Claire: The Forced Virgin Of The Billionaire

“She won’t be surprised. She cleaned and cooked at my condo but has only been live-in since I moved here so hasn’t had time to get too comfy. Nita’s retiring so we can move her back there until Uncle retires. He may even want her to come to the Caymans. She’d have her pick at either of my sisters’ places, too, helping with the kids and their houses. And if she wants, she can come in here to clean based on a schedule you set up with her. If she doesn’t want to take care of multiple houses I’ll hire someone part-time. Then it’s just us most of the time. You’re a way better cook than she is, anyway. If you don’t mind feeding your future husband, that is?”

I winced, “oh please please please don’t tell her that. And no I don’t mind. I love to cook. And you have a very healthy appetite, my future husband.”

He laughed and then kissed me, “We need to talk,” he said.

I felt my heart constrict. His tone was serious, “Okay?” I said, hesitantly.

“I don’t want to just brush s**t under the rug, baby. We need to talk some things out and I need some info from you.”

I nodded but wanted no part of this conversation. He looked thoughtful for a second and then seemed to change gears, “First, I’ll go get us coffee and cook you breakfast,” he said, “I do a mean stack of flapjacks.”

“Oooh,” I answered and stretched out, “Bacon, too?”

“Duh? Of course.” He kissed me and left the room.

I was now on his side of the bed and I was suddenly very aware of the weapons under the bed. Maybe him talking about us needing to talk had jolted me out of my self-imposed stupor. I’d been so happy these past few days but he was right, we did need to talk about stuff. It was healthy that he wanted to, wasn’t it? What wasn’t healthy was me wanting to keep ignoring it with the idiotic notion that it’d just go away.

Azriel’s POV

The last few days had been just what I needed, a bubble with just her and I, mostly. I was finding a way to blend my work life with my relationship with her. Things with work were going well, smooth. And I was thinking about our wedding, a honeymoon, about the future.

I hated that we’d soon have to leave our bubble. I was putting it off. I was putting a lot of things off. Here I was putting talking to her about her Dad and my Uncle again with breakfast but before I pricked the bubble with a pin I wanted a few more moments of peace, to show her what life could sometimes be. It was like I was trying to fortify things before bursting the bubble or something.

I used to help my mother make breakfast on Sunday mornings before she got sick. Breakfast was the only cooking I’d done. Really, she’d only let me handle the cracking of the eggs and the putting bread in the toaster and popping the button down as I was just a kid but it made me want to learn how to do breakfast so when I lived on my own for the first time I mastered the art of breakfast.

Before Claire, if I wasn’t slammed with work, I’d make it for myself and sit alone and eat it as I read the paper as Rosita was always off on Sundays. I wanted to make Claire’s breakfast on Sunday mornings. Someday our kids would be part of it, too. Sundays were important in my family, always had been, and I wanted that for when me and Claire had kids. Breakfast with us, dinner with the whole family. Church, maybe, too. She’d be a good mother.

I had things to figure out, still, but I was confident that I’d get to where I needed to be with the business, with ensuring I’d eliminated threats but I wasn’t so sure in one area. s*x. I wasn’t clear how that’d be managed. I was loving all the vanilla we’d been having, surprisingly, but that might’ve been because of the guilt I felt about Vegas. How long before I wanted more flavor? How long until something tipped me over the edge of frustration and I took it out on her? How did I get what I needed without hurting my relationship with her? Better yet, how could I make myself not need it?

She loved the pancakes. She ate everything on her plate and declared I was making breakfast for her as often as possible. I told her I’d do Sunday breakfast from now on and she asked if she’d be getting a repeat performance the next day, since it was a Sunday.

I agreed and couldn’t bring myself to ruin the day with talk about the dark s**t in my head, the s**t I was dealing with regarding her father and my Uncle. I needed to do it soon, though. I was at a dead end with the PI and needed some answers from her. She didn’t ask about what I wanted to talk about but she broached another topic.

“Umm…” she said, after she loaded the dishwasher. I’d been sitting at the kitchen island reading the paper and finishing my coffee.

I looked up from the paper and waited.

She was looking a little nervous.

‘What’s up?” I put the paper down and showed her she had my full attention.

“I’ve been doing some reading.”

I waited. She looked at the ceiling and then summoned some courage.

“About dominants and submissives and I was wondering if maybe…”

This oughta be good…

I jerked my chin up to encourage her to continue.

“Maybe we should outline some things. Like they did in Fifty Shades of Grey; they had a contract of guidelines and safe words and…”

I started to laugh. Her face went red.

“I don’t want a submissive, baby girl.”

She frowned a little and then moistened her lips, “Okay…”

I got to my feet and closed the distance between us, backing her up against the pantry door. I took her face into a palm and rubbed my thumb along her lower l*p,

“I want a c**k slave. No safe words. Whatever my c**k wants; you give me. Whatever I want. Degradation, humiliation, I could order you to f**k someone else while I watch, f**k a girl…”

The color drained from her face.

“You good with that?” I gave her an intense glare.

She swallowed hard.