Billionaire Bad Boys of Romance 1(38)

I knew what he meant, but I said it anyway. “I don't do anything to you,” I replied. “That's the point. When am I going to get to make you happy?”

His brow smoothed, and a small smile tugged at his lips. “You do make me happy,” he said, and then the smile faded, replaced by shock. “You do make me happy.”

“Well don't sound so surprised by it,” I said crankily. “You're going to give me a complex.” I tossed my hair and looked out the window, meaning to stare out at the cold February day in a huff to let him know I was really totally mad at him, okay?

His hand on one of mine, warm and uninvited, shattered that resolution. Before I could stop myself, I was gazing at him from the corner of my eye.

“Sadie,” he said. “I want to fuck you. I want to fold you up and fuck you until you scream. But I won't yet. I don't want to ruin it.”

His words made me dizzy. “Ruin what?”

“My masterpiece,” he said. “You will see what I have in mind when we get to Dubrovnik. It will be perfect. And I will give you everything you want when we get there. Until then...”

He trailed off and drew my hand down into his lap, mere inches from his straining erection, but he kept his hands between my fingers and his cock. Gently, insistently, he stroked the back of my hand with his thumb, reminding me of how he had plunged into my core with that very thumb during our photo session. “Until then what?” I asked finally.

“Until then, I want to keep you coming.”

I wavered. Just accept it, I thought. When are you going to find another guy who just wants to give and give?

“Fine,” I said. “I grudgingly accept.”

His eyes met mine. “I don't want you to accept,” he said. “I want you to submit.”

I swallowed. Submitting. The idea was strange, foreign to me. I didn't lie down and die for anyone. I didn't lie down and take it.

And yet there was a trembling note of need in his voice. Vulnerability. He needed me to submit. I didn't need to be his puppet, his plaything, his far-off muse come to earth to inspire him. He needed. it. I wanted it.

“All right,” I said.

He ran his fingers over my cheek, sending shivers down my spine. “You will be the most brilliant thing I have ever done,” he said as we pulled up to the airport. “You will see.”#p#分页标题#e#



He had a private jet, of course. And the moment we took off, he had me standing in the middle of the floor, taking my ruined, paint-stained clothes off. Smears of color covered my skin, making me look like I'd rolled in a Jackson Pollack painting. Malcolm sat in one of the leather-bound swiveling chairs, watching me. “You are startling,” he said when I finally stood before him, completely nude except for his own markings.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Don't speak.”

I licked my lips.

“Lie down on the floor,” he commanded.

I glanced down dubiously at the fine carpet. Wouldn't the paint ruin it? But hey, I wasn't a freaking billionaire, what did I care? I did as he bade, stretching out, my arms above my head, my toes pointed towards him.

“Open your legs,” he said. Then he reached down and opened a bag I hadn't seen there, withdrawing a familiar-looking tin. A box full of charcoal sticks.

“Where'd you get that?” I said.

“What did I say about speaking?” he asked me.

I clammed up.

“Spread your legs,” he commanded again.

God. I'd never known how much I liked to hear a man talk dirty to me. My breathing picked up as I let my thighs fall open, exposing my inner flesh to his gaze.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Like that.” And he left his chair and knelt down between my legs as he opened the tin of charcoal.

I wanted to ask what he was going to do. I didn't think he'd be so amateur as to stick charcoal inside me, but you never knew with some people.

He didn't though. Instead, he took one stick of charcoal out and held it lightly, poised to draw on my skin. Tilting his head to one side, he took me in.

“You aren't finished yet,” he said, more to himself than to me. “But how will I know when enough is enough?”

I could have told him that sometimes you never do, but then he lowered the charcoal to my belly and began to write. Not draw. Write.

The tip of the stick tickled me, and it was all I could do to stifle my giggles as he dragged it over my stomach, dipping it inside my navel, letting it wander and swirl around my hip. Swift cursive letters flowed into each other as he scrawled something across my flesh, branding me with who knew what. Then his other hand alighted on my pussy and without preamble he pushed his way inside. I was slick and wet and ready, but it still surprised me, and I gasped.