The Billionaire’s Pet (A 'Scandals of the Bad Boy Billionaires' Romance) Page 8

  It didn't take him long. I'd chosen a simple recipe on purpose for my first day in Jacob's kitchen, not sure what kind of equipment he might have.

  I waited, trying to guess what each small sound was, feeling relief when I heard the whisk swirling against the plastic of the bowl. He rewarded me a second later by leaving the sauce and coming back to the island. He pressed up behind me, the hard, thick ridge of his erect cock separated from me by only the thin cotton of his pajama bottoms. My breath caught in my lungs. I wanted it inside me so badly. He leaned over, plastering his chest against my back until his lips grazed my ear. "What's next?"

  "Turn on the medium-sized skillet," I said, my voice shaking a little. "On low, and pour the sauce inside. You need to keep stirring it. You want it to warm up, but it shouldn't boil or it'll separate." I almost wept at the realization that his attention to the sauce would mean he'd have to stop touching me until it was done. I wished I'd decided to make pot roast tonight instead of tomorrow, even though there hadn't been enough time. Pot roast didn't need any attention. You could fuck all night with a pot roast in the oven.

  Jacob peeled himself off me and stepped back, taking his lovely hard cock with him. I almost wept at the loss. He'd barely touched me. Two quick smacks and a few strokes of his fingers had me shaking with need. I heard the sound of another burner flicking on and the metallic scrape of the whisk against the stainless steel skillet. Conversationally, Jacob asked, "What's in the oven?"

  "Salmon and herbed new potatoes," I whispered.

  "And how long will this sauce take?" He asked so casually, I might have cried if I hadn't heard the steely thread of tension beneath his words.

  "At least five minutes," I said, my voice so forlorn, I wanted to laugh at myself.

  Jacob grunted in response. Was the tension getting to him, too? I hoped so. I'd imagined a lot of things when Jacob had proposed this deal, but I'd never guessed he would be such a tease. The night before, he'd implied that the spanking hadn't been my punishment. The punishment had been sitting through dinner with the clamps tugging on my nipples while he watched, doing nothing to ease my need. He was diabolical. An eternity passed, punctuated by my uneven breaths, my racing heartbeat, and the quiet sounds of Jacob stirring the mustard sauce.

  "How do I know when it's done?" he asked.

  My brain trapped in a fog of lust, I managed to say, "Taste it. If the garlic is too sharp, it needs to cook longer."

  "Mmm. Here, you try."

  Jacob's finger appeared at my lips. I opened them, sucking at the offered fingertip, barely tasting the Dijon sauce, my tongue cleaning it from his skin, my tastebuds eager for the flavor of Jacob beneath the rich sauce.

  "It's done," he spat out before yanking his finger from my mouth and shoving his pants down his legs. The head of his cock brushed my pussy, and I whimpered, unable to stop myself from rocking back against him. He should have punished me. He must have been as lost as I was.

  He leaned into my body, driving his thick, hard cock deep inside my pussy, not stopping until he was in to the hilt, his balls swinging forward to smack my clit. I whimpered again, wanting more. Wanting him to fuck me hard and fast after I'd waited so long.

  He did, driving into me. Fucking me hard, filling me. I wanted it, I wanted more. Our bodies shifted, and his hips drove mine straight into the edge of the granite countertop. I let out a moan of surprise. It hurt, and not like the spankings. I wasn't sure what to do.

  Should I tell him? Or was I just supposed to take it whether it hurt or not? I didn't know, and not knowing put a damper on my lust. Jacob must have sensed something, or he was psychic, because he stopped and stepped back, his cock sliding out of me with a sucking pull that made me quiver.

  Running his hands down my sides, he tugged back, urging me to put space between my hips and the edge of the island. His hands found mine, still clasped behind my back, and he released them, placing them on either side of my torso, skimming his hands up my front to cup my now exposed breasts. Leaning over me, covering me with his body, he slid inside me again. I sighed in satisfaction.

  "Always tell me if you're in pain," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. "There's a difference between spanking and nipple clamps and when I'm actually hurting you. I'd never want to hurt you, Abigail. Not like that. Not ever. Promise me you'll talk to me. This won't work if you don't talk to me."

  "I promise," I whispered, tears filling my eyes as he began to move, slamming his cock into me, kneading my breasts, pinching my nipples until all the sensations, in my body and my heart, collided in an orgasm so huge, I lost my breath and let it pull me under.

  It took me a while to come back to myself. We stayed there, leaning over the island, his tall body covering mine like a warm, hard blanket, trying to catch our breath. Just when I thought I might be able to move, Jacob drew back. For a moment, before I got myself under control, I missed his heat and strength with a fierce longing that took me by surprise. He touched my back and said, "I'll take care of this. You can finish dinner."

  By this, I knew he meant the condom. I wondered how long it would take for Dr. Whitmore's tests to come back. "May I get dressed?" I asked, not sure I knew what I wanted him to say. As if he'd read my mind, he raised one eyebrow and said, "You decide."

  It was a little chilly in the penthouse, or I might have left off clothes altogether. I wasn't above teasing Jacob back when I got the chance. However, I did not like to be cold. As a compromise, I left the camisole, underwear, and lounge pants piled as they were on the countertop and slipped back into the cashmere cardigan.

  By the time Jacob came back, I had dinner ready to serve. He walked into the kitchen, his silver eyes taking in the elegantly arranged plates with salmon drizzled in a mustard sauce and fresh, crisp green beans and beautifully browned herbed new potatoes, served by me, wearing only an unzipped cardigan. He grinned, the expression giving him that boyish look I loved and said, "I could get used to this, Abigail."

  I was counting on it. The scary thing was that I could get used to it, too.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ABIGAIL

  * * *

  Another day alone in the penthouse. It had been two weeks since I'd shown up in Jacob's office, desperate for help. By now, I was settled in and almost used to living with Jacob. If by used to you meant I was less bothered by the fact that I had no idea what to expect from him. Jacob was unpredictable. He hadn't been lying when he said he had a wide range of sexual interests. So far, all of them had worked out well for me, so I wasn't complaining.

  Unfortunately, after two weeks, I was beginning to get just the tiniest bit stir crazy. I was safe here. Safe in a way that I hadn't been since my father had died. For the first time in four years, I didn't have to worry about my mother. Not true. I always worried about my mother. She was sick, and there was nothing I could do to make her better.

  The grief never mellowed. In my mind, I understood her disease. My heart only saw the mother I loved, alive but lost to me. The only thing I could do was make sure she was cared for, and while I'd been doing that since my father had died, these last weeks with Jacob was the first time I felt good about it. With John, I'd been free to leave our home, to see friends, to have a social life, and to visit my mother. Yet, for every second of our marriage, even the good ones, I'd felt horribly trapped. Forced into a mold I didn't want to fill, forced to smile about the subversion of my life, terrified anyone would find out how much I resented the position I was in.

  I'd been raised to be the wife of a man like John, or more truthfully, the wife of a man like Jacob, but it hadn't been what I'd wanted for myself. I'd wanted to be a teacher. Those dreams seemed so innocent and far away. Some days, I felt ancient and far too defiled to teach children anything.

  With Jacob, it was the opposite. Yes, I was constrained by my role as his pet. But so far, it was a role I didn't mind playing. I enjoyed his company, and while he didn't treat me like a girlfriend, I wasn't sure I wanted him to anyway. In his ow
n way, he was warm and affectionate, and he definitely appreciated my presence.

  Other than making myself available to have sex with him and making dinner when he ate at home, he didn't expect that much from me. I certainly didn't mind having sex with him. Understatement of the century. And I loved to cook. Especially for someone who didn't micro-manage every meal or criticize my choices.

  I knew Jacob had grown up on an estate in Buckhead with a kitchen staff. While he enjoyed gourmet food and had probably been eating it since the cradle, he was just as happy with pot roast or spaghetti and meatballs. He put in plenty of time in the gym on top of meeting his brothers and cousins for racquetball or a pickup game of basketball, so he wasn't worried about calories.

  I had more orgasms than I could handle and free reign in the kitchen, and when Jacob wasn't home, I could do whatever I wanted. As long as I didn't leave the penthouse. That was the sticking point.

  Jacob's home was huge. I'd done some research on my shiny new laptop and had discovered that I was living in Winters House, an historic building Jacob had purchased almost 10 years ago—he must have been just out of college—and renovated into luxury condos with office space and retail on the first floor. I'd learned his younger brother and a cousin owned condos a few floors down, but Jacob's was the only one that occupied an entire floor to itself. It was massive. Still, it was starting to feel like a cage, and I was frustrated with myself for being so restless.

  There was nothing I could do about it until the situation with Big John was resolved. According to Jacob, he'd been looking for me, but quietly. Unless Big John gave up or made a move overt enough to shut him down, we were stuck in a waiting game. I was in the kitchen, putting together the ingredients for a chicken pot pie and wondering if Jacob would let me use the rooftop garden I'd read about, when I heard it.

  At first, it was barely more than a whisper of noise. I'm not sure I heard footsteps so much as got a sense of something moving outside the penthouse door. I froze, my stomach turning to ice in a heartbeat, reminding me that, as comfortable as I was with Jacob, danger was still far too close. It was mid-afternoon, far too early for Jacob to be home. Carefully, silently, I set the rolling pin I was using for the piecrust down on the countertop and dusted my hands off on a dishtowel, my ears straining for the tiniest sound by the door.

  Rustling. A thump. A scratching sound. Crinkling, like paper. Innocuous sounds. At least, not sounds that were overtly threatening. My lungs tight, almost lightheaded with fear, I knew that as subtle as they were, the sounds were wrong. The only two people who should be at that door were Rachel or Jacob, and either of them would either ring the bell or let themselves in.

  Someone was out there who shouldn't be. I forced myself to inch out of the kitchen and into the hallway leading to the foyer, where I'd have a view of the front door. It looked normal. The handle wasn't twisting and turning as if someone was trying to get in. The deadbolt was still engaged. But, those sounds. More rustling, and that crinkling, scraping. My terrified brain decided to get back in gear. I had to call Jacob.

  Where was the phone? Where the hell had I left the phone? I almost never used it, and Jacob texted more than he called, so I didn't keep it right at my side. I stood there, feet glued to the floor, eyes focused on the front door, racking my brain for the last place I'd had the phone. Not the kitchen. My room. I'd had it in my room that morning.

  I took a step away from the door and froze again. A brown shadow pushed under the door. Every horror movie I'd ever seen of murderous ghosts and deadly phantoms oozing beneath closed doors flashed through my mind as I stared, transfixed with terror at the site of that dark shape sliding into the foyer of Jacob's penthouse.

  It pushed further, slowly, twisting side to side as if struggling to pull itself beneath the door. Abruptly, its progress stopped. There was another rustle on the other side of the door. Then nothing. Silence. Stillness. Whatever it was, it was gone, leaving the envelope behind.

  The foyer lights were off, and without any windows in the space, it was dim even on a bright day. That was my excuse for imagining fantastical explanations for a plain brown envelope slipped under the door. It took a few minutes, that felt like hours, before I summoned the courage to move forward and turn on the light in the foyer.

  When I did, I felt like an idiot. It was just an envelope. It was unusual that someone had pushed an envelope beneath Jacob's door when the floor was supposed to be secure. No one should be able to take the elevator to the penthouse level. But he did have a brother and a cousin living in the building. He hadn't said so, but I assumed they had access. Maybe they just didn't want to bother him in the office.

  Or maybe, that envelope didn't have to do with Jacob at all. Maybe it had to do with me. I didn't want to believe Big John's people could infiltrate Jacob's security. I knew better than to think I was safe just because I felt safe. Big John got what he wanted. When something fixed itself in his mind, he could be relentless. He wasn't Jacob Winters, but he was powerful. Too powerful.

  If he'd found me . . . I lurched forward, my limbs stiff with fear, forced into action as the terror of not knowing eclipsed my instinctive reluctance to touch that invading envelope, its plain brown paper so out of place against the rich colors of the hardwood floor and rug in the foyer of Jacob’s penthouse.

  I leaned forward to snatch it off the floor and retreated—scurried—back to the safety of the kitchen, berating myself for my cowardice the whole way. Back in the kitchen, with bright sunlight streaming through the tall windows and the white cabinets gleaming, the brown 8.5 by 11 envelope, sealed with a single piece of transparent tape, didn't look as threatening. Before I could think twice about it, I slid a finger beneath the flap and opened it. A picture slid out, floating between my fingers to land, face up, on the granite countertop. My eyes widened in confusion as I stared at it.

  This had nothing to do with me. I didn't even know what I was looking at, only that it was horrible. It looked like a crime scene photograph, except that somehow, it didn't, but I couldn't put my finger on what was wrong with it. Two figures lay sprawled on the floor, both obviously dead. I didn't recognize them.

  The woman was the focus of the photograph, the man's body off to the side as if an afterthought. They both had bullet wounds, his a neat hole in his forehead, hers in the center of her chest. She lay on a Persian carpet that reminded me of the carpets in Jacob's penthouse, her hand flung over her head, white blonde hair spread around her like spilled water.

  I reached for the photograph to take a closer look, then snatched my hand back. I'd touched the envelope. Stupid. Now my fingerprints were on it. I hadn't touched the photograph though. I didn't know what the picture was, didn't know who might've delivered it, or why. But looking at the photograph of those two dead bodies, I knew there was no good reason it should be here. Backing away, feeling a little sick, I went to get my phone.

  I'd never called Jacob in the middle of the day. He answered on the second ring, his tone impatient. "What is it?"

  "I–I think you should come up here. Something—" I realized I didn't know what to say.

  "What happened? What's wrong?" he demanded.

  "Something was delivered," I said. "I think you need to see it."

  The phone slammed down, and I sat on the edge of my bed, staring down at the mobile phone in my hands, watching with blind eyes as the screen went dark. I had the feeling I'd handled everything the wrong way. I should have called him the second I heard a sound. Except I hadn't wanted to bother him at work if it was nothing. I should've called him before I touched the envelope, but it hadn't occurred to me that it might be evidence of something. If that's even what it was. I'd been so afraid it had to do with Big John and me that I hadn't thought further.

  I rose slowly, reluctantly leaving the security of my bedroom, to meet Jacob when he came in. The door slammed open as I walked toward the foyer, Jacob's eyes shifting from alarm to relief at the sight of me, alone and in one piece. "You're all righ
t?"

  "I'm fine," I said, "but there's something in the kitchen. I don't know who delivered it. It was pushed under the door."

  He turned and strode to the kitchen, me following in his wake, still trying to explain what I didn't really understand. He stopped at the edge of the island. I knew the moment he caught sight of the photograph because his body went still.

  Standing beside him, studying his face as he took in the details of the obscene image, I knew that something was very, very wrong. His jaw tightened. I thought I could actually see him grinding his teeth together. His silver eyes went hot with rage, then ice cold. I was alarmed to see his hands ball into fists at his side.

  "What is it?" I whispered. Jacob didn't answer. "Jacob?"

  He was a statue, only the rhythmic clench of his right fist and the twitch of his jaw muscle betraying any movement. I wish I knew what was going through his mind. Finally, he spoke. "You touched this?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. Instinctively, I took a step back.

  "Just the envelope. Not the picture."

  "When was it delivered?"

  "Maybe twenty minutes ago," I said, not sure how much time had passed. "I was in the kitchen and I heard noises—" I stopped talking when Jacob looked at me, the words drying up in my throat at the sheer rage in his eyes.

  "You heard sounds at the door and you went to investigate?"

  I swallowed hard, wanting to lie and knowing I couldn't. I couldn't seem to speak, my words frozen in my throat. I settled for a short nod. He turned toward me, the muscle in his jaw twitching, his fist clenching so hard I worried he would hurt himself. Not me. In my gut, I knew that clenched fist wasn't the danger here. I wished I understood what was.