17. Tatiana
17
Tatiana
I ’m starting to think there’s a mathematical formula for how quickly time passes when you’re legally bound to a billionaire. The busier you stay, the faster the days blur together.
And believe me, I’ve been busy.
My days have fallen into a strange but oddly functional rhythm. I spend the mornings and afternoons at Blackwell Innovations, keeping Christopher’s empire running smoothly. In the evenings I’m hunched over resort plans and investor prospectuses for Dom’s Costa Rica project. It’s like having two full-time jobs, except one of them comes with the bizarre footnote of “Oh, and by the way, I’m contractually obligated to get my temporary husband off twice a month.”
Speaking of which...
I glance at my phone. The date glares back at me accusingly. Day 14.
Halfway done with this charade. Halfway to freedom. Or halfway to the end of the most financially beneficial mistake of your life.
Glass half full, Tatiana.
I’ve barely seen Dom this week. After that night I found him staring out the window at 2 AM, he’s been like a ghost in his own penthouse. He materializes briefly in the kitchen for coffee, disappears before I enter a room, communicates almost exclusively through text messages. Stuff like:
Need revised projections for Investor Group B by tomorrow morning.
Please review architectural modifications to east wing. Sustainability concerns.
Will be late tonight. Don’t wait up.
Always polite.
Always professional.
Always distant.
Which is exactly what you wanted, right? This is a business arrangement, not a romantic comedy.
I smooth my hands over the new charcoal pencil skirt I bought with his money. Another addition to my growing “billionaire’s wife” wardrobe. The fabric is buttery soft against my skin, the fit impeccable. I’ve started to develop a taste for luxury I can’t afford long-term.
Just another thing you’ll have to give up when this is over.
I shift my focus back to the spreadsheet on my laptop. The numbers blur together. The Costa Rica project is ambitious, a fully sustainable luxury resort that doesn’t sacrifice an ounce of opulence. It’s the kind of vision that could change the industry if executed properly.
And I’ve actually been helping make it better. Not just fetching coffee or scheduling meetings, but making real, substantial contributions. At least I like to think so. Dom has grudgingly acknowledged my input on several occasions, which from him feels like effusive praise.
The rest of the afternoon drags. I keep thinking about tonight. About the second fulfillment of Clause 7b. About having his huge, throbbing man sword between my lips again. It would be so hot to take him not just in my mouth, but in my—
No. Not going there. He’s your temporary husband. Sex could lead to feelings. Feelings lead to heartbreak.
I leave Christopher’s office at 4:30 on the dot. Unusually early for me, but tonight feels like it needs some preparation. Mental, if nothing else.
The town car Dom insists I use is waiting outside. Nichols and Franks stand beside it, looking as impassive as ever. I still haven’t gotten used to having security, though I’ve learned Nichols is actually capable of speaking in complete sentences when necessary. He’s basically a smaller, tougher version of Jake, the head of security who accompanies Dominic everywhere.
“Evening, Mrs. Rossi,” Nicols nods, opening the door.
“Nichols.” I slide into the leather backseat, grateful for the privacy partition. The driver knows to take me straight to Dom’s penthouse.
I spend the ride trying not to think about what’s coming. Obviously, I fail miserably.
Last time was purely clinical. You treated it like a task to check off. Efficient. Detached. You gave him exactly what he wanted while giving away nothing of yourself.
But something’s shifted since then. I’ve seen glimpses of the man behind the billionaire facade. I’ve—
Stop. Don’t humanize him. Don’t get curious. Curiosity killed the PA.
The car pulls up to his building. Nichols and Franks escort me through the lobby, past the discreet nods of the staff who all know exactly who I am now, into the private elevator that whisks us up to the hallway leading to the penthouse.
“Will you need anything else this evening, Mrs. Rossi?” Nichols asks as the elevator doors open.
“No, thank you.” My voice sounds steadier than I feel.
The two men wait at the far side of the hall as I approach the door to the penthouse suite. When I’m inside, I close it behind me and peer through the peephole. I watch the two security personnel enter the elevator and vanish.
Alone at last.
The penthouse is quiet. I kick off my heels by the door, a habit I’ve developed these past two weeks despite the formal nature of our arrangement. The marble is cool against my stockinged feet.
I wander into the kitchen like a death row inmate approaching her last meal. Antoine, Dom’s personal chef, has left gourmet sandwiches in the fridge.
Turkey and provolone, with what appears to be handcrafted aioli and microgreens, because heaven forbid a billionaire ever experience the disappointment of plain old PB&J.
Two bites in, and I’m officially done pretending I have an appetite. I carefully rewrap the sandwich, because wasting food that costs more than some people’s hourly wage feels criminal, and tuck it back in the fridge where it can live to intimidate me another day.
Then I retreat to my room, the guest suite that’s bigger than my actual apartment, and close the door with the decisive click of someone who’s absolutely not freaking out.
The clock on the nightstand reads 6:17. Forty-three minutes.
I wonder if I should wear the same silk pajamas as last time? What’s the proper attire for a contractually obligated sexual encounter, anyway? The Neiman Marcus catalog definitely doesn’t have a section for that.
I settle on a simple black silk robe over matching lingerie. Not that he’ll see the lingerie if things go like last time. But wearing it makes me feel less... disposable somehow.
At 6:58, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, hands folded in my lap like I’m waiting for a job interview instead of... whatever this is. My heart pounds against my ribs, sending blood rushing to my face in what I’m sure is an attractive mottled blush. My eyes are burning.
Breathe, Tatiana. Don’t cry. You’ve done this before. It’s just sex. Or not even sex. Just a physical release. His release. That’s what the contract specifies.
Who knows, maybe he won’t even show up. He’s been so distant the past week, it wouldn’t surprise me. My hopes start to rise.
I keep my eyes on the clock.
6:59.
7:00.
7:01.
Yes. He’s not coming. I don’t have to worry.
I actually begin to relax, a little. But I also feel... disappointed?
And then the knock echoes through my room.
7:02 PM.
My heart rate picks up again. Of course he’s going to show up, typical man that he is. Even billionaires think with their dicks.
“Come in,” I call, hating the slight tremor in my voice.
The door opens, and there he stands. Dark jeans, white button-down with the sleeves rolled up exposing his forearms, hair slightly damp like he’s just showered. He looks good. Irritatingly good.
“Tatiana.” His voice is lower than usual, rougher.
“Dom.” I stand, cinching my robe tighter. “Right on time.”
His eyes darken as they sweep over me. “Clause 7b. Day fourteen.”
“I’m well aware,” I say, aiming for cool detachment but landing somewhere closer to nervous sarcasm. My heart is beating so loudly I wonder if he can hear it.
He steps into the room, closing the door behind him. The atmosphere shifts immediately, the air charging with something that definitely wasn’t present during our last encounter.
“Last time was...” he begins.
“Efficient?” I offer.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Clinical.”
“The clause specified your release. I delivered.” I lift my chin slightly. “Problem?”
He moves closer, his presence suddenly filling the room. “I want more this time.”
I raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore the heat unfurling in my stomach. “The contract only stipulates your release. It doesn’t specify how or... what else happens.”
“True.” He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I can smell that earthy cologne of his, and it makes my knees embarrassingly weak. “But I want to fuck you.”
The crude directness sends a jolt through me.
Don’t blush. Don’t blush. Don’t... damn it.
“The contract—”
“I know what the contract says.” His voice is tight, controlled. “I wrote it.”
“Then you know I’m only obligated to get you off. Not to have sex with you.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Frustration, maybe. Or challenge.
“You don’t want me to fuck you?” He asks it like it’s the most ridiculous concept in the world.
Yes. No. Maybe. God, I don’t know.
“This isn’t about what I want,” I say carefully. “It’s about the terms we agreed to.”
“And if I want to renegotiate those terms? Right now?”
I take a deep breath. “You can’t just change the rules whenever you feel like.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s not how the world works,” I argue. “Someday, you’ll learn that money can’t buy everything.”
His voice softens. “But I’m not changing the rules. I’m asking .”
That throws me off balance. Dominic Rossi doesn’t ask. He demands, he expects, he orders.
“Why?” I counter, my heart pounding louder than ever. “Last time seemed to satisfy the clause just fine.”
He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I’ve come to recognize as his tell when he’s frustrated. “Because I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, all right? About you.”
My heart stutters. “We said this was just business.”
“It is.” He steps closer. “Doesn’t mean it can’t be mutually beneficial.”
“The answer is no.”
I don’t give myself time to think, to second-guess. Nor do I give him time to argue again. Instead, I reach for him, and my hands find his belt, unfastening it with deliberate slowness. This isn’t like last time. You know, efficient, mechanical. This time, I intend to prove something, though I’m not entirely sure what.
When my fingers brush against him through his jeans, he groans softly. The sound sends a rush of heat between my legs.
Ignore it. Ignore it.
I sink to my knees, maintaining eye contact as I unzip his jeans and free him from his boxers. He’s already hard, his cock straining upward, a bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.
I wrap my hand around him, stroking slowly, watching his reaction. His jaw tightens, his eyes never leaving mine.
“See, you’re getting what you wanted,” I tell him, my voice huskier than intended.
“Partly,” he manages.
I lower my head, taking him into my mouth, still watching his expression. His eyes darken further, his breathing becoming ragged. I move slowly, deliberately, using my tongue in ways I know will drive him crazy.
Unlike last time, I’m not rushing to finish. I’m savoring the power, the control. The way his hands fist at his sides like he’s fighting not to grab me.
When I hollow my cheeks and take him deeper, a curse escapes him. “Fuck, Tatiana...”
I pull back slightly, allowing a small, satisfied smirk to play at my lips. “Problem, Mr. Rossi?”
That smirk is my undoing. Something snaps in his expression, and suddenly his hands are in my hair, gripping firmly. “You know exactly what you’re doing, do you? You’re in complete control, are you?”
Before I can reply, he takes over, guiding my head as he thrusts into my mouth. The unexpectedness of it makes me gasp, struggling to accommodate him. He can only fit about half way.
“I can’t—” I try to pull back, but his grip tightens.
“You can,” he growls. “Take it.”
There’s something intoxicating about his dominance, about surrendering control after clinging to it so desperately. I relax my throat, letting him set the pace, feeling a rush of wetness between my thighs as he uses my mouth.
He presses deeper, faster, and I start to gag, unable to breath, but he doesn’t stop. I try to resist him but he’s too strong.
Oh god, I’m going to die like this, with a man’s dick in my mouth. What a way to go.
I punch his thigh with my hand and he finally comes to his senses. He immediately slides out completely, trailing a long stream of saliva.
I take in several frantic, deep breathes.
“Tatiana. I’m sorry. I lost control when you smirked like that.”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, my breathing ragged for several moments. “It’s fine.”
“It’s not.” He kneels down in front of me. “Are you okay?”
No. Yes. I don’t know.
“I’m fine,” I insist, my voice steadier than I feel.
The air between us crackles, thick with the aftershock of his apology and the unspoken heat pooling low in my belly.
Why are my panties so wet?
The question burns, but I bury it beneath a veneer of icy composure.
“Sit,” I command, nodding toward the bed, my voice steady. Professional .
His brow arches, a challenge in the slant of his lips, but he complies, lowering himself onto the edge of the mattress.
I step between his spread knees, my silk pajamas brushing his thighs. His gaze drops to where the fabric clings to my damp core, and I see his nostrils flare.
He knows.
I don’t wait for a comment. I sink to my knees and his breath hitches. It’s a rare fracture in his control, and I revel in it.
This time, I’m merciless. No teasing, no drawn-out games. My tongue flicks the head of his cock, tasting salt and restraint. His hips jerk, but I pin him down with a hand on his stomach.
His muscles quiver beneath my palm. I take him deeper, faster, hollowing my cheeks until his groans fill the room. This time I don’t dare look at him, or dare smirk.
His fingers thread through my hair, tightening , but he doesn’t steer, doesn’t push.
“Tatiana— fuck .” His curse unravels into a growl as I swirl my tongue, dragging him to the edge.
When he finally cums, it’s with a raw, guttural sound that sears through me. The first pulse hits my tongue, bitter and primal. I press down, taking every drop, swallowing every pulse, every shudder, until he’s spent and slumping back against the bed.
I lean away, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
His chest heaves, eyes half-lidded but sharp, tracking my every move as I rise to my feet.
“Clause fulfilled,” I say, but my voice trembles, betraying me. I just want him to leave so I can masturbate and find my own release.
He catches my wrist before I can retreat. “Liar.” His thumb grazes the frantic pulse at my inner wrist. “You didn’t do this for the contract.”
My gaze drops to his cock. It’s still hard as ever, throbbing like he wants me all over again.
I swallow uneasily. “Dom, I—”
He releases me, and his hand slides underneath the waistband of my pajamas, finding me wet through the silk of my panties. “Your body says we’re not done. Look at how wet you are for me.”
I arch into his touch, a small moan escaping me. “Dom, I—”
“Let me taste you,” he interrupts, already moving down my body, pushing my silk jammies down, along with the panties beneath them.
I make no move to escape him.
When his mouth finds me, all thoughts of contracts and clauses and the temporary nature of our marriage vanish.
He rotates my body so I’m sitting on the bed. His tongue works expertly, circling my clit before dipping lower, teasing my entrance. My hands fist in the sheets, my head falling back.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asks against my most intimate flesh, the vibration of his words sending shockwaves through me.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” I gasp, arching against his mouth, pressing my clit into those devastating lips.
He chuckles, the sound reverberating through me, then bites down on my inner thigh. I groan.
He focuses on my pussy again, teasing, probing. When his fingers join his tongue, curling inside me to find that perfect spot, I come undone. Wave after wave of pleasure crashes over me, my body tensing and trembling as I cry out his name.
“Dom!”
Before I can recover, he’s put on a condom (where the hell did he get that from?), and positioning himself between my legs. The head of his cock presses against my entrance. It’s throbbing hard as ever, as if he hasn’t had sex in years, when in actuality I just drained him moments ago.
“Tell me you want this,” he demands. “Tell me you want me inside of you.”
I look up at him, at the intensity in his eyes, the barely controlled need.
This is a bad idea. This is a bad idea.
“I want this,” I whisper. “I want you. So fucking badly.”
He pushes inside me in one smooth thrust, filling me completely. The sensation is overwhelming.
Stretching, burning, perfect.
“Fuck,” he groans, stilling for a moment. “You feel incredible. I could cum right now.”
Then he’s moving, setting a rhythm that’s both punishing and divine. Each thrust drives me closer to the edge again, each withdrawal leaving me desperate for more.
I wrap my legs around his waist, urging him deeper. Our bodies move together with an urgency that speaks of more than just physical need.
When I feel myself tightening around him again, I gasp, “Dom, I’m going to—”
“Cum for me,” he commands, his pace quickening. “Let me feel you.”
My second orgasm hits harder than the first, tearing a scream from my throat as my entire body convulses. He follows moments later, his release triggering aftershocks that leave me trembling beneath him.
For several long moments, we lie tangled together, sweaty and spent, the only sound our ragged breathing. Reality creeps back slowly, bringing with it the weight of what we’ve just done.
This was supposed to be simple. Clinical.
No full intercourse.
No emotions.
No complications.
He rolls to the side, his arm still draped across my waist. I wait for him to speak, to acknowledge what just happened, but he remains silent, his expression unreadable.
Finally, I find my voice. “So... clause fulfilled?”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. Then he sits up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “Right. Of course.”
I pull the sheet up to cover myself, a barrier against the sudden chill in the air between us. “Dom, I didn’t mean—”
“No, you’re right.” He stands, gathering his clothes with mechanical efficiency. “Just fulfilling the clause.”
He slips off the condom and fists it in one hand. As he zips up and buckles his jeans, I watch him rebuild his walls in real time, his expression hardening, his movements becoming more controlled now that he’s had his release.
“Dom,” I try again.
“Good night, Tatiana.” He doesn’t look at me as he heads for the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click that feels somehow more final than a slam.
I lie back against the pillows, my body still humming with satisfaction even as my mind races with confusion.
What the hell just happened? And why does it feel so complicated now?
I pull the covers up to my chin, trying to make sense of the conflicting emotions warring inside me. Physical fulfillment battling with emotional uncertainty. Professional detachment crumbling under the weight of undeniable chemistry.
One thing is absolutely, terrifyingly clear: no man has ever made me feel the way Dominic Rossi just did. Not even my ex-fiancé who left me standing alone at the altar. The way Dom fucked me tonight... he’s absolutely ruined me for other men.
And that scares me more than anything else about this entire twisted arrangement.
Sixteen more days, Tatiana. Just sixteen more days.
But as I drift toward sleep, I’m no longer certain that countdown is something to look forward to.