Billionaire Romance Boxed Set 2(83)

Aliara raised her hand to her forehead in a swoon, and that was the first hint Syria got that this was scripted. Malin tightened the chains again, forcing Aliara to arch her back. With slow measured movements, Malin began to loosen the ties to the corset.

Next to her, Erik did not move or change expression, but Syria began to feel the heat coming off him. So this is what he liked, to watch these power struggles play out. Syria knelt to get away from him, snapping images of the two, Malin tossing the corset away. She leaned forward, capturing a small pale nipple in her mouth, and that’s when Syria realized this was going to go well beyond a photo shoot.

She could call it off, say it wasn’t the sort of thing she did. But the room was transfixed, Elise, the wardrobe boy, Erik. Syria looked back at the two girls. Malin had pushed beyond the wispy thong and was pressing fingers into Aliara.

The girl’s reaction was either Oscar-worthy, or unscripted, because Aliara arched up, crying out, her legs shuddering. Malin bent down, her tongue flicking between the girl’s folds, and Aliara’s hands clenched, her body vibrating.

Syria could feel it now, each cry of the girl going straight through her own body. She was wet and hot, the camera heavy in her hands. She swallowed and glanced up at Erik to see if she should continue shooting.

But he was watching her, not the girls, his eyes penetrating. He wanted to see what Syria thought, how she responded. Again, Syria realized, this was not for him, but for her. She set the camera on the floor.

Aliara began a keening cry, an orgasmic release. Syria closed her eyes, trying to maintain control. She would not let Erik see what affected her. She would maintain her distance and her professionalism. Collect her money. Finish the job. Never see these people again.

After a few minutes, Erik said, “Thank you girls, that was lovely.”

He helped Malin stand, and scooped up Aliara to set her on the sofa and remove the difficult shoes. “This is a good memory,” he said to her.

The team moved swiftly to restore the girls to their normal clothes and pack up the wardrobe. Elise presented Syria with another envelope, and as the party walked down the hall, Syria felt both relief that it was over, and confusion about why Erik had chosen her for this goodbye.





8: Santa Fail


Syria looked over the images later that day, particularly transfixed on the Aliara’s single tear as Erik pressed his face into her neck. Did this girl love him? Syria didn’t get it. Aliara had given up her life to this man, who obviously treated her well. But how could she just do anything he said? What if she wanted to say “no” to something?

She pushed away from her desk and glanced at the clock. Two in the morning. Tyson had some big job that night, a Christmas-themed bachelorette party. Twenty girls and three strippers, he had said. It should be winding down, although it was an hour earlier in Seattle.

The floorboards squeaked as she headed to the kitchen. Between December 1 and 20, she allowed herself the vice of energy drinks. The extra caffeine made her body zing and staying up was no problem at all as long as she didn’t do it so often that she built up a tolerance.

She’d just popped open the silver can when “Santa Baby” started playing in the other room. Syria dashed down the hall, stubbing her toe on a side table. She turned in circles, yelling, “Fuck fuck fuck!” while yellow liquid flowed over her fingers, leaving drops along the floor.

She snatched up the phone and realized it was actually a video chat request. She hit “Accept” but instead of Tyson’s face, she saw a ceiling, then the blur of movement.

At the same moment, a text message came through from Mia. “If Tyson calls, don’t answer!!!”

Syria couldn’t even write her back, trying to puzzle out the scene. “Tyson?” she asked.

A woman’s face filled the screen, her blond hair puffing out from what had probably once been a glamorous updo. Her mascara left black shadows below her eyes, and her vivid lipstick was a smear.

Syria’s stomach knotted. “Who are you?”

“Are you Tyson’s girlfriend? He has SO MANY girls in his contact list!” She flipped the phone around to the room, but her high-pitch voice still carried. “Take a look at him now!”

Syria squinted at the scene. She could see a fuzzy Santa hat, and boots, and an indistinct body, a blur of skin. She should kill the call. Obviously this girl was going down the list, and had hit Mia before getting to Syria, prompting the frantic text.

The phone walked closer to the scene, one corner of the image obscured by a blurry pink finger. The autofocus shifted, trying to lock in, then there he was, Tyson, naked and kneeling by a sofa. Syria tried to make out some strange projections coming from around his back, then realized something.