OWNED BY A BILLIONAIRE

CHAPTER FIVE: THE MORNING AFTER

I woke to sunlight.

Not the gray dawn of Madrid winter. Golden morning. Late. Too late.

I was alone in the bed.

His side was cold. He'd been gone for hours.

I sat up. The sheet fell away. My body was covered in marks — his mouth, his hands, his teeth. I touched my neck. A bruise. I touched my hip. Another one.

He'd marked me.

Everywhere.

I should have been angry.

Instead, I was hollow.

I looked around the room. His clothes were gone from the floor. The fire was dead. The only thing left of last night was me — and the ache between my legs that reminded me of every second.

The bathroom door opened.

Alexander walked out.

He was already dressed. Black pants. White shirt. Tie loose around his neck. His hair was damp. He'd showered.

He looked at me.

"Good morning," he said.

I didn't answer.

"Did you sleep?"

"No."

"Liar." He walked to the closet. Pulled out a robe. Tossed it on the bed. "Put that on. Breakfast is in twenty minutes."

"I'm not hungry."

"You're always hungry. You just pretend you're not."

He walked out.

I sat there. Naked. Alone. The robe was silk. Black. Too soft. I put it on. The fabric slid over my skin like a second touch. Like his hands were still on me.

I stood up. My legs shook.

I walked to the bathroom. The mirror showed me everything. The marks on my neck. The marks on my chest. The way my lips were still swollen from his kisses.

I looked like his.

I hated it.

I turned on the shower. Hot. Almost burning. I stepped inside and let the water wash away last night.

But it didn't.

Nothing would.

I walked into the dining room twenty-three minutes later.

He was already sitting at the table. Coffee. Newspaper. The same cold expression he wore in business magazines.

He didn't look up when I entered.

"Sit," he said.

I sat.

The servers appeared. Eggs. Fruit. Toast. Juice. Everything I hadn't asked for.

"Eat," he said.

"Why do you care if I eat?"

"I don't care about you. I care about my property. Property needs maintenance."

I picked up my fork. Took a bite of eggs. Chewed. Swallowed.

He turned the page of his newspaper.

"You're quiet this morning," he said.

"You're talkative."

"Last night"

"Didn't happen."

He set down his newspaper. Looked at me. His gray eyes were cold again. The warmth from last night — if there had been any — was gone.

"Didn't happen?" he repeated.

"No."

"Ava. My marks are on your neck."

"Fade to black."

He almost smiled. Almost. "You can pretend all you want. But your body knows the truth."

"My body doesn't get a vote."

"It got one last night. Several, actually."

I set down my fork. "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Toying with me. You already own me. You already took me. What else do you want?"

He leaned back in his chair. Studied me. Like I was a puzzle he hadn't solved yet.

"I want you to stop lying," he said.

"I'm not lying."

"To yourself, then. About what you felt last night."

"I felt nothing."

"Liar."

"Stop calling me that."

"Stop proving me right."

I wanted to throw my plate at his head. Instead, I picked up my fork. Took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

He picked up his newspaper again.

"Carmen will take you shopping today," he said.

"Shopping?"

"Clothes. Shoes. Things you need."

"I don't need anything."

"You need everything. Your wardrobe is inadequate."

"I'm a slave. Slaves don't need wardrobes."

He set down the newspaper again. Slowly. Deliberately. "You are not a slave. You are a woman under contract. There's a difference."

"Tell that to the leather straps in the studio."

"Those straps were for you. To help you."

"Help me what?"

He stood. Walked around the table. Stopped beside my chair. His hand touched my chin. Lifted my face toward his.

"Help you stop fighting," he said softly. "Help you surrender."

"I already surrendered."

"No." His thumb brushed my lower lip. "You gave in. Surrender is different. Surrender is choice."

"Last night wasn't a choice."

"Last night, you said please."

My face burned.

"You said please, Alexander. You begged. You wrapped your legs around my waist and pulled me deeper." His voice was soft. Almost gentle. "That wasn't force, Ava. That was want."

"I hate you."

"I know." He let go of my chin. Walked back to his seat. Picked up his newspaper. "Carmen leaves at noon. Don't be late."

Carmen was waiting by the front door at noon.

She wore black. Like always. Her hair was pulled back. Her eyes gave nothing away.

"The car is outside," she said.

"I don't want to go."

"Mr. Black expects you to go."

"I don't care what Mr. Black expects."

Carmen's expression didn't change. "He will be angry if you refuse."

"Good."

"Señorita." She stepped closer. Her voice dropped. "I have worked for Mr. Black for seven years. I have seen women refuse before. It does not end well."

"What does he do?"

"He doesn't hurt them. Not physically." She paused. "He ignores them. For days. Weeks. They sit in their rooms. Alone. No conversation. No touch. No anything." Her eyes met mine. "By the end, they beg for his attention. Even the ones who hate him."

My stomach turned.

"The car is outside," Carmen said again. "Please don't make this difficult."

I walked out the door.

The car was black. Long. A driver held the door open. I climbed inside. Carmen sat across from me.

The drive to the store was silent.

Madrid passed outside the windows. Streets I used to walk. Cafés I used to work in. People who used to be my neighbors.

I pressed my hand against the glass.

"I used to be free," I whispered.

Carmen didn't answer.

The store was called something Italian. I didn't catch the name. The door was gold. The windows were dark. Inside, everything was white and marble and silence.

A woman greeted us. Thin. Blonde. Impossibly tall.

"Señor Black called ahead," she said. "We have prepared the private room."

I followed her.

The private room was bigger than my old apartment. Racks of clothes. Shelves of shoes. Tables of jewelry.

"Everything in this room is for you," the woman said. "Please. Try anything."

I stood in the middle of the room. Stared at the clothes.

"I don't know what to choose," I said.

Carmen stepped forward. "He likes black. Silk. Dresses that show your shoulders."

"Why do you know that?"

"I've done this before."

"For the women before me?"

"Yes."

The word hit me like a slap.

"How many?" I asked.

"Enough."

"Tell me."

Carmen looked at me for a long moment. Then: "Five. In seven years. None lasted more than a year."

"What happened to them?"

"One left early. Her father died. The contract ended." Carmen picked up a black dress. Held it against me. "Three were released when Mr. Black grew tired of them."

"And the fifth?"

Carmen's eyes flickered. "She broke the contract. Tried to run. Mr. Black found her within forty-eight hours. She spent the rest of her term in the house. Never left her room."

"What happened after her term ended?"

"She walked away. With her money. With her freedom." Carmen handed me the dress. "But she wasn't the same. None of them were."

I took the dress. The fabric was cold.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you're different," Carmen said. "The others were actresses. Models. Women who wanted something from him. You don't want anything. Except your father."

"My father is dying."

"I know." Carmen turned away. "Try the dress. He likes when the shoulders show."

I tried on thirty-seven dresses.

Carmen rejected twenty-nine. The blonde woman rejected five. Three made it into a pile.

"I don't care which one," I said.

"Then all three," Carmen said. "And shoes. And everything else."

Two hours later, we walked out of the store with bags. Three hours after that, I was back in the house. In my room. In my bed.

The bed.

Alexander's bed.

I lay on the black sheets and stared at the ceiling.

You said please.

His voice in my head. His hands on my body. His mouth on my neck.

You begged.

I pressed my hands over my face.

You wrapped your legs around his waist.

"I hate him," I whispered to the empty room.

No one answered.

The door opened.

Alexander walked in.

He was still in his work clothes. Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled up.

"Carmen said the shopping was successful."

"Yes."

"Show me what you bought."

"Not now."

"Now."

I sat up. Pointed to the bags in the corner. "It's all there."

He walked to the bags. Pulled out a dress. Black. Silk. The one Carmen had chosen first.

"Try it on," he said.

"I'm tired."

"Try. It. On."

I stood up. Took the dress. Walked to the bathroom. Closed the door.

The dress slid over my head. It was shorter than I remembered. Tighter. The straps showed my shoulders. The fabric showed everything else.

I walked out.

Alexander was sitting on the edge of the bed. His eyes found me. Moved down my body. Slow. Worshipful. Like last night.

"Turn," he said.

I turned.

"Come here."

I walked to him. Stopped inches from his knees.

His hands reached for my hips. Pulled me closer. His face pressed against my stomach. His breath was hot through the silk.

"I thought about you all day," he said.

"I didn't think about you at all."

"Liar."

His hands slid down my hips. Touched the hem of the dress. Slid underneath.

"You're not wearing anything under this," he said.

"You didn't buy me anything to wear under it."

"I know." His fingers traced up my thighs. "That was on purpose."

"Alexander—"

"Shh." His hands stopped. One on each hip. His thumbs pressed into my skin. "I'm not going to take you. Not yet."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Tasting."

His mouth pressed against my stomach. Through the silk. Open-mouthed. Wet.

I grabbed his hair.

"Tonight," he said against my skin, "I'm going to take my time. Every inch. Every sound. Every surrender."

"You mean every lie."

"No." He looked up at me. His gray eyes were dark. Almost black. "I mean every truth."

He stood.

Took my hand.

Led me to the bed.

"Last night," he said, "you gave me your body."

"I gave you nothing."

"Tonight." He laid me down on the sheets. Moved over me. "Tonight, you're going to give me everything else."

His mouth found my neck.

And I stopped pretending I didn't want it.