Dirty Billionaire(33)

I feel my eyebrows inching up toward my hairline as he continues.

“And in return, I’ll give you everything you could ever possibly want or need.”

When his hand drops from my face, I take that as a sign that I’m now allowed to speak. “You mean, in exchange for my self-respect and free will.”

Creighton shakes his head. “No. In exchange for your cooperation and trust.”

“But—”

“Just give me a chance to show you what I mean, Holly. I don’t want a docile little Barbie doll. I still want your spark and your fire. I don’t want to tame it; I just want to guide it. And at the same time, I’ll take every burden that’s been weighing you down, and make them mine.”

It’s his last sentence that captures me—along with this rare glimpse of a side of Creighton Karas that few probably ever see. He’s quite possibly the most capable man I’ve ever met, and the idea of turning my problems over to him is incredibly seductive. I can almost feel the stress begin to fade away at his words.

I look up into his dark brown eyes and give him the only possible answer.

“Okay.”





I’m going to own this woman—body, heart, and fucking soul.





My first act of complete trust in Creighton is boarding the jet without asking where we’re going. He said he’ll have me back in Nashville by the night of the fourth, and I’m going to take it on tentative faith that he will. A private jet should make that easy, I would hope. My plan is to get started on those songs I owe Monty, but Creighton has other ideas.

Once we’re cruising at thirty thousand feet, he leads me into the bedroom that makes up the back section of the cabin, and says one word.

“Strip.”

My first instinct is to argue, but with our newfound understanding at the forefront of my mind, I reach for the hem of my shirt and comply.

He reclines on the bed, fully dressed. Once I’m naked, I wait for his next instruction. I thank God that I’m not self-conscious as he lazily inspects my body. The ten months of being poked and prodded and changing in front of everyone and their mother—starting with the wardrobe consultants on Country Dreams—has pretty much stripped me of any modesty.

Finally he speaks. “I’m hungry, and I want your cunt on my face.”

My heart stutters at his crude words, but my inner muscles clench with need. Maybe doing whatever Creighton tells me won’t prove to be such a hardship.

I climb onto the bed, straddling him, and inch my way up to his face awkwardly. I’ve never just sat on someone’s face before. But Creighton doesn’t allow my hesitancy. He grips my ass cheeks with both hands, and I have flashbacks of this morning in the shower.

But any thoughts other than stomach-quivering pleasure are wiped from my mind when he tongues my clit and his mouth slides lower to feast.

I lean forward, grabbing the top of the upholstered headboard for balance. I cease to exist except in those places where his body touches mine. I’m mindless with pleasure when he finally latches onto my clit and sucks hard. A crushing orgasm rips through me. As I fall forward, Creighton twists so that I land on my back. He stands and tosses his pants and boxer briefs aside. He parts my legs and pulls me to the edge of the bed. Finally, his rigid erection presses into me.

Limp from the climax he just wrung from me, I can do nothing but grasp his shoulders and hold on while he pounds me into the mattress. Tremors ripple through me, and on their heels, another orgasm is spiraling out of control.

I have no idea how much time has passed when he finally roars out his own orgasm and stills. It could have been thirty seconds or thirty minutes. My ability to comprehend the passage of time was lost to my capacity for pleasure.

He holds himself partially above me, our sweat mingling as his drips from his body onto mine. I decide, in that moment, that as long as he doesn’t jeopardize my career, I’ll follow his rules if he’ll let me relive this experience over and over again.

And so my addiction to Creighton Karas begins.





I’ve obviously been to New York before, but arriving on a private jet is completely different from arriving by tour bus or a commercial flight. Like the reverse of our trip to Las Vegas, we land at the private airfield, climb out onto the tarmac, and are met by a blacked-out, chauffeur-driven Bentley.

The short ride into Manhattan is uneventful, and Creighton is on his phone, responding to e-mails and things, and my presence seems to just fade away. But I’m not annoyed; I’m thinking too. I’ve got six songs to write and three weeks to do it. I have no idea what Creighton has planned for these couple of days in New York, but I’m going to sneak in a little writing time if I can.