Taken by the Billionaire (6 page)

He held my leg up in the air and slowly pressed against my eager folds from behind, rubbing his head up and down and torturing me even more. I wanted him to just go already, to take me and fuck me for all I was worth, but instead he lingered just outside my lips.

“There’s nothing you could do to stop me if I wanted to take you right now, is there?” he whispered in my ear.

“No, there isn’t,” I gasped, and just to see, I tried once again to wriggle out of my restraints. They held firmly around my wrists and bound me to Peter’s desires. Whatever he wanted, he was going to get.

That was okay with me, though... I wanted it too.

“It’s like you don’t even want me to stop, though. You want me to fuck you like this, don’t you Sarah?” he growled, and he pushed his hips in just a little, so that I could feel the tip of his cock parting my lips, just barely starting to make its way into my wet channel and hinting at the heaven that was only one stroke quick stroke away.

I shook my head and whimpered quietly as desire stole all my words.

“Was that a yes? You want me to stop?” asked Peter, his voice full of mischief.

“God, just fuck me already!” I half-whispered and half-gasped, and as desire overwhelmed me, I frantically shoved my hips back against him and took care of the penetration myself.

I wanted to scream as he thrust himself deep into me. I needed to scream, and the need grew more and more urgent with each powerful thrust. I couldn’t control my body anymore; my hips matched his rhythm on their own while the rest of me quivered and shook in a strange state of pleasure-overload and tried not to alert everyone on the plane to our illicit pleasures.

I can’t do it. I’m going to scream. I’m going to...

Just as I thought I was about to scream, Peter clamped a hand firmly over my mouth and thrust hard and fast into me. My cries were muffled beautifully as he stroked into me as quickly and as powerfully as he could, and suddenly I started to see stars.

Was I blacking out? What was going on? My body shook like I was having my own personal earthquake, and my vision was starting to blur as I tried to hold in all the glorious, heavenly sensations that were threatening to explode out of me. He held one hand tightly over my mouth to stop my screams, held my leg up in the air with his own, and then grabbed me tightly by the straps around my wrists as he thrust himself hard into me.

My brain dissolved into jelly as the tsunami of pleasures crashed down over me in the most intense, most silent, most absolutely mind-blowing orgasm I’d ever experienced. My head spun, and it felt like I was falling downward. Maybe I actually was passing out. I couldn’t tell anymore. My mind was completely overwhelmed by the orgasmic nuclear meltdown going on inside me.

I screamed in pleasure into Peter’s hand one last time as I felt his hot seed shoot into me, filling me with spurts of fire that flickered just briefly before fading away, and then I crashed down from my high. My body felt as heavy as lead as I came back down from my orgasm and rejoined the real world again.

Peter helped me up and kissed me softly on the cheek as he untied my hands. I laid my head on his shoulder, panting feverishly as I tried to recover from my dizzy, post-orgasmic haze, and just as I was going to tell him for next time, I guess I actually did pass out.

I woke up—probably several hours later—for just long enough to hear the pilot announce that we were two hours from Zagreb. In my foggy, sleep-deprived state, I didn’t even stay awake long enough to realize that I was dressed again and had mysteriously gained a blanket.

T
he rest of our trip was a blur to me, and Peter had to almost drag me from our plane to the limo, from the limo to another private plane, and then from that plane to yet another limo once we arrived on the island of Korčula off the coast of Croatia.

“Peter... is it just me, or do you know every limo driver on the planet?” I called up to him as I followed him down the airstrip toward the sleek black car waiting for us at the end. The midday Mediterranean sun beat down on me from the cloudless sky, and I was completely unprepared for it after spending a decade beneath the cloudy New York sky.

“Eh, I get around,” he answered, winking back at me. As we reached the limo, he held the passenger-side rear door open for me before getting in the front seat next to the driver.

“The Anneke Ibramovic estate, please.”

The driver stared at him blankly.

“I’m her son,” said Peter, sighing and rolling his eyes. “She will let me in,”

The driver nodded and then pulled away from the airstrip and back out onto the road.

“Figures,” muttered Peter. “Just like Mother to pay off the entire country to stay out of her hair.”

I stared out the window as we sped down the long road past strange, mixed forests of pine and olive trees along the breathtaking Mediterranean coastline.

“What the hell am I even doing here?”

It was completely surreal to me. I hadn’t even been adventurous enough to adopt a cat last year, but now I was traipsing around the Mediterranean Sea with my billionaire lover? I didn’t know whether to squeal in joy or in terror at my new surroundings, so instead I sat in silence.

“So, where are we going?” I asked after several miles of quiet contemplation.

“My mother’s estate in Vela Luka. She moved away from Moscow and bought an old villa out here ten years ago when she retired from active management of her businesses.”

“Why here of all places? It seems like a big change from Moscow!”

“She wanted something quieter,” said Peter, frowning. “Hard to get quieter than Luka.”

The limo followed the road along the main spline of the island for another fifteen minutes before turning right and diverging off down a side road. The road snaked its way through the woods and slowly made its way up toward a gorgeous and ancient manor perched at the top of a high cliff overlooking the sea.

The driver stopped at the gates and let us out before turning around and driving back to the village.

Peter jogged to an intercom mounted beside the gate, pressed the button, and then stood back and waited for an answer. After several minutes of silence, he pressed it again.

“So you can force major airlines to let you have the whole first class cabin, but you can’t get the gate to open?” I teased, winking at him, and he shot me a furious glare.

“Not my house. Mother’s house, mother’s rules.”

Finally, a man’s voice crackled over the intercom, and Peter spoke to him loudly and quickly in fluent Croatian. I listened to them, but it was pure gibberish to me.

One of the oddities of language is that most sign languages bear no relation to their spoken equivalents, and Croatian is no exception to this. I was completely lost as I listened to Peter talk, but even though I had no idea what he was saying, I could tell that he was doing his best to be polite and—dare I say it—even submissive. It was a very alien experience to see Peter’s passive display after two years of the complete opposite!

“What’s your mother’s name again, Peter?”

“Anneke.”

“Where have I heard that before?”

Suddenly, it hit me like a load of bricks. I read the name ‘Anneke Ibramovic’ almost every time I opened the business section of the newspaper. No wonder Peter had to be so polite. Compared to his mother’s fortune, his was little more than spit in a bucket!

There were always articles talking about Anneke’s investments in oil and natural gas. She owned major partner stakes in three Australian mining firms and was rumored to be involved with US defense contractors as well. She was so wealthy that—if she was so inclined—she could max and pay her credit cards as quickly as possible, over and over, and probably still not keep up with how quickly she was making money.

The gate swung open with a loud, rusty creek, and I followed Peter down the flagstone path toward the white-walled manor overlooking the sea.

“Peter! I didn’t know you were coming! Come in,” exclaimed an elderly servant as we reached the door. He held the door open for us, invited us in, and then he bowed politely to me as I entered.

“Thank you, Alex. I didn’t know I was coming back either,” answered Peter, smiling brightly at the servant, and then he cut over into Russian and chatted cheerfully with the old man.

As I stood back and watched them talk, a smile slowly spread across my face. It was as if Peter was talking to an old friend, and he was finally with someone he could talk to freely. The façade was down and the handsome, wonderful man I’d seen glimpses of over the past two years shined through once more.

I left them to talk and entertained myself by staring—my jaw nearly hitting the floor—at the elaborate chandelier hanging overhead. It glittered like diamonds against the dark, gleaming wood throughout the rest of the entrance hall.

“I totally don’t belong here.”

I suddenly felt extremely self-conscious as I stared at the décor surrounding me. I didn’t belong here at all; I was completely out of my league. There was an ornamental vase—painted in blue on white porcelain—that I could almost swear I’d seen in an encyclopedia.

“That’s ‘The Scream’ over there... holy fuck!”

It was. I walked closer to the painting hanging on the wall. I knew it had been sold at an auction a few years earlier, but somehow it never quite connected that the painting was in a private house now. Here it was, though... Edvard Munch’s famous painting. Anneke owned my favorite fucking painting.

“I’m way out of my league.”

“Sarah? You okay?” called Peter from across the entrance hall, and I snapped back to attention and ran over to him. My footsteps echoed loudly as my heels clattered along the white marble floor.

“Sorry. What’s up?”

“Alex will take us to see my mother now. I want you to meet her.”

Alex, the elderly servant, led us past rows and rows of doors down a long, dark hallway, but when he opened the door at the end of the corridor, I was greeted by a bright, sunny dining parlor with wrap-around windows.

An old woman with frizzy white hair sat at the table in a wicker chair, sipping from a teacup contentedly as a black-haired man to her right scribbled feverishly on a piece of paper and held it up to her. She read the note as he held it up, shook her head, and returned to her tea. The pale, black-haired man looked a bit frazzled by her reaction, but he put down his paper and leapt up to greet us.

He was shorter and much thinner than Peter, but he was still handsome in a different way. His pale, white skin was smooth and blemish-free, and his piercing brown eyes seemed to focus on me instantly as he hurried over to greet us.

He wasn't bad looking either. He had definitely a very different look from Peter, more of a thin, sinewy sort of build, but I still thought he was attractive in his own way. Peter was built more like a football linebacker, while the pale man walking toward him, his arms outstretched, looked more like a distance runner.

“Peter!” he called out. “What brings you back here of all places? So wonderful to see you, brother!”

“Brother?”

My brain leapt to attention at the word. Peter never mentioned having a brother to me!

“Spare the bullshit, Sergei. What are
you
doing here?” snapped Peter. My eyes widened in horror at his reaction, wondering what his mother would think, but then I remembered that she was deaf. She hadn’t heard a word of it.

“Ever the loving, caring brother, isn’t he?” said Sergei with a wry smile, this time addressing me. He winked at me mischievously and then turned his attention back to Peter.

“And you remain ever the honey-tongued snake, I see,” hissed Peter, his eyes narrowing angrily. “I’m back for exactly the same reason you are.”

“To visit mother and spend time with her in her old age? How wonderful,” gushed Sergei happily, but I noticed something extra in his voice, something that put me on edge. I hadn’t caught it before, but in his irritation, Sergei had unintentionally let his sarcasm slip through to me, an outsider.

Sergei and Peter hated each other, but Peter was the only one being open about it.

“Yes, how nice of you to visit our dear mother,” continued Sergei. “She hasn’t seen you in years! Though... perhaps that had more to do with her throwing you out last time?”

Peter glared silently at Sergei, who first smiled brightly back at him and then turned to me.

“I’m Sergei Ibramovic,” he said, offering his hand. “What brings a lovely lady like you to our little island?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter stiffen up, and the fury built up inside him even higher as Sergei lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it before turning to depart.

“Oh Peter?” he called back, stopping at the door to the long hallway.

“Yes?” growled Peter.

“Do be careful while you’re here,” cautioned Sergei, and then he was gone.

Peter took a deep breath, sighed, and then gestured for me to follow him to the dining table to meet his mother.

“Hello, Mother,” said Peter even though she couldn’t hear him, and he bowed politely to her.

She stared back at him over the top of her teacup, her eyes sharp and bright, with the sort of look that made me think she either despised him or was still waiting for a decade-late apology.

“Tell her hello for me, please,” ordered Peter quietly, and I nodded to him, pulled out a chair, and sat down to get to work.

Anneke was incredibly sharp for a woman her age, and once she got over the shock that I could actually communicate with her, the signs flowed from her hands so quickly that I could hardly keep up.

“I’m Sarah Langdon. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“So which are you: his wife, his girlfriend, or his whore?”

“What?”

I was taken aback at her reply. How dare she? All I did was introduce myself!

“None of those,” I signed in reply. “Just his translator. I worked for him back in New York, and he asked me to come translate for him.”

“Right, and I’m the Virgin Mary.”

Anneke didn’t seem very impressed.

“Hey Peter, any messages you want me to pass along?” I asked, glancing over at him again.