Claimed By The Billionaire Husband

The moment I met his steel-blue eyes, I knew I wanted him. He inquired, "How much?" I grinned, conscious of coming across as sly, knowledgeable, and not-too-eager, but it was a sensual, deep voice that hinted at everything. I wanted to make a move. My friend Sarah interrupted me before I could respond. "A minute costs two dollars. One minute of reading for two dollars, with half going to charity and the other half to the author. However, you can bargain with the author, if you get what I mean. The man looked me up and down, grinning and stroking his big lower lip with his thumb. Sarah's black brows twitched as she laughed. "I named it Story Brothel because of this. "She clapped him on the shoulder." The reader and the writer are at odds. I adore this, God. I'm feeling quite ladylike. Similar to Florida fiction's Heidi Fleiss. She leaned in to give me a light squeeze on my arm before lowering her voice. "Keep in mind: half goes to charity. Don't skim. I gave an eye roll. "Like I'd do that." Sarah gave me a cheek kiss while standing on her tiptoes. He appears wealthy. She said, "Perhaps he'll give you more money so you can keep the bookstore open." I frowned, unwilling to be reminded of my labor. This was a rare night out for me, when I wasn't preoccupied with writing, paperwork, or orders. That's when I changed from being a serious store owner to writing romance novels like a pulp fiction superheroine. Blood-red lipstick smearing every napkin and cocktail rim in my way; glasses off; wild, frizzy hair down. And after a few minutes, this man's mouth, perhaps. I needed a man's attention long ago. As I observed his black suit, his immaculate white shirt, and the platinum gleam of a timepiece dial, I persuaded myself that, at least. It had been a while since I had been kissed, at least not well. And not from a man with such a striking appearance. A strange tune with a hefty, powerful drumbeat and an Arabic lounge groove began playing. It was the sensation of my heart against my ribs. Sarah stepped into the throng. I continued to smile. He did as well. He said, "Story Brothel," in a voice so low I could hardly hear it. He was so tall that he had to stare down at me with his gunmetal-blue eyes and tilt his face. I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth and gave a dramatic shake of my head. "You don't seem like the type of man who'd come to an event like this." "I don't. His eyes tempted and gleamed. They contrasted so beautifully with his long, black lashes. He exuded confidence and sensuality, but he wasn't the most attractive man I'd ever seen. His features-strong jaw, slightly large nose, and high cheekbones-wouldn't have been particularly noticeable on their own, but when combined, they were overwhelmingly masculine. Interesting. Fuckable.No, and I haven't seen you here previously."This isn't something that happens just once?"The Orlando Literacy Council hosts it once a month. You're an accomplished storyteller, then. A sultry smile appeared on his face as he made a half-circle motion with his hand."Whore?" With feigned innocence, I offered. You stated it. I didn't. That caused me to chuckle."What's that saying about prostitution and writing?" he inquired. A smile the size of the Everglades extended across my face as I cocked my head. His question startled me, and I couldn't help but react. Despite owning a bookshop, I rarely encountered intelligent, attractive guys in my city in central Florida-better known for being the home of a gigantic cartoon mouse. Writing and sex are similar. You do it for love first. He added his voice. "...then you do it for your friends, and then for money." After we both chuckled, he opened his mouth and held up one finger. "Who made that statement? Are you aware? I am aware. I responded immediately, enjoying the banter. "Everybody thinks it's Molière, but it was Hungarian playwright Ferenc Molnár." "I'm amazed. Let's see, when was the last time I discussed Molière with a woman? or Molnár?"I'm not sure. You inform me. He drank from his tumbler of amber liquor, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled. "So, what does a Story Brothel attendee look like?" He had a sly smile. How I wish I could kiss it away. They typically drink two-dollar drafts rather than Maker's Mark, to start. Weeks have passed since they last shaved. Additionally, they don't dress in custom suits with ties. I used my nose to indicate the assortment of hipsters at the bar, most of whom were covered in carpets of facial hair and wearing Star Wars T-shirts or cheap Hawaiian button-downs from thrift stores. I raised an eyebrow at that. "You noticed my drink." "I took note of everything. I was with you when you gave the command."I am aware. I observed. The only woman here not wearing flannel and cargo pants is you. Your clothing is appealing to me. I was dressed in a full-skirted, crimson antique dress with a sweetheart neckline. He glanced at my mouth, then at my chest, and last, slowly, at my eyes. He must have been at least forty years old, which would make him seven years my senior. The sides of his short, dark hair were becoming a shade of silver. I adored older males. They are quite sexy. Old enough to care about what matters in life, but not old enough to be an early-bird-buffet-older. Like clean bedding, good automobiles, and good alcohol. This man had clearly mastered at least one of those abilities already. I might learn more about the others by night's end. Thank you. You are, I suppose. An entrepreneur?" I watched in fascination as he reached for his dark-gray tie. His eyes and the tie were nearly the same hue. My own style was retro-rockabilly, or what I called vintage glam, although I do have a thing for men in suits who seem conservative. The problem was that the majority of men with that style were either married or balancing child custody. Some people didn't care about ladies like me. What category would you put this fascinating stranger in? Because he undoubtedly belonged in one, if I'm lucky. Yes, you are correct. I run a business. I didn't even bother to remove this, damn it. At this hour, I'm usually still at work. On a Wednesday, it was eight o'clock, and I was, as usual. It was entertaining to watch him tinker with his tie knot and undo the first button of his shirt. He looked sexier for some reason since he loosened it but left it in place. His gaze landed on my lips. "My sister and I share a job. I brought her out to supper because it's her birthday. I promised to take her anywhere she desired after that. After taking a sip, he tilted his glass toward the corner of the room where Sarah was being animatedly spoken to by a tall blonde with sharp cheekbones. "She's got a crush on your friend." "Excellent. Sarah needs a girlfriend. I questioned whether he lived in the city and remarked, "She's been alone for too long." Perhaps he was a rare resident of Florida, like myself, rather than a disgruntled northerner or a visitor who abruptly moved after an amazing theme park vacation. What about you? Is your significant other aware that you tell odd men stories in bars? His method of asking me if I was single was so obvious and astute. I smiled broadly. "No husband, no boyfriend. Furthermore, they wouldn't tell me where, when, or to whom I may read, even if I had one or both. He cocked his eyebrow, tilted his head, and smiled. "Oh, really?" "Indeed, it is. I stopped to observe him. The edges of his mouth curled up, and his bottom lip was a little bigger than his top lip. As though he had smiled a lot in his life, tiny half-circle lines embraced the corners. That pleased me. But when he smirked, I couldn't tell if he looked cute or cocky. However, the combination caused my heart to gallop more than it had in a long time."My name is Dominic," he added, holding out his hand. "How rude of me." "Isabella. Not impolite at all. He did that thing where he shook my hand firmly and looked directly into my eyes for a second longer than was required. His hand engulfed me and was pleasantly big. My face began to heat up, and I wanted the fan above to beat as quickly as my heart. We were still trembling. Isabella, what are you going to read to me tonight? I became acutely aware of how my nipples touched the lace material of my bra as he dragged out the syllables of my name. Was there a hint of a Southern accent in his speech that I heard? Perhaps he was a native of Florida. I was pleased with this. Perhaps we would share a shared interest. I had been anticipating his question, so I laughed. "I usually read my steampunk romance stories at Story Brothel. However, I believe I'm going to attempt something new tonight. I wrote something recently. My voice became dramatic as I lowered it. "It's erotica." My nipples shriveled to tense, tight points as our hands clutched each other in midair, sparks flying back and forth. Slowly, his smile turned into a more solemn, savage one as he nodded. A harsh, hungry expression. I made a wise decision, then."I dropped his hand and whispered, "You have good taste." "Oh-and will your wife or girlfriend mind if you pay a woman to read sex fiction to you?" A deep, oblique laugh burst from his chest. "No wife, no girlfriend. And I wouldn't be here paying you to read erotic fiction if I had one." He sounded earnest. He sounded unmarried. However, given that the previous interesting businessman I had fell in love with, Eric, more than a year prior, had a wife and children in Fort Lauderdale and had kept those facts a secret during our whole relationship, I wasn't the best arbiter of that. Well, the word "neglect" was a little weak. Better terms to use were "concealed," "hidden," and "lied.""Oh, really?" I made a move. Dominic hesitated a moment. "No, if I had a girlfriend or wife, I'd make her read to me." I put my fingertips on the back of an adjacent bar chair to soothe my swollen legs as a surge of liquid heat entered my core. You would make her, wouldn't you? Of course." I gave Dominic a foolish smile while imagining how amazing his large hands would feel on my nude body. The feel of his lips. How I would be tortured by his tongue. Just thinking about it made my skin tingle. As if he could read my thoughts, he licked the corner of his mouth carefully. Greetings from Story Brothel. Sarah stood on a little stage at the front of the room, fumbling with a microphone, shouting and clapping three times. I turned to face her as her booming voice startled me out of my reverie. Dominic and I stood shoulder to shoulder. He was far taller than I, even in my three-inch heels, but we were still near enough to feel his warmth without touching. Then writers and listeners will head to their individual cabanas after our initial reading," Sarah said, gesturing to the double doors that led to the bar's courtyard, where 10 cabanas were covered in gauzy curtains of various hues. It was furnished to resemble a lounge with a Moroccan theme, and when I read little excerpts of my work during Story Brothel, I usually opted for the cabanas with chairs. Usually, I preferred to keep my distance from the person who was paying to listen to me read. A good night used to include selling a couple of my steampunk paperbacks, distributing business cards for the bookstore, and avoiding getting beer poured on me by a frightened bearded guy. I hoped tonight would be different. I desired less business and less distance. Sarah went on to introduce the speaker. It was a local college professor. I ignored him and moved closer to Dominic by half an inch. He put his nose in my hair and lowered his head until his lips were near my ear. I froze, inhaling his aroma. With notes of vanilla, wood, and mint, it was powerful and delicious. I took a few long breaths since I had never smelled a man so good. He said, "May I buy you a drink?" After nodding, I looked back and saw that he had extended one ear to me. "Please. "How do you take it?" Gin martini. I smiled as his voice echoed through me."Dirty," I muttered into his ear, giggling uncontrollably. He laughed. "Good choice." Without him, I could still feel the heat of his breath on my ear. I made an effort to concentrate on the man onstage. He discussed word etymology while teaching English at a nearby college. I was preoccupied with my own experience and deciding which passage to read to Dominic when I finally focused on the professor's remarks. I put my palm over my lips and giggled quietly. When Dominic came back, he gave me my drink. Why is it so funny? My ear was once again in his mouth. You weren't paying attention?"No, I was attempting to ensure that the bartender didn't use some trash instead of Bombay Sapphire. I sipped the chilly, piney beverage and smiled like the Mona Lisa. "Thank you for the cocktail." "You're welcome. What's the person talking about, please? Why is it so funny? You are aware of how wonderful your grin is? I took a breath before I spoke, leaning closer to Dominic. He put his arm on the bar and wrapped it around my back. The action was exactly as intimate as though he had touched me, yet he didn't. He appeared as though he would swallow me if he folded me in his arms because of how large and sturdy his physique was. He is discussing a word's etymology." "Which word?" he whispered. The lecturer started reciting a lesson he had taught in free-form, but I didn't look at him. It must have been humorous because other people in the room were laughing. I wasn't feeling humorous. Dominic's strong-looking drink-holding hand caught my attention. I wondered absently as I twirled one of my curls in my finger whether it was something biological, something primordial, that drew me to males with thick, savage-looking hands. My lips touched his skin as I turned to face his ear. Fuck. The origin of the term "fuck"