Dirty Billionaire (Page 28)

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.

Just as they did the first time I came to New York, the giant skyscrapers rising up from the concrete make me feel tiny in comparison. All the people bustling along the sidewalks—even at midnight, like now—move with purpose, intent on getting where they need to be. We slow in front of a tall building that’s brightly lit, and I have no idea where we are in proximity to the Plaza, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. The only part of the shiny gold address that registers with me is the large Fifth Avenue above the revolving glass doors.

Creighton tucks his phone away and pushes the limo’s door open before climbing out and offering me a hand. I take it, wondering if we’ll be walking into another media circus. Despite the late hour, cameras click and flash as we walk toward the doors, but this time Creighton doesn’t even slow to acknowledge them. They don’t come any closer, and I wonder why they’re staying back, until I see security hovering in front of the building.

A doorman swings open the glass and gold door, and Creighton thanks him by name. The fact that he knows the man’s name is a hugely positive sign in my book. An express elevator ride later, we walk into the penthouse, which comes as absolutely no surprise. It’s huge, especially by New York standards.

Dark wood and some kind of fancy marble stretch out in front of us, covered by rugs that match the gray and white walls. But the centerpiece of the massive living room? The wall of windows looking out over the city. The view is amazing, even in the dark. It’s very much a man’s domain, though, overrun with black leather and glass. Splashes of color, mostly teal and red, are sparse, only in the artwork and a few pillows.

Overwhelmed, I hesitate, afraid to step inside with my boots on, but Creighton doesn’t share my reluctance. He pulls me inside.

“You’ll be comfortable here for a few days.”

Again, it’s not a question from him, but a decree. I can’t argue with him. I’m sure the place has every creature comfort invented.

“It’ll work,” I say, and Creighton turns his head to smirk at me before leading me toward the bedroom.

“You’re not wasting any time, are you,” I mumble under my breath.

“Unfortunately, I have to leave you and go to the office for a few hours. Something came up, and I need to handle it from there with my team.”

“You’re making them work in the middle of the night? And on New Year’s Day? That seems like cruel and unusual punishment.”