliding away as if he were on roller skates, his work never done during the rush of lunch hour. Besides the present press and throng, he had learned long ago that despite his best efforts, no amount of chatting would garner a tip from Sara.
As much as she would have wished otherwise, she simply could not afford a penny more than the price of her drink. What it took for her to have the right to be at that particular bar each weekday and drink in the sight of that particular man seated alone in his booth.
With a true professional's attention to detail, the barman had left a bottle of hot sauce next to Sara's cocktail and with relish, she unscrewed its bright red cap and shook in a few drops. And while she did it, Sara lifted her eyes to the mirror that shined bright and polished behind the endless bottles of liquor and spirits lining the wall across from her.
Her place at the bar was not chosen by hazard and from her position, Sara studied the white shirted man in the mirror's reflection. Her curiosity would not let her do otherwise and it felt safer somehow, watching him in a reflection, as if looking directly at him too long would burn her eyes and leave her in tears.
The mirror was safer, and better still, with the angle of view as it was, she saw only him with no risk of seeing herself.
Her own image held no mystery for her. She knew men's eyes were drawn to her, but as the years passed it was less and less the case. She knew, too, that she was tired and that it showed in a gaze that might not have been exactly haggard, but was certainly one dulled and lacking the spark of effervescent youth.
Worrying from one day to the next about where her next meal would come from or whether she would have a roof over her head had worn her down over the past year. And while that had changed for the better only a couple months ago, a sense of precarity was never far away.
Early on, when she had first started coming in to the bar for her lunchtime Bloody Mary, Sara had quietly asked the barman if he knew who the white shirted man was.
The barman had replied that he had no idea and only knew that the booth was held open for him every day without fail and woe betide he who thought to do otherwise.
When she had asked what he meant, the barman replied that during his own training he had seen a freshly recruited waiter seat a young couple one day in that booth. It had been especially crowded and the waiter was near to his wits end trying to seat people. It was late, the white shirted man had not yet showed up to claim his daily place and the waiter did the unthinkable and put the couple in the reserved seating of the booth.
Not five minutes later, the white shirted man arrived and when he saw that his usual place had been taken, he had stared a long moment at the young couple. The barman said he was suddenly sure the man was going to throw the two out the door on his own just then, the anger burning in his face and coming off him in palpable waves.
Instead, he stood right where he was, in the middle of everything and forced the waitstaff to nearly trip over themselves as they navigated by. He calmly placed his briefcase of paperwork on the floor and pulled out a cellphone into which he held a very quiet and very short conversation.
No less than thirty seconds later, the restaurant's manager came running in and with his round face blazing red, he apologetically led the couple to another table hastily being set at the back of the restaurant.
And no more than thirty minutes later, the waiter who had dared to seat the reserved booth was shown to the door, his work uniform in hand.
The following day, a new manager arrived to take the place of the last, a man who none of them had ever seen set foot in the restaurant again.
The lesson was not lost among the rest of the staff and no one had ever had the least thought of seating anyone other than the white shirted man in that booth, even if it rema
ined empty all day and the restaurant had to turn people away at the door because all seats were taken.
Sara could not say why, but the barman's story made her shiver, as if a goose had walked across her grave.
What kind of man does that? And who could he possibly be to have people fired on the spot just for seating someone at his booth?
She could not say except that it felt like power...raw, unflinching power framed in implacable exigence. Sara felt it again, that fluttery feeling in the pit of her stomach she had felt when the barman had finished his story and she knew as she lifted her drink to her mouth that her nipples were pressing tight against her own white shirt.
A large man shouldered by her and then turned suddenly, his thick arm sweeping in a wide arc as he gestured to a companion. Except that he had not seen Sara, nor the virgin cocktail in her hand as it made contact with his broad forearm.
In slow motion, Sara saw tomato juice arc up into the air before tracing a red curl that slumped down to streak her blouse in bright color.
And, with all the grace of a rumbling bull, the man turned on her and said, "Hey! Watch what you're doin', you stupid bitch."
Sara's mouth dropped open as she held her arms raised, stunned at what just happened.
The man's friend laughed and clapped him on the back, acting as though he had just heard the best joke ever invented.
Then, Sara felt cracks fissure across her vision, heat rushing up as her tears fell.
"Oh, looky there, Lou...you gone and made the lady cry," said the smaller of the two.
Lou's face twisted as he searched for his wittiest reply, then said, "Shut yer face, or I'll give you a real reason to cry...bitch."
Sara did not want to break down like this, but in an instant everything fell apart. She could not imagine walking back into her office this way, covered in tomato juice. She could try washing it out in the ladies' room sink, but the shirt was silk. While it would dry fast, the tomato juice would never come out...probably not even with dry cleaning.
The tears rolled thick and heavy as she saw in a rush how the rest of the day would unfurl in one long cascade of events that would lead to losing her job, not to mention being thrown out in the street. Her room had to be paid by the week. She didn't even have a real apartment to call home. Just a room. That she even had a job seemed like a minor miracle after the strangest interview she had ever had. But now that she had it, even if it was a temp position, she could not imagine going back to desperately scanning the want ads for the next thing, for anything.
The cacophony of sounds in the restaurant drifted to silence in the seconds that followed. Sara was frozen as time crystallized around her. The barman's face turned to her, blank and without compassion. In the crowd surrounding her, smiles lifted upon the lips of some, others turned their heads, unwilling to feel any need to help.
The large man his friend had named Lou was already turning away from her when Sara saw him suddenly do an about-face.
He took a single, shaking step forward, then Sara saw that his eyes were bulging in their sockets, his visage turning more and more red. It was if he was having trouble taking a breath and she could see a thick vein standing out upon his forehead.
Over his shoulder, Sara noticed his friend shrinking back, his own eyes wide with what looked like terror and that was when she heard a low voice say, "Tell the lady you're sorry."
The voice that said it had an edge to it. Almost as if the words had been growled out.
Then, Sara looked past the shoulder of the now very red in the face ogre to see a blindingly white shirt and amber eyes looking steadily back at her.
There were strong fingers wrapped around the brute's thick neck from behind and she could see the tips of those fingers had gone pale with the terrific pressure they exerted upon the man's flesh.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...."gulped Lou, his eyes bulging even more in their sockets.
The low voice from behind Lou spoke once again, and asked, "Is his apology acceptable, Miss?"
Sara searched for what to say, but before she could formulate any sort of coherent reply, her hand flew of its own volition to land a slap upon the big man's face. The sound it made cracked like a whip through the room and silenced the last of the voices murmuring in the crowd.
"Okay...I think that's the best you can expect given the circumstances," said the white shirted man behind Lou.
"Now, turn around and leave," he finished as he released his hold upon the man's neck.
Lou sagged slightly and Sara thought he might faint where he stood. Instead, he took a ragged breath and staggered toward the exit as the crowd parted before him, all eyes turned to the spectacle. His companion quickly followed suit as he hurried after the large man disappearing through the door.
Amber eyes held her own in an intense gaze, then the man that now stood before her said, "You surprised me." His tone was quizzical, as if he had not expected to be surprised, as if other people rarely surprised him.
"I'm sorry," Sara replied, her own voice shaking.
"Don't be," he answered, then took her arm and said, "Come on."
Almost stumbling to keep up with his brisk gait, Sara felt a thrill flutter through her. The object of every lunch hour's thoughts was trying to help her.
He nodded to the barman as they went and said, "Send my affairs upstairs."
Without waiting for a reply, or even a second glance behind him at all the paperwork he had strewn across the booth's tabletop, Sara's rescuer led her down a corridor. She recognized it as the one leading to the restaurant's men's and ladies' rooms and her heart sank just a little.
Suddenly she was sure he only wanted to show her the way to the bathroom while he went somewhere more quiet to finish whatever it was he worked on each midday.
Except that they marched right past the bathroom doors to the corridor's end where a single door was marked plainly, No Admittance--Staff Only.
Without missing a beat, the man in white opened the door and gestured that Sara should step within. The doorway gave onto a stairwell leading upward and, together, they went up to the next floor where a second door stood closed, this one marked Manager's Office.
Again, the man did not hesitate as he opened the door and waited for Sara to step inside.
A corpulent man was seated at a desk, his own paperwork before him, and he jumped with surprise that made his jowls wiggle as Sara came to a standstill, unsure what to do after having barged into his office without even knocking first.
"Yes?" he said, then looking past her, just as quickly followed by, "Oh!"
Sara's rescuer walked past her, his stride as confident as ever and said, "Out. Now."
The manager jumped to his feet and said, "Oh yes...of course, sir."
Sara noticed that where before his cheeks merely wiggled, now they positively quivered as he hastily went out the door through which they had just come.
Her jaw dropped down as the white shirted man walked past her and began tugging open cabinet doors, apparently looking for something, and appearing as if he owned the place.
Then it hit her.
"Are you the owner?" she asked.
He stopped what he was doing, then straightened, turning to her.
"Hmmm...that depends on how you look at it," he replied.
Sara hesitated, then said, "I mean, it's not that I'm not grateful. I am. I just can't help wondering who can do that. I mean, just tell people what to do and they do it, no questions."
Amber eyes turned to regard her. In them she thought she saw hints of orange, or maybe very light green. It was hard to say, except that the color was far lighter than brown eyes had any right to be. It was unearthly.
"Does it matter?" he asked, frowning.
His frame was massive. Sara had always been able to make out that he was a muscular, very fit man. But, as she had always seen him seated with his back turned to her, she had not been able to appreciate to what point his
chest was broad with a carry to his heavy shoulders that looked worthy of wearing a knight's cloak. No, a king's cloak.
What kind of crazy thinking is this? she asked herself.
"No," she said, "It doesn't matter. I appreciate what you did back there and what you're doing now. I was about to die from embarrassment in front of all those people."
He came closer to her, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, relaxed. But, she was sure she could see living fire smoldering in his gaze as he looked at her.
"Embarrassed or not, that didn't stop you from slapping him," he said, coming even closer to her.
Sara tried looking away, searching for something else to focus on, something less dangerous, but his eyes held her like lodestones. He was close enough that she could see his lashes, so very long and thick framing those exquisitely beautiful eyes.
"I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me," she stammered under his unwavering scrutiny.
"Don't be sorry," he said as his body neared to the point where Sara could feel the heat of him.
It's like standing next to a bonfire, she thought, her senses tightening like clock springs in his proximity. Crazily, all she could think of was that given the chance, she would gladly throw herself onto the blaze.
His voice dropped to nearly a whisper as he said, "I thought it showed your mettle."
The rhythm of her breathing quickened as she considered his words. Something about the way he spoke...somehow slightly old fashioned, archaic even.
His hands lifted and Sara felt strong fingers at her shirt buttons. Her breath stopped as she realized he was undoing them, one by one, while his eyes never left hers.
"Don't move," he said and Sara felt as if his words held the power to hold her fast no matter what his fingers did.
"This simply will not do, will it?" he said as she felt her shirt fall open. Cool air slipped by the inferno of his gaze and slid across her belly. It felt like a lover's caress as it touched where the cocktail had gone through to her skin, moistening her flesh.
And at her apex, despite her, because of him, moisture gathered hot and thick under her skirt and between her thighs.
A finger traced across her flesh and she watched in amazement as he lifted it to his mouth.
With a sigh he closed his eyes and licked his fingertip, tasting the remnants of the virgin cocktail and whatever alchemy it had worked in tandem with Sara's skin.
Then, the lights of his eyes blazed as he opened them, pinning her once more in his intensity.
"Now, turn around," he said.
Without even considering it, Sara turned and just as quickly felt the heat of his body radiating upon her back. She trembled as she thought of his eyes taking in every contour of her silhouette.
"Don't think it has gone unnoticed. For almost two months, you have come to perch like a little bird at the bar and peer at me through the mirror. As if I would not notice...as if you thought you were safe.
"You were wrong."
With hands that gripped like iron manacles, he seized her wrists from behind and pressed himself against her.
Sara gasped and said, "Please don't hurt me."
And very close, the touch of his lips against her ear, he said, "Then, don't disappoint me."
With no warning, the scents of a pine forest rose in Sara's nostrils. It was a rich odor, full of life, full of desire. Yet, somehow, it spoke of darkness and violence lying in wait as if nature itself had suddenly invaded the manager's office.
What in the hell is this?
He spoke again and his voice had taken on a rougher sound, deeper, heavy with arousal.
"The taste of your desire has been distracting me every day for weeks, the scent of you filling my thoughts. What is about to happen will hurt...yes, it will. But you have asked me for it each and every day.
"Acquiesce and your pleasure will know no bounds. Or, with a single word, deny me and go back to whatever life it is you lead."
His words carried such weight in them. Even spoken in that rough, low tone, Sara felt them caress her body like iron hands shrouded in velvet.
Without understanding how she had come to a decision, Sara replied, "I...accept."
There was no response. Only silence from the man holding her wrists, his body tight against her back. Then, low on her body, just above her bottom, she felt his length pressing against her. It was like a branding iron and her breath quickened as she felt him growing thicker, harder.
"The scent of you...I must taste it. I must know it...."
His voice was a low growl. Suddenly, his hands released her wrists and Sara felt the blood rushing in, her fingertips tingling.
Then, without warning, a white handkerchief obscured her vision. Cool and soft, it was certainly of silk and she did not move as he drew it tight and tied it behind her head.
She could see nothing.
"Now, don't move...not a single step, or this is over." His whisper curled around her and Sara held her breath as she felt his hands drop to the zipper of her skirt.
Then, it was falling away and strong hands drifted across her bottom. She heard an intake of breath, then he murmured, "So delectable...."
A finger slipped under the edge of her panties. They were nothing more than simple white cotton, relatively sheer. She had never intended for anyone to actually see them, let alone the man breathing deeply just behind her.
His finger traced its way along one cheek, moving slowly, lusciously. Then, he continued to follow the line of white fabric, slipping along until he arrived at Sara's inner thigh.
She gasped. Sara knew her underwear was soaked through, her core aching with desire from the very instant that her rescue had turned to something else. Something that she never dared dream of when thinking of the gorgeous man from her lunch hour.
But, admit it...you've wanted him from the very first moment you saw him. Like a schoolgirl, he has become your obsession.
Then he stroked across her apex and his touch was an arc of electricity, igniting her senses like a wildfire.
She felt him as much as heard him drop down behind her and came close to crying out when she felt his tongue slipping along the inside of her thigh. He started low, almost at her knee, then lifted up in a single, long lapping motion.
Without hesitation, he continued ever higher to her center, there where she had become heavy and dripping wet. Her panty was still in place as he brought himself into her folds, nuzzling at her through the thin fabric.
His every touch threatened to tip her over, to turn her into an unthinking mass of flesh, all reason near to disappearing. Yet, as he moved under her, she could not help but think that he was holding himself back, that savagery was close at hand.
He settled his mouth in to her crotch, pulling at her panties with his teeth, then she felt them being tugged to one side.
The next thing that happened truly took her by surprise. Instead of his strong fingers coming to explore her folds, Sara felt something almost indescribable. Something cold and wet that pushed at her, shifting her nether lips. Something that snuffled and made her startle with surprise.
What..!
Then she remembered his words. This moment, so exquisite, so close to carrying her to the edge would cease if she took even a single step.
Don't move....
She forced herself to hold still, even while her legs trembled with muscles tightening in hard.
Sara heard him draw a breath, then his tongue found her once more as he buried himself deep into her cleft.
His hands went to her bottom, cupping them, kneading them.
She was panting as his mouth worked at her, as his hands rolled her flesh in their palms.
Unable to help herself, Sara's hips flexed in counterpoint to the tongue that plied its way through her cleft. Then, his hands began to tighten their hold while he continued lapping at her.
His grip continued to contract until Sara was sure that his fingers were si
nking deep in to the flesh of her buttocks. Despite the heat blazing between her legs, she hissed as his fingers squeezed even more.
There will be pain....
She willed herself still, stopping herself from twisting away from the dual vises that gripped her cheeks. And, his long tongue continued sliding through her, exploring her.
The agony burning her bottom came to mingle with the agony of pleasure that rolled through her. Sara arched back as that marvelous tongue teased and stroked her folds.
"Oh my God!" she panted and then, unable to contain herself any longer, Sara jerked hard at the hips as the first lash of an orgasm careened through her core. She knew she could not move, that she was not permitted, but still her body had its way with her as that long tongue slipped forward and across her apex. The hard kernel that had risen there felt like it was burning as much as her bottom while his tongue stroked across it again and again, daring her to lose control, tempting her to step away from the delicious onslaught that would not let her go.
She did not move, but shuddered in place as her climax rolled through her body in heavy waves. Gooseflesh broke across her skin and she took a deep, shuddering breath that caught in her throat as his hands released her cheeks at last. The absence of them was almost worse than before, a prickling sensation of deeply bruised flesh coming alive.
Sara felt him rise to his feet. Then, his hands undid the knotted handkerchief before he leaned in, close enough to touch, and said into her ear, "Be careful of the powers you invoke...lest your words fall upon ears not quite as deaf as we might imagine them."
Once again, his words made no sense to her. It was as if he spoke in riddles, expecting those around him to understand while they rushed to obey the incomprehensible.
What if he's crazy? she thought.
Except that she knew if he was, she was just as unbalanced. There was nothing sane about going, unquestioning, behind closed doors with a complete stranger and then letting him do...things to her. With his mouth.
Oh, that talented tongue.
Sara still had not dared to move and listened as she heard him moving behind her. Then, he said, "Ok...I didn't find anything you can wear to cover up that stained shirt. Get dressed."
She bent down, turning as she did it to pick up her skirt, and she saw him buttoning the topmost button of his shirt. In that brief glimpse of the bare skin just below his throat, she saw something dark, something tribal . Something hinting at intricate patterns that embellished his magnificent form.
Sara decided then that she would do whatever it took to see the rest of that tattoo and discover just how low it went upon his body. She would map its every contour and learn the taste of the man before her.
If only there would be a next time....
A quiet knock came at the door and the white shirted man strode over, opening it to find a cardboard box containing his paperwork with his briefcase just beside it.
Moving quickly, not wanting to make him wait, Sara drew her skirt up, then shrugged on her stained shirt.
Bright amber eyes locked once more on to her own. As intense as ever, his gaze was unwavering, as if he was considering her worth...weighing advantage against disadvantage.
She looked away from him, suddenly feeling foolish over her idea that he was her rescuer. No knight would ever come to her aid. Not now, not ever.
"You will be late getting back to work, I think," he said, "Is your office far from here?"
Surprised, she replied, "No, it's just around the block."
"Fine. We'll go to mine first." It was not a question. It was a statement.
Together, they went back down the stairwell, but instead of turning back to make their way through the dining room and bar, he led her through the kitchen doors.
There were men shouting orders at young, harried people. The sounds of stainless steel utensils and knives rang in all directions and steam billowed as pots bubbled and reductions simmered.
No one seemed to notice them as they passed through the tumult and it came to Sara that she had never actually seen him come through the front door of the restaurant. Almost always, he was already seated in his booth when she arrived, or was coming back from the men's washroom. Or, at least, what she had always assumed was the men's room.
No, these people know him. He comes and goes through here every day, in fact.
At the back of the kitchen, they came to yet another door and this one opened to the exterior world, leaving the noise and odors of cooking behind them. It was a back alley and he turned quickly, marching along without looking to see if Sara was keeping up.
What am I doing? Trailing after him like a stray puppy?
As they drew to the alley's end, she saw a homeless man slumped against the brick wall of a building. His clothing was cleaner than most homeless people's, but the haggard eyes that met her own danced with the light of the unbalanced. He cocked his head, nodding to her, and she realized that the man was far younger than she had first taken him for. Her own age, maybe, and that beneath the grime of his hard life, a handsome, if overly thin, face framed steel grey eyes that were as cold as the white shirted man's were fiery.
She twisted her head as she struggled to keep up the pace the white shirted man had set, her curiosity forcing her to look back over her shoulder at the homeless man.
Except that he was no longer there. All she had was the afterimage in her mind's eye of his face and the strange look he gave her. A look that belied certain insanity, an air of crazed zeal.
As she hurried along, she smiled a small, secret smile. If she had thought him a dirty, homeless man, at least he did not have tomato juice splashed across what passed for his shirt.
That was when she saw it. The alley emptied out into the crowded streets that she had come to know so well these past two months. And, there before them both, loomed the building that towered over everything else, in more ways than one.
Abraxis Industries. A modern bastion of world finance and industry. Its glass plated walls reached to the sky and within countless men and women bent all their will to the task of keeping the enterprise among the lofty heights of the world's foremost companies.
It was where she worked each day crunching endless numbers in data entry, mind numbing work broken only by her midday break to descend to the restaurant's bar and tell herself foolish stories about the white shirted man she had found there.
Sara ran two steps forward to overtake the man, saying, "Wait. This is where I work."
He only shrugged without looking at her and said, "Me, too."
Seizing her once more by the arm, it felt almost as though he lifted her off her feet as he walked so resolutely to the building that would mean shame and embarrassment for Sara once she returned to her cubicle and the department manager saw the state of her attire. Impeccable dress was required and the draconian rules of Sara’s manager with her lined, humorless face would brook no insult.
Sara's temp position was more precarious than any other in the department. For the least infraction, she could be fired summarily for whatever reason the woman deemed contrary to office protocol.
She tried to pull back, about to explain that she would lose her job for going back in there in such a state.
Who are you kidding? You're probably already fired, coming in this late from lunch.
Suddenly, instead of mounting the stairs that constituted a grand terrace leading to revolving doors that would mean her doom, the white shirted man pulled her along to skirt the sides of the building, far from the front entranceway.
A simple, nondescript door at the end of a short sidewalk appeared to be his objective. Built into the wall was a digital ID card reader and from a back pocket, he retrieved a blank, white card that he slipped into the receptacle.
A faint click as he withdrew the card signaled that the door had been unlocked electronically and plunging headlong, the two of them entered the dark entrails of the building. For one of them
it all appeared routine, for the other, it meant the terror of uncertainty as she was led from all that she had known until then.