Training Her Curves - London (A BBW Billionaire Domination & Submission Romance) (3 page)

"So what's left to concede?" he asked. He scooted his chair closer then planted his elbows on the top of the desk, his firm chin resting atop his clasped fingers as those seafoam green eyes of his focused like a laser on my face.

I pulled my hands from the desk and folded them in my lap, suddenly aware of the acute ache that had taken possession of my pussy. Discreetly, I lifted my nose and tried to catch Simon's scent. The cerise fabric sprinkled around the room was one of two vivid sensory details I had from my only meeting with my rope master. The second was the man's fragrance, something I had never encountered before and had not found again despite several hours at high end stores at the men's counter sampling every single bottle of cologne in stock.

All I could smell from Simon was a hint of Calvin Klein's Obsession, pleasant, but not the fresh cut oranges punctuated with walnuts and oakwood that I remembered from Rick's studio.

My eyes drifted shut, my stomach quickly growing as hungry as my cunt as I remembered my rope master's scent.

"Pudding..."

My eyes jumped open to glare at Simon in reprimand. He flashed another one of his grins at me and shrugged in an unconvincing apology.

"What's left to concede?" he repeated.

"I know you can't help but change at least one aspect of everything that comes across your desk," I stated flatly, my pulse rate beginning to recede to a state approaching normal. "But the all black playrooms are overbearing."

"You can have that ghastly mauve back," he started with a wave of his hand at the nearest cushion sporting the cerise stripe.

"No," I shook my head, not wanting to give away just how very much I wanted to keep the new shade of pink. "In fact I'd like the name of the supplier."

"I'll have to dig through my records." Simon looked away, his appearance suddenly remote until his mouth quirked to one side in thought. "I wonder, have you ever been in a playroom? Not as a designer, but on one side or another of the game?"

I frowned at his use of the word "game." I feared that far too much of what Simon did in life was a game to him and I knew that both of my brothers disliked the euphemisms that dressed up the domination and submission lifestyle in terms more acceptable to general society -- playrooms and, as Simon had just indicated, games. Dylan, I knew, referred to his room as "The Keep," which seemed downright medieval to me, but also infinitely more exciting than "playroom."

"I didn't think so," Simon said after I had failed to answer his question. "While the activity within the room focuses primarily on the submissive's pleasure, the room is itself a reflection of the dominant's personality -- which is why the rooms at this hotel will be black."

I could feel my face contorting with confusion. The color without any offset in his design save for a few accents of cold polished pewter for knobs and fixtures turned me claustrophobic. How could a submissive find pleasure in a room like that.

"I don't understand," I managed at last.

"Simple, really," Simon answered, his steepled fingers unclasping as he placed his palms flat on the white polished surface and smoothed them across the desk until he all but embraced my edge of the piece of furniture. "Dominants are dark inside. We absorb your light, Riona, the light you release at the height of your pleasure, its rays refracted a thousand times in each drop of perspiration dotting your skin, making your whole body glow..."

He trailed off, the lightly colored eyes shadowed by something I couldn't name. My pulse followed the descending pace of his words until I could no longer be certain that my heart was still beating.

Damn, he was insanely sexy -- and probably insane. The possibility that he was a fair distance from normal in his head was easy to overlook when he talked like that, using those words with that intense, but remarkably gentle, expression and a pale glitter in eyes thinly glazed with need.

I could feel my cream seeping through my panties and knew I was holding my breath, waiting for whatever he might say next. What came next was my damn cell phone chirping with Marjolein's ringtone. I pushed away from the desk with a startled reflex, snatching the phone as I gained my feet.

"I need to take this," I said, my words rushed. Simon lifted his chin slightly, his gaze that of some liege lord granting a subject's request.

"In private," I clarified with a low growl. Not only was the call's content likely to be sensitive, but I also desperately needed St. Simon out of my suite. He had my head all mixed up, my emotions running high. I still didn't know whether I should abandon the idea that he could possibly be my rope master or embrace it. All I had was that slip of color in the decor and the presence of the painting -- but the color seemed to have no meaning to him and the painting could have been a coincidence.

With a small lift of his finger, he gestured toward the double doors that led into the bedroom. "I'll wait, pudding."

Hitting the answer icon on my phone before Jo-Jo gave up and ended the call, I turned sharply on one heel and power walked into the bedroom as I barked a rough "hello" into my phone. Before Jo-Jo could respond, I slammed the heavy doors shut behind me, furious that Simon had ignored my veiled request for him to leave the suite and instead sent me sulking to my room like an ill-tempered child.

A soft, sunshine-filled laugh tickled my ear. "I thought your meeting with St. Simon wasn't until tonight?"

"What?" I said, barely bringing the volume of my question below another bad-mannered shout.

"I don't know anyone else who can get you even a tenth that pissed, Ree. Do you have him holding the other line? Or am I wrong altogether?"

"No on both counts," I answered with a whisper as I settled my broad bottom onto the bed. Instant comfort cushioned my ass, the mattress's down-filled fingers massaging the flesh so that I succumbed and rested my entire upper body against its heavenly surface. "He's in the outer room. Now please tell me we have good news about Mishka."

"Sorry, babe," she answered, her throat tightening on the last word. "We are still at no news. Now tell me about Simon. What's he look like?"

I heard a snort over the phone and realized Dylan must be sitting shoulder to shoulder with Marjolein. Growing up, I had never seen him display so much as an ounce of possessiveness or jealousy until he met Marjolein. He'd kept it well hidden, of course, in the two years they danced around one another. But now that she had his engagement ring on her finger, he didn't want to share her with anyone, not even to work with me. Thankfully, she was fully capable of bulldozing past his resistance.

It was cute, really, and I loved that my oldest brother was finally head-over-heels in love.

"Ignore that snort," Marjolein joked, "and spill the beans."

"He's okay," I lied by a long mile. The man was hot, even when he wasn't being a complete irritant, which seemed to be 95% of the time he was awake and breathing. "But the weird thing is, he doesn't sound anything like he does over the phone."

"You mean his voice changed?" Jo-Jo asked. I heard my brother's rumbling voice, the words incoherent, and then Jo-Jo spoke again. "Oh, Dylan says that's something Simon does. He's the..."

She hesitated and Dylan repeated something before she went on. "He says he's the
Scarlett Pimpernel
of businessmen. That Simon is better at working people's expectations than ledgers."

Coming from my big brother, who practically worshipped spreadsheets, that was an extreme insult. I didn't understand the other half of what she was saying though. "The Scarlett what?"

Jo-Jo repeated and then Dylan took the phone from her. "It's a book, Ree. You need to read something other than
Twilight
and
Fifty Shades.
"

I was a nano-second from telling him that I would read one his kind of books only after he pried my sparkly vampires and borderline psychotic fantasy billionaires from my cold, dead fingers when Marjolein reclaimed her phone. "Don't mind him. We're off to the White House next and he's just irritated that the guy at the State Department didn't ask to kiss his shoes -- or maybe lick his taint."

Another growl from Dylan and I laughed. Marjolein's words were just code for Dylan being sick with worry over Mishka, who was far more than an employee. The first time he met my brother, at a questionable business meeting in Moscow, he had saved Dylan's life.

"Just realize Simon is almost always acting, at least that's what your brother thinks," Marjolein said, cutting into my thoughts. "He'll try to convince you he only wants X but he's holding out for something else entirely."

I huffed and glared at the double doors before lowering my voice even more. "Right now he's insistent he wants the en suite playrooms all black. He had the unmitigated gall to ask if I'd ever been in one. Gave me a line of bullshit about it being all about the dom's personality."

"Well..." Jo's voice trailed off wistfully, reminding me that my friend and future sister-in-law had definitely been getting her freak on full-time with Dylan in a sex room of their own.

And that was all I wanted to know about that!

"Forget Simon," I said, silently berating myself for complaining about him when there were much more important things to think about. "There has to be some way I can help find Mishka. Not doing anything at all is driving me crazy."

"Hun, you've been running 24/7 taking care of our shit so we can focus on Mishka," she answered, not a trace of coddling in her voice. "Please don't think you're not doing anything to find him."

I closed my eyes at the threat of tears, not only over Mishka but at how much I adored my future sister-in-law.

"I love you," I said before adding my traditional caveat. "Platonically, of course."

"You're going to make me cry," she shot back, a sniffle adding authenticity. "And by the set of Dylan's jaw, I can just see him storming into the oval office itself. Which means I'm either going to meet the president or be carted off to some cell in Guantanamo with a cadre of press snapping our photos before we board the plane. Either way, I don't want raccoon eyes from runny mascara."

"Sorry," I giggled before sobering again. "Let me know if theres something I can do. I swear I still have down time."

"I will," she promised then signed off.

With the call over, I slowly extracted myself from the plush grip of the mattress. Instead of returning to the outer room, I headed to the bedroom's private bathroom. Simon deserved my making him wait a few minutes while I freshened up.

With my luggage on the other side of the bedroom doors, I felt a small surge of gratitude to find the bathroom well stocked, until my brain processed the color of the cellophane wrapping. I was starting to hate the cerise that I had coveted for three long months.

Chest constricting with dread over what more I might discover, I peeled open the seal on the makeup towelettes, tugged one out and gave it a sniff. Fresh oranges, one third of my rope master's signature scent. I wiped a careful line under each bottom eyelid with the cloth then used it to remove any oil that had gathered on my fingers before using my fingers to smooth any smudges in my make-up.

All of the cellophane wrapped goodies bore the same unfamiliar brand mark. I unwrapped the body soap, brought the bar to my nose and inhaled. The fragrance revealed itself in layers -- orange, walnut...oakwood.

Staggering back from the sink, I plopped down on the toilet seat so hard I thought I would shatter the porcelain. No escaping the conclusion that Simon and the rope master were one and the same. I'd done something incredibly stupid, enjoyed the hell out of it, fantasized about it for months afterward and now I was going to pay hell for it a hundred times over.

I pushed onto my feet, my whole body shaking. Taking one last glance in the mirror, I started for the outer room. I opened the double doors, expecting to see him sitting in the guest chair. The chair was empty. I stepped closer to the desk, my head turning as I did.

No sign of Simon.

The suite's floor plan ran through my mind. There was a galley kitchen off the entrance and I headed there. Still no sign of Simon. I approached the far end of the narrow slice of room knowing that the door at the end led to the suite's second bathroom.

I raised a hand to knock then thought better. I was already embarrassed enough. If he was in there, I'd be even more embarrassed to interrupt him in the middle of whatever he was doing.

Leaving the kitchen, I remembered Simon's arrival, particularly the way I had dismissed him, thinking he would leave when I did, and how he had set the security latch in place to guard us against any interruption. My head swiveled, a mix of relief and disappointment swirling inside me as I saw the latch was off again, proof that he had left. I flipped it back in place and walked on wobbly legs back to the desk.

A sheet of paper had been placed dead center of the surface, Simon's elegant handwriting mocking me.

Pudding,

I will text you precisely at eight with directions on retrieving your package. In the meantime, I suggest you relax and take nourishment. The hotel has the best tea service in all of England.

Simon

I read the message again and started on my third read when I finally realized why my thoughts were hiccuping on the note.

...retrieving your package...

My head jerked left.

The painting was gone!

How the hell had I not noticed that?

Groaning, I buried my face in my hands and wondered how I could have been so dense as to accept Rick's last minute change in terms and to have remained clueless as to the mystery guest's identity for three months.

I wanted to call Jo-Jo, but knew I couldn't. I could trust her not to say anything, but there was no way to have the conversation with her without Dylan becoming aware of what had happened. He disliked Simon already. This event would just send him over the edge and distract him from finding Mishka, just as it would distract Jo-Jo. Same problem with talking to Jake. I wasn't close enough to Alexa to call her about something so personal and I didn't want to ask her to keep secrets from Jake, at least not for my selfish reason of needing to vent and whine and be told I had done nothing wrong and was the victim.