What He Provokes (What He Wants, Book Eighteen) (An Alpha Billionaire Romance) Page 3

  “Yeah, well, sometimes things happen, Noah.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” I said. I shook my head, realizing I was coming off harsher than I’d intended. I was taking my frustration I’d felt toward my mother out on him, and it wasn’t fair. “How’s my mom?”

  “She’s fine.” He reached up and loosed his tie, slid it out of the collar of his shirt with a whooshing sound. My body instantly flooded with desire, thinking of him tying my wrists with it, pushing me up against the headboard, my ass in the air, my groans muffled by the pillow as he thrust into me from behind.

  I swallowed and watched as he began unbuttoning his shirt, his chiseled body coming into view, every muscle and tendon taut and tan, the kind of musculature that could only be created with a certain type of self-discipline, one that allowed for hours of running and lifting weights.

  “I set her up in the guest room,” he said. “She seemed happy enough.”

  I’m sure she was, I thought, biting back the sarcastic remark before it left my lips. Noah’s guest room was insane, the bed circular and plush, the bathroom stocked with high-end beauty products – Estee Lauder face wash, Gilchrist and Soames shampoo, Perricone moisturizers. My mother would probably take whatever she didn’t use with her when she went back upstate ad put them in her own bathroom to impress her friends when they came over.

  “Thank you for doing that,” I said. I was thankful that Noah had set her up. Not because I cared that much about if she was comfortable or not, but because it meant I wouldn’t have to deal with her.

  Noah didn’t say anything. Instead, he sat down in the chair in the corner and began removing his shoes.

  “You two seemed to get along well,” I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I clenched the sheets in my hands, willing myself to calm down. Noah and I had already been fighting, the last thing I needed to do was to escalate things because my mother.

  “Don’t do that,” Noah said, standing up from the chair.

  “Don’t do what?” I asked, even though I knew exactly what he was talking about.

  “Don’t get annoyed with me because I was nice to your mother.”

  “I’m not annoyed,” I said, “but you have to admit it was pretty rude of her to just show up here unannounced. You could have had my back. Especially after I explained to you that the only reason she wanted to come here was so she could make this whole thing about her.”

  Noah’s jaw twitched.

  “I just think that maybe we should have been a little harsher with her, especially after what she said to the newspaper.”

  “She’s your mother, Charlotte,” he said. “She’s going to be my mother-in-law. I will treat her with respect.”

  “Why? She hasn’t treated me with respect.” I knew I was acting like a baby, but I needed him to understand. I wanted him to know the years of things she’d done to me, how every award I’d won, every accomplishment, had been a chance for her to show off.

  “Whatever is going on between you and your mother isn’t going to be solved by me being rude to her.” He stood up and crossed the room, opened his dresser and pulled out a pair of plaid pajama pants.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Charlotte.” He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against his temples, like he was getting a headache and I was the cause. “I cannot keep having this fight with you.”

  “What fight?”

  “The fight where you try to question me.”

  “So I’m not allowed to question you now?”

  His eyes blazed into mine, and he stood there in the middle of the room, shirtless and commanding. I held my breath, not saying anything else, daring him to admit that yes, he didn’t want me questioning him, that he wanted to be free to do whatever he wanted to do, to tell me things or not tell me things, to let me in or not let me in, and I was supposed to just take it.

  “I’ve been very honest with you, Charlotte,” Noah said. “I told you from the beginning the kind of things I would require from you if you were to enter into this relationship.”

  His hands balled into fists at his sides as he tried to quell the emotion welling up inside of him. The gesture was slight, but that, coupled with the way he looked standing there with his shirt unbuttoned, showing off his broad chest and washboard abs, the tapered V of his hips, the soft line of hair that started at this belly button and disappeared below his belt, caused my whole body to flush.

  “Are you going to punish me?” I asked, thrusting my chin in the air. I kept my eyes on his, my heart thrumming against my ribs, waiting, hoping. Because no matter what I said, no matter how much I protested, the truth was that deep down, in the darkest part of my soul, I wanted this too, was almost coming to require it.

  “No, Charlotte,” he said, but I could see his palm twitch slightly as he unclenched his fists. “I’m not going to punish you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s not how this works.”

  “That’s not how what works?”

  He shook his head, the storm inside of him raging harder as the spark of my disobedience began to ignite something inside of him, something broken and raw, something I was afraid I would never completely understand. He stood there, backlit by the soft light of my reading lamp, so beautiful, so damaged, so perfect, and my heart clenched.

  “This relationship doesn’t involve you asking to be punished, Charlotte. You either haven’t completely grasped that concept yet, or you need more training. But I will be the one to decide how we remedy your disobedience.” His eyes raked up my body, and I swallowed. “And trust me, it will be remedied.”

  He turned and headed for the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. A second later, I heard the sound of the shower starting.

  I turned over in bed and closed my eyes, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill down my cheeks. I was upset he didn’t want punish me, because I longed to feel that connection to him so badly. Then I got upset at myself for craving that, for wanting him to tie me and whip me so that I could feel close to him. It was so fucked up, and I was beginning to feel like I was in over my head, incapable of deciding what was okay and what wasn’t. I felt like my brain was in a war with my body and my emotions, and I wasn’t sure whose side I was on.

  A short time later, Noah slid into bed next to me.

  My breathing hitched, the anticipation tearing through me. I wanted him to reach for me, to pull me close, to put his arms around me. I wanted him to run his hands through my hair and tell me everything was going to be okay.

  But he didn’t.

  Because as usual, he had all the power.

  * * *

  When I woke, the room was dark.

  The only light was the light from the hallway that spilled under the door, casting long shadows across the hardwood floors.

  The room had a certain stillness to it, the kind of stillness that let me know I was alone. I wondered where Noah was, if he was in his study working. He’d been known to do that at night when he couldn’t sleep.

  I ran my hands under the covers on his side of the bed, feeling the emptiness, wondering if I should go and find him, if I should try to talk to him.

  I didn’t want to fight with him anymore.

  But I didn’t want to push him either -- I knew from experience that pushing him tended to be a losing battle that only made things worse.

  I rolled over in bed and closed my eyes, willing myself to fall back asleep.

  I was just starting to drift off when I felt his hands on my wrists.

  His grip tightened as he rolled me over, and then he was on top of me, straddling me, his strong thighs pinning me in place.

  My consciousness groped around, trying to make sense of what was happening as I woke up. My hands tightened into fists, my instinct being to fight against him.

  “Shh,” Noah whispered. He had me trapped now, his weight pressing down on me heavily.

&
nbsp; I couldn’t see him well in the darkness, could just make out murky shadows, the outline of his broad shoulders, the straight line of his nose, the way his hair fell over his forehead.

  “Noah,” I said, “what – ”

  “Quiet.” This time his voice was commanding, the tone gruff and low and sexy, the tone I’d come to know meant he was going to take what he wanted from me. I gazed up at him, my eyes locking on his, and I felt breathless, the emotion between us squeezing my heart and my chest so hard it felt like I was in a death lock.

  I loved him.

  I loved him so much.

  I couldn’t bear being without him, couldn’t bear him being upset with me. The thoughts burned against my brain, mental images of being without him, and the tightness in my chest intensified until I was forced to take in a deep breath.

  I couldn’t breathe without him.

  That’s how it felt.

  It was the worst cliché, the kind of thing that would have made me roll my eyes and laugh, the kind of thing that would have made me pity the pour soul saying it – do you really think you can’t live without a man, how absolutely pathetic of you – but that was before I’d met him, before I’d known what real, true love felt like, before I’d felt his touch, experienced his kiss, gone through hell and back with him and fallen even deeper.

  I could tell he felt it too, from the way he was looking at me.

  My eyes were starting to adjust to the darkness now, and Noah was coming into focus, his face sharpening, the look in his eyes intensifying and becoming more clear, like puzzle pieces shifting into place.

  “Noah,” I whispered, because I wanted to tell him how I felt, wanted to tell him I was sorry, wanted to apologize for acting like a brat and getting mad at him for being nice to my mom.

  “Shhh. It’s okay, baby,” he murmured. “Shh. It’s okay.”

  I nodded, the tears welling in my eyes. His index finger grazed my lips, and he rested his palm on my cheek, brushing his thumb under my eye, checking for tears.

  His eyes blazed as he lowered his head to kiss me, and I closed my eyes, waiting for his lips against mine.

  But I was left waiting and wanting.

  The kiss never came, and when I opened my eyes again, Noah was staring down at me wickedly.

  It was then that I realized he was completely dressed, in a pair of black jeans and a loose black t-shirt.

  “Why are you dressed?” I asked, trying to prop myself up on my elbows as best as I could. “Where are you going?”

  “Not me. Us.”

  “What?” I turned my head to glance at the clock on the nightstand. “It’s three in the morning.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what time it is, Charlotte,” he said, and he tugged the covers down over my body, his eyes raking over my curves. His hands found my tits, kneading them through the thin material of my t-shirt. He moved lower, sliding slowly, deliciously down my sides, his huge hands moving with a sureness that made it known he knew exactly what he was doing to me, and furthermore, that he was going to enjoy every last second of it.

  He gripped my waist, his thumbs pressing against my hipbones, his fingernails digging into my ass as he angled my torso up off the bed and pulled me into his crotch.

  I could feel his cock through his jeans, hard and ready for me, and my pussy flooded with desire.

  He leaned down and brought his mouth to my neck, his tongue flicking against the hollow of my throat, warm and soft and good. I arched and pushed into him, but he pushed me back down onto the bed, holding my torso firmly in place against him so I could still feel his dick.

  He raised his eyebrows and smiled down at me, a wicked, mischievous gleam in his dark eyes. Finally, he climbed off of me and stood next to the bed, leaving me waiting and wanting, a prisoner to his whims.

  I put my hands up over my head, waiting for him to tie me. But he didn’t. Instead, he reached down and slid a finger down my body, over the swell of my breasts, down my abdomen, inching the material of my t-shirt away and tracing a line back over my hipbone. He intentionally didn’t go anywhere near my pussy. I whimpered, resisting the urge to writhe on the bed, knowing if I did he would only draw out the torture.

  “Get out of bed, Charlotte,” he said.

  “What?” I asked, confused.

  “Do not ask questions, Charlotte. If you do, I will make this far, far worse.”

  I stood up.

  He moved toward me like a jungle cat, then reached down and pulled my t-shirt off, letting his hands roam over my tits, pinching my nipples before moving them down and slowly peeling off the pair of aqua-colored silk panties I was wearing, until I was standing there naked.

  He cupped my chin and pushed his thumb into my mouth, and I sucked it hungrily, knowing he was giving me a taste, a chance to show him what I could do with my lips, my teeth, my tongue, knowing if I was a good girl he would give me his cock.

  He watched me intently, grazing my teeth with his thumb.

  “You are mine,” he growled. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  He smiled and leaned down, kissed me softly, sucking my bottom lip between his lips, pulling back and leaning his forehead against mine.

  “I own you. I own your body, your tits, your pussy. It belongs to me.” He gathered my hair into a loose knot and tugged it, hard. “You are my possession, my property.”

  “Yes, sir,” I managed, my heart pounding so loud against my ribs from anticipation and longing I was afraid it was going to jump out of my chest.

  “Don’t move,” Noah said, and then he released me.

  He crossed the room to the dresser, opened a drawer and returned with two pieces of black fabric. He bent down and picked my foot up off the floor, kissed the arch and ran his tongue along it gently, eliciting a soft moan from my lips. He slid the slip of fabric over my foot, then repeated the process with the other leg, pulling a pair of black thong panties up over my knees, my thighs, my ass.

  If you could even call it a thong.

  It was more of a g-string, so small it barely covered my pussy, the tiny string in back leaving my ass completely exposed.

  “That ass,” Noah said gruffly. He pulled his hand back and slapped my buttocks, making my flesh jiggle. He didn’t hit me hard enough to really hurt, just enough to sting, just enough to let me know he meant business.

  He curled his finger under the side of the thong, pulled it back, and snapped it against my flesh.

  Then he licked his bottom lip and draped the other piece of fabric he was holding over my shoulders.

  It was a shirt, a button up, almost like a cardigan, only it was made of the lightest, most luxurious material I’d ever felt. It was a mesh and see-through, with tiny holes and a lace overlay. The material was silky soft against my skin, not scratchy at all.

  Noah ran his hands through the strands of my hair, pushed them back over my shoulders.

  I kept my gaze on his, saw the deep feelings I had for him mirrored in his dark eyes.

  “Should I get on my knees, sir?” I asked, the words catching in my throat.

  The side of his mouth twitched, like he was amused at my words, like the thought of me getting down on my knees and taking his cock in my mouth was so tame it was cute.

  “No, Charlotte,” he said. “I do not want you to get down on your knees and suck my cock. Not yet, anyway.”

  I tipped my head. “Sir?”

  He grinned and wrapped his hand around mine. “We’re going out.”

  * * *

  He put me in red high heels.

  He didn’t put anything on the bottom of me, nothing to cover the tiny strip of dental floss he was trying to pretend were panties, and when I tried to protest, his eyes burned and he pulled me to him, crushing his chest against mine, his lips silencing me with a kiss that let me know not to ask any more questions for fear of him making whatever wicked thing he had planned even worse.

  There was a limo waiting
outside, idling on the curb, and the city was muted. New York was the city that never slept for a reason – even now, at 3 am, you could hear the sound of car horns trilling over from Lexington and Park, could hear the rev of the engines from the taxis as they whizzed by, could feel the thrum of the city in your chest, could smell the flour coming from the bakery on the corner as they prepped for their morning customers. None of it was gone, but everything was softened, like the city was drowsy and dragging its feet.

  I, on the other hand, was wired with anticipation and electricity from the trepidation of not knowing where I was going, and the excitement of being taken from my bed at three in the morning and made to dress in a sexy outfit, ready to serve Noah’s every desire.

  His hand wrapped around mine as we slid into the backseat.

  The leather seats were warm, the supple material like butter against the bare skin of my ass and the back of my thighs.

  Seat warmers.

  I shook my head. “You think of everything, Mr. Cutler.”

  “I need you to be comfortable and safe at all times, Charlotte.”

  I swallowed, silencing the warning bells that always went off whenever he said something like that. No matter how many times I tried to explain to him that unless he was going to be with me 24/7, he couldn’t keep me one hundred percent safe one hundred percent of the time, he wouldn’t listen.

  But now was not the time to bring that up. We’d already been fighting about his need to control me, to keep me out of danger and safe. The last thing I wanted was to highlight that point of contention again.

  So as the limo pulled smoothly onto the street and began working its way through the drowsy, dark, eerily beautiful streets of New York, I let Noah pour me a glass of champagne from a bottle that was chilling on ice.

  I took a sip of the Dom Perignon, letting the sweetly tart liquid slide down my throat, warming my body from the inside out.

  Noah took the glass from my hand and took a long swallow, then reached into the ice bucket and pulled out a piece of ice, slid it over my lips until they were shivery cold, then kissed me, the warmth of his kiss and the taste of the champagne on him combining to make me dizzy.