The Billionaire's Trust (His Submissive, Part Eleven) (3 page)

“No way does Jacob Whitmore get
married on a beach with a ukulele or any of that. He’s supposed to
do the big, wedding of the century thing with a sea of people he
barely knows, flowers, something that cost more than the average
person makes in a year. And with the life I’ll be
leading--”

“You can’t have it both ways, Lay,”
she cut in softly. “You can’t say the money won’t change you and
then tell me you’re sacrificing your dreams for his like a perfect
Upper East side wife.” She leaned in. “Are you really trying to
tell me that you don’t think he’d be receptive?”

“It’s not that.”
Be honest
.
“It’s a little that. I guess I’m more worried that he won’t care at
all.” I looked at her and said the thing I didn’t at lunch with
Jacob and his mother. “I don’t want a big wedding. I want something
small that focuses on me and Jacob and our future.”

“So that’s what you say to him,”
she said simply. She rubbed her hands together. “I think my work
here is done so we can commence the watch-age of whatever overly
dramatic show you want to subject me to.”

“Not so fast,” I said, remembering
some questions I wanted to ask her. The last few pictures in the
tabloids of Cade included a woman with red hair and a build
identical to Megan’s. “When are we going to talk about you and
Cade?”

She reached for the remote and
pressed power. “There is no me and Cade.”

“Right,” I said skeptically. “Why
is it a huge secret? Why can we talk about me and Jacob and his
crazy mother but Cade is off limits?”

She looked at me, something
indiscernible flashing in her eyes before she turned back to the TV
screen. “I...I’m not ready, Leila. Please respect that.”

I dropped it. For now.

****

“What are you wearing?”

I pulled the phone from my ear then
brought it back with a laugh. “I know you’re not being
serious.”

Even though I was the only person on
the floor since Natasha was out sick, I cast a nervous look at the
door. The silence that followed my statement told me that he was
dead serious--and the heat that flooded me crashed into my nerves
until there was nothing to hold onto but desire.

“So how’s London?” I asked quickly,
trying to move the conversation to G-rated territory.

“Wet,” he answered glumly.
“Relatively uneventful since I’ve spent the past two days on the
phone or in meetings.”

“I’m sorry,” I offered, turning to
the window and looking at the bright blue sky. After a few weeks of
triple digit weather it was actually pretty nice outside. Perfect
for a nice stroll in the park.

Or a spanking on the patio
, I
thought mischievously. I turned back to the front, banishing the
delicious images and sensations that came with a vengeance. My body
revolted against my attempts to keep things professional. It took
me back to the spanking bench, feeling the leather against my
heated skin, the fear colliding with anticipation for the first
strike. Knowing the apprehensive, straight and narrow girl that
walked into Whitmore and Creighton all those months ago was a
stranger and in her place was someone adventurous.

And touching yourself with him on
the other end of the phone is another adventure...

“Don’t pity me too much,” he said,
bringing me from the ledge. “This is the part I love. Meetings.
Debating. Winning.”

I could almost make out the yummy
smile that curved his lips. Personally, I knew if I were in London
and I spent most of the time handling business I wouldn’t be a
happy camper.

The Tower of London, Buckingham
Palace...I wouldn’t mind the lines or the dreary weather if it
meant I’d get to experience the culture of the city. But where
sightseeing made me salivate, Jacob lived for the boardrooms and
nitty gritty that made Whitmore and Creighton a
powerhouse.

“How are things at the office?” he
asked.

“Same ole,” I shrugged, swiveling
my chair from the left to the right. “Your calendar’s been updated
to accommodate the London trip for almost 48 hours now but I’m
still getting a steady stream of calls for you.” I eyed the list in
front of me, ranging from board members to prospective clients who
hoped personal appeals would give them an advantage over those who
used their assistants to query for representation.

Tucked in between calls rom
celebutantes and squirrely investors was a thread dedicated to
Alicia alone. After call one I told her that Jacob was unavailable
and was utterly swamped...and it was a waste of breath. Every call
started out with an apology about Macy and spilled into a list of
other reputable planners and businesses that could make all my
dreams come true. Every call I was quiet instead of telling her it
wasn’t
my
dreams because the only one that got ME was the
very woman she fired.

Since she wasn’t actively trying to
end me and Jacob, I didn’t want to rock the boat but that left me
fielding calls from a woman that had a new project: turning my
wedding into an event talked about for years to come. I didn’t have
the guts to tell her I didn’t need a legion of planners, florists,
and staff to make my day special. The only thing I needed was
Jacob.

But I hadn’t talked to him either.
As much crap as I gave Megan, her words got through. We needed to
talk about what he wanted. What I wanted.

Well at the moment, I need something
to distract me from being so horny that I’m actually entertaining
the idea of phone sex.

“You’re really quiet,” he observed,
his deep voice taking on the concerned edge that made me want to
spill my heart and soul to him.

But I drug my feet, fidgeting in my
chair and suddenly not feeling chatty at all. He’d barely blinked
at lunch after his mother said she was trying. That she wanted this
to be their fresh start. if I told him a huge, lavish thing was
pretty much my nightmare, I knew he’d hear me and tell his mom to
back off and I didn’t want to cause any friction between them. And
the important thing was Jacob, right? Loads of brides hand over the
guest list to their parents and focus on things like the dress and
the cake and the bridesmaids.

Either way, I needed to say
something if I didn’t want him to know how stressed I really was
about this whole thing.

“I’m just thinking about wedding
stuff.”

“So my mother’s been harassing you,
then?”

Ding ding ding
. “She’s
just...”
Too much? Completely nuts?
“Really excited.” I
opened my mouth, the truth lingering on my tongue. I could even
give him the watered down version. ‘It sounds nice, but I think we
should consider doing something smaller.’ or ‘What do you think
about doing something a little more low-key?’.

“You know, I’m at the point where
I’m just gonna let her have at it.” Just when I was ready to hurl
the phone across the room he finished with, “As long as I get to
call you my wife at the end of all of this, the how’s aren’t
important. We’re important.”

Great. He was simultaneously uber
sweet and contradictory without meaning to be. I’d never get tired
of hearing his excitement about making me his wife, but the reason
I was gritting my teeth and gripping my phone tight was because I
felt like we wouldn’t be represented in the ceremony. All the right
people behind the scenes, all the right names on the guest list. A
ceremony worthy of the Whitmore name. It was so far removed from
the essence of me and Jacob that you could just copy and paste
another society couple into our places and none would be the
wiser.

It's not like it would suck. Nothing
less than fantastic would get that woman's stamp of approval. And
even though Jacob would rather chop off his arm than admit it, I
knew there were pieces of him that wanted a connection to his
mother. To try and grow and move past the things that happened in
hopes that the future was their chance to get it right.

I released my choke hold on my lip,
tucking away the tiny voice that whispered ‘What about me?’ and
listened instead to how much I missed him.

"Have a date yet for when you're
coming home?"

"We're getting close," he answered.
"Two more days if I had to guess." There was a shuffle, and my body
warmed as I imagined him rearranging in the bed. Muscles rippling,
golden lines of his chest roping me in and making my temperature
rise despite the frosty air flowing from the vent a few feet
away.

"You miss me?" I said, my voice
breathy. Hot.

"More than I can say." His voice was
just as thick, burning with a need that made me tremble.

Thick with sleep!
The part of
me that knew how dangerously close I was to sliding the hand on my
thigh a little closer to the hem of my skirt, under it, was trying
desperately to hold onto the illusion that this conversation
wouldn't end up where we both knew it was headed. Even with all the
wedding drama, I could feel my body drawn to him like he was in the
room and not millions of miles away.

And it's not like you've followed
that whole 'professionalism' rule
, the inner desire whispered.
I didn't want to fight. I wanted to hear what he wanted to do to
me. How badly he needed me.

"What are you wearing,
Leila?"

I swallowed hard, every syllable of
the question rippling over me. I was gonna do this, but no way
would I not lock the door. With my luck the mail clerk would decide
to deliver the mail right when I was in the throes, moaning wildly;
too wild to explain away.

"I'm just gonna lock--"

"Don't you dare," he growled. I
froze like he was towering above me, blue eyes glaring me into
submission.

Truth was I could slip over and lock
it and he wouldn't be the wiser, but I rooted myself in place,
letting out a, 'yes sir'.

"I don't need to repeat myself, do I
Leila?"

I frowned, my cheeks flaring. I
answered his question. "I--" Oh. The first question. I glanced down
quickly, suddenly forgetting. My brain was a fuzzy mess, everything
hazy except the steady throb between my thighs. I fingered a button
on my blouse. "I'm wearing a black button down blouse--"

"The sheer one?"

My mouth curved upward, pleased he
noticed enough to commit it to memory. "Yes."

There was a pause and I swore I
heard him moving. Pulling up into a seated position because I had
his attention.

"I know you look beautiful," he
said, his deep voice sure, like he was stating fact, like how 1+1
equals two or the earth revolved around the sun. "What
else?"

"A charcoal gray skirt," I spread my
fingers down the front of it. "It stops at my knees when I stand
up."

"And now?"

I felt the heat spread, not leaving
a single inch of me untouched. "Right now it's mid
thigh."

He let out a rumbling sound that
came from the back of his throat and shot to my groin, making me
clench. I knew my panties were going to be a sticky mess by the
time this was all said and done and I didn't even care.

"And beneath?"

I pushed my chair back a few inches,
spreading my thighs. "A black bra and a black thong."

"If I were there--"

"If you were here, I'd drop to my
knees and suck you until you exploded in my mouth." It came out as
a single word and I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear,
squeezing my eyes shut. Jesus...it was like it had been a lifetime
since he touched me. It had only been two days, but even that
seemed too long. Too much to bear.

"I'm sorry," I blurted, knowing that
I'd interrupted him. What devastatingly sexy thing would he leave
unsaid to discipline me?

"Don't apologize," he said smoothly.
"You'd get no complaints from me. I'd love to feel your mouth on
me. Your hot little tongue sliding up and down the hardened
length."

My heart jumped in my chest when I
closed my eyes as he let out a deep groan. Was he touching himself?
Imagining my lips around his thick shaft? I was dying to touch
myself, to sink my fingers inside.

"Jacob," I whispered
hoarsely.

"Not yet," he said, a hint of
amusement in his voice. So he
was
punishing me. Suddenly two
words were more harsh than any spanking he'd dealt. "I still have
to tell you what I'm going to do to you."

I squirmed, knowing that would do
nothing for the ache, but loving it. Nothing was as sweet as giving
him control. Nothing was more sexy than submitting.

"I wouldn't come," he continued.
"Not yet anyway. I'd pull you to your feet by those wild curls and
bend you over the edge of the desk."

I gripped my knee, feeling the
desire leak from me.
A spanking. God yes.

"I know what you're expecting. My
hand to turn you red. But not today, love. Today, I want to touch
you. Finger fuck you." He paused and I could hear how labored his
breathing was. "Would you like that? Me plunging my fingers in and
out of you?"

"Y-yes."

"Touch yourself, Leila."