Tied to the Tycoon
By: Chloe Cox“What?” she said.
“You heard me.” He took her chin between his fingers and made sure she was looking into his eyes. “Of course, I don’t have to, now that I’ve won you.”
There was a beat before she burst out laughing, and he grinned. He could always make her laugh. He loved to make her laugh.
“Oh, shut up,” she said.
“I wasn’t kidding, though, Frida,” he said softly, and she looked back up at him, the laughter gone, but the memory of it still strong, a reminder that she was safe with him. “I wasn’t really kidding at all. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do…”
He touched his fingertips to her cheek and felt his own voice cracking.
“Stop,” she said. Now she struggled against him again. “Just…stop. I can’t just…after all this time…”
“You owe me,” he said.
There was a silence.
Finally, she said, “You can’t say things like that to a woman.”
“You can say it if it’s true. You owe me,” he said again, bringing her captured hand down to her side and pressing it to her lower back. With his other hand he held her face. She wasn’t going anywhere. He could feel how much she liked it. “You owe me a chance to show you how much I owe you. To make it up to you.”
She furrowed her brow in irritation or exhaustion, but which one, he couldn’t tell.
“What the hell are you talking about, Jackson?”
He didn’t answer her, not right away. Slowly he dragged his hand down her body, to the side of her right hip, where his fingers began to pull up her dress, inch by excruciating inch. He bent his head to hers, both of them quiet, waiting. The dress rose. Soon it was bunched in his hand, her leg bare.
He wanted to tell her, you owe me because you’re mine, because you belong to me, because it’s only fair if I have to belong to you, because you made me what I am. He wanted to claim her right there, make her his, the way she was supposed to be. Christ, he wanted her. And he could have her now, he knew it, knew he could drive her to the point where she screamed ‘yes’, where she would beg him to come inside her. And knew just the same that if he did it that way now, she’d wake up regretting it. She’d second-guess herself. And he didn’t want that. He wanted her to know.
She’d never know the self-control it took not to spread her leg and slam full into her against that bright, clear window, to hear her scream as he filled her, to feel her tighten and close around him.
Instead he let the dress fall back over his hand, smoothed his palm over her hip, ran his thumb over the ridge of bone that flared out from her pubis. He savored it. Then he slipped his hand between her legs, and heard her groan.
“I know what I am now, Ava,” he said, running his fingers along the length of her. She was already so wet, before he’d even parted her lips. “And I know what you are. I can show you what you are, if you’ll let me.”
She shook her head, but lifted her hips and slid her leg up his, hooking it around him. She had spread herself for him, but it was like she didn’t know how to feel about it.
“Jackson…”
“You don’t have to think about it,” he said gruffly, slowly circling the entrance of her vagina with his finger. “You don’t even have to think at all, if you don’t want to. This whole week, I’ll be in charge. I’m in control. I’ll take care of you. You don’t have to think about what anyone else will think. No one else has to know…”
He realized he was pleading with her. He leaned his forehead into hers, silently begging, and drove two fingers deep into her. She gasped, and a little moan escaped her throat. She kept moaning, low and soft, and he suddenly needed to see her face while she did it. He reached back up, letting her hands free for the first time, and threaded his fingers through her expensive hairstyle. When he pulled her head back, her lips were parted and her eyes were wide, limpid pools that seemed to pulsate in time with his thrusts.
He curled his fingers then, stroking her from the inside. She quivered against him and her eyes half-closed.
“No,” he said, swirling his fingers and rubbing his palm into her clit. “Look at me.”
